Warning: suggestive themes.
You wake up before him—that’s the first mistake.
Lulling morning light tells you to bring the sheets closer, to sink in the cocoon of blankets and let your mind drift off again. The quiet hum of the refrigerator, the faint sounds of traffic during the early morning rush hour, his snoring muffled by the pillow; you could use them all to fall back asleep.
Wait. Your eyes snap open, and you’re sure that you freeze for a second, with your fingers nearly poking holes in the sheets. Snoring?
The bed creaks as you turn. A drop of sweat skates along your skin. The serene twitter of 8 a.m. is kidnapped
Locking Hawks’ windows on a Thursday night isn’t how you expected to spend your evening, surely not alone, right? Your boyfriend, the ever good-natured and stand-up hero he is, would offer to help you so you can get back to fumbling around on your laptop and making the graph due tomorrow at a conference, wouldn’t he?
You should stop giving your denial the power to fill your head with these thoughts. They’ll make you more frustrated when you turn to see him on the bed, face propped up by his hand, and a shit-eating grin staining his lips. When you finish with the last lock (why are they so convoluted on these huge wind
The minute Hawks hears the voicemail you left—short, direct, normal, minus the unmistakable quiver in your voice—is the minute his feet hit the ground running. Sweltering heat blanketing the city doesn’t hold him back, doesn’t hold a candle for how he sprints, how he turns on a dime to make it to you in time. His shoes skid along the sidewalks; his headphones clap around his ears and muffle everything but his mind.
Hawks is used to the stares he gets. The wings protruding from his back are an easy target, after all, and his face is a magnet for buzzing reporters, craving the freshly new number two’s opinion on t
Soulmate!au where the words on your body are significant words your soulmate says to you.
A bright pink paper wristband coddles your wrist. The line you’re in trails the sidewalks from outside the concert venue—the concert venue with its doors closed even when you all should’ve been in there forty minutes ago with your screams reaching up from the back of your throat and blending with everyone else’s. The line is colorful with all the neon clothes around you, and the line is like an exclamation point to tacked on at the end of the city’s name, the city that snaps awake at night and crashes in the morning with a
This road is a narrow one whose stones are slightly uneven, just enough to angle your feet awkwardly. Bending behind the far-off horizon, the sun slinks away and leaves warm, muddled oranges and yawning yellows behind. The fading straps of your bag hang on your shoulders and hook themselves in. It’s not a problem, the temperature plummeting, or the road being an eerie sort of silence that’s struck you a few times too many, or the fact that the bag uncomfortably slumps on your back but isn’t too heavy, or, or, or when your eyes peered into his molten ones and you somehow knew that today was the last day.
Your teeth sink and
The sheets that dip into the grooves of his body aren’t silk, but the way they slip and slink over him makes them look like the softest sheets on this side of the world. Passing over him, your eyes move to the window, where warm, almost burnt sunlight pries its way through the blinds. It should be just like it is in the movies—wake up next to him, he’ll crack open his eyes, you’ll both talk for a few minutes and sink into each other’s comforting presence, you’ll get up with some excuse (maybe it’s the morning breath, maybe your stomach throwing a temper tantrum), and he’ll keep you here, hand so
Warning: implied nsfw.
Hundreds of bodies mingle under crystal chandeliers, and the hands on your waist change with the song. Shoes click against the checkered mocha tile, only to be drowned out by aimless chatter and soft laughs. Champagne flutes fly across the ballroom like birds. Someone, you’re not sure who (nor do you really care), tries to snag your attention as the song changes, but as soon as your eyes meet gray ones across the room—the game changes. Everybody loses.
You’re over there before you know it, strutting on the titled floor with a mischievous quirk of your lips. The aimless chatter and clinking shoes diss
Warning: emotional manipulation and an unhealthy relationship.
“You can’t do this.”
The words that leave your lips are dry, drained, and pointless.
“I know—but let’s think of it as a compromise between lovers.”
Lovers? Chrollo says it with a charm and a practiced smile; twisting, the corners of his lips barely raise and his eyes almost look like they’re smiling. It’s fake, his smile, the way he moves and talks, everything. Even the way he breathes might be fake.
The room is large and shadows creep up on the sides of the walls, but the way he looks at you, how his gray eyes reach into
Warning: spoilers for Todoroki's past.
There are times in his life when he loses himself in a quiet, peaceful silence—the kind that wraps around him like a knitted blanket, prickly enough to poke against his arms but soft enough to keep him company. There are times when the rain taps against the windows, too, and it seeps into the background. He’ll be reading a book alongside the window, mindlessly listening to the drizzling rain’s splattering rhythm. Pages from the books are his friends. They whisk him away from the country that’s at war with itself, from a nonstop fighting between heroes and villains (and sometimes
Warning: Snippets of Jason's time with the Joker and dark themes implied.
Gotham has this stench that clings to it.
Rats poke out of dingy alleyways and skitter around, disgustingly overgrown tails sweeping behind them. Graffiti is splayed out over Gotham; it suffocates the rundown diners that serve their customers with dirty plates instead of smiles, the motels with stiff beds that are less comfortable than the floors, and the old apartments where someone’s always moving in right after the last person left. Everything is fair game in Gotham, and there’s always some hotshot saying he owns the city because he scored on drug deal.
His name is Kuroo Tetsurou this time around. Acting captain of one of Tokyo’s finest and most resilient teams, Nekoma, he’s living a decent life so far, a fun one for sure. Not an exhilarating one by any means, like that time he rose to the pinnacle of power when rabid, snarling dynasties came right after one another in rapid succession, or when his scientific blockbusting breakthrough led to an era of awe. This life, belonging to the new rendition of himself, is a comfortable one for now.
He may forget it after more cycles whiz by. It’s impossible to remember everything that he’s seen, all the
A party gone right. Now that’s something you don’t hear every day. Sure, there’s the stench of vomit, and it smells like who knows what with a lingering spice of an energy bar, but that comes with the territory. The thumping music (that’ll probably result in the cops getting called), the classic red cups that are knocked over and stain the carpet, the locked bedroom doors, the sense of regret waking up in the morning with a pounding headache (or even worse, a note scratched with a phone number and something embarrassing that’s better left in the past).
Okay, so maybe not exactly a party gone compl
To yesterday, when lilts of gold dust swam in your eyes.
He’s napping when you call. The prickling buzzing from his phone’s left unanswered, and instead of it waking him, he turns over on his side. Satin white sheets curl around his sprawled out legs. They look more like miniature valleys with the depressions and hills shaping around his legs. A routine clicking from his fan sounds in his dark room. Music’s muted, lights are off, and his curtains are loosely shut (ones that his mom got for a great bargain, apparently. She always stresses the gain in bargain). Terushima fell asleep in the middle of sending
In a lecture that no one wants to be at, Hanamaki’s propping his face up with the curves of his palm, elbow planted on a new, black desk. His mother would’ve reprimanded him in a heartbeat for his behavior (“Takahiro, that’s rude!”). Scanning the room, he sees that there are some students sleeping, especially on the left side tucked away in the corner, so he doesn’t think he’s too rude.
He faintly hears the words “parsecs” and “parallax” murmured by his lackluster professor, along with the clicking of the PowerPoint slide. The PowerPoint slides are all whit
Warning: mentions of alcohol.
Terushima’s good at crashing a lot of things—parties being his favorite (he said that they’d be too boring without him), drawn-out lectures (he barely made it to some of them because he overslept, and that’s on a good day), there was even a wedding one time for one of his cousins (at the climax, when everything was almost all said and done, he just had to shout out “Objection!” for both the reference and his own amusement. It ended up with a very furious bride that cursed his side of the family, leading to a bitter rivalry. Needless to say, he’s not invite
Warning: suggestive themes are implied.
“Do you hereby swear your loyalty to the Kingdom of Etherna? To your righteous king? To your brothers in arms? To the children you defend?”
The general stands straight, hands clasped behind his back as his voice thunders, ricocheting in the ears of soldiers that stand in front of him, equally poised. Compared to the veterans of the military, this batch has baby-like faces, free from the scars of war, free from the former king’s betrayal. Some fidget in their armor awkwardly, and their feet shuffle before they give the expected reply. It’s one they’ve hea
“Where are we going, Hajime?”
Calloused hands rest over your eyes. There’s a gentle breeze that flutters by, and a choir of birds that give every breath to sing; it’s mild today, aside from the relatively normal amounts of humidity. The crunching of dehydrated grass as you walk doesn’t give much insight as to where he’s taking you, either. Your teeth bite down on your lip in response to his silence. He’s never willing to compromise on these sorts of things, but that doesn’t numb your monstrous curiosity in the slightest.
Your fingers gravitate to his wrists, curling aro
Implicit manga spoilers below.
There was a time, Kaneki recalls as bitter coffee rolls over his tongue, when he read for the absolute joy of reading. He felt elation when plunging into dreary worlds conjured by authors like him—those who had an affinity for the morbidly twisted, yet dress as everyone else did. Normally. As they sipped drinks, walking as everyone else did, no one would guess their fixations, and that was perfectly fine by him. He’d continue to flip to the next page, eyes twinkling with mirth. At the time, reading was a gift, something to do whenever possible.
In those early times, when he’d be found co
The day starts when he wakes, and it ends when he sleeps.
Mei’s not sure what time it is; too eager to collapse on his bed last night, he didn’t bother setting his alarm—a red one with flames he’s had for years. Even if he did make the effort like a responsible student, he still wouldn’t have gotten up. It’s hard to get Mei to do anything that he has no interest in (something the baseball team is very well acquainted with). Faint smells from the kitchen, and the light peaking from his curtains tell him that it’s still early.
He brushes it off, tossing so that his back’s to the light.
Manga spoilers below.
Revenge, Furuta thinks, is best served raw, seasoned with frayed emotions.
He’s a bit curious—more like downright obsessed—with uncovering the identity of the One-Eyed King. Not caring if he’s stained his hands, he’s infiltrated numerous organizations to uncover even a speck of dirt regarding the elusive subject; at this point, he’s desperate for information, so much so that he’s probably willing to give a kidney, or kill someone and cover it up as collateral damage. Though, he’ll never admit to something like that. That’d make him vulnerable, prone to misinform
Wispy streams of sunlight peek through his closed curtains. Kyoutani’s sprawled out on the bed, body parts arranged in a formation that looks downright uncomfortable; with his arm hooked, and rapid reflexes, if someone tried to wake him up, they’d definitely have teeth knocked out. A light groan seeps from his chapped lips when the sunrays are harsher—more obnoxious.
Rolling over, Kyoutani tangles the sheets. He grabs a pillow, fingers curling around the abused edge, and blocks the sunlight by shutting it out with the pillow. The pillow’s battered with stitches stretching so far that the innards are tumbling out.
Manga spoilers below.
He’s like a shot of vodka that slides across a wooden bar, or a sunset that bleeds over the horizon. Something that leaves a scorching aftertaste, lurking in the depths of your senses—your mind. His red eye loses its sight; not literally, but metaphorically. When he steps over the lines he drew years ago, his eye fails. He chooses not to see it.
Actions ranging from simple to complex harbor ferocious malice. Even when he turns the frail page in a book it sounds like he’s devising schemes to end lives, ghouls or humans, it doesn’t matter. The hollow sounds of his steps condemn anyone, ev