Cat_Crowned



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    It requires every ounce of will he can bring to bear to force himself to meet Clark's eyes. Clark looks shocked; the expression is undiluted by anger or dismay, though perhaps he simply hasn't had time to grasp what just happened. His eyes are wide, round, impossibly blue. Color is rising into his cheeks. His mouth is half-open, slack, with the slightest damp shine where—

    "That was," Bruce makes himself say, and then stops. Christ, what word can he use? What adjective is there that acknowledges his trespass fully? "Inappropriate." Inadequate, but it's the best he can do, and Clark needs to hear something, needs to know Bruce recognizes his own mistake for what it is. "I apologize. I—"

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    25 Dec 2025

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    Two men fall into some form of relationship. Another one finds out and promptly loses the grasp on his sanity. Such are the trials and tribulations in the life of Dick Grayson.

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    25 Dec 2025

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    “Dude,” Dustin says, sounding kind of horrified but also kind of delirious with elation. “Oh my God, you like him. You like Will. Will. As in, our Will. Our best friend Will.”

    “I do not–” Mike tries, even though he’d kind of just admitted to accidentally kissing Will Byers, a little, so maybe that’s an entirely fruitless road to go down.

    Listen. No one should ever let Mike make decisions right after he wakes up from a nap, okay? Especially not decisions where Will is concerned. This is so not his fault.

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    23 Dec 2025

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    “Hollander,” Ilya greeted. He was leaning over the partition of Shane's desk with a lop-sided smile on his face.

    “Rozanov,” Shane said pointedly.

    “You sound upset.”

    “I’m not upset.”

    “It is too early in the morning for you to look like you want to kill me,” Ilya pointed out.

    “It’s never too early for that,” Shane threw back, unnecessarily shuffling some papers around on his desk. “Do you need something?”

    “A pen,” Ilya shrugged, not being able to stop the dumb smile forming on his face at Shane’s reaction.

     

    or, ilya and shane are co-workers. they like each other but are oblivious idiots about it. also, it's christmas!

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    19 Dec 2025

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    Shane Hollander was a man defined by rigor. By structure. By the elegant logic of a system mastered through sheer, unyielding effort. He spoke seven languages, not because they came naturally—though French and English had been a delightful exception—but because he pursued fluency like a grand, intellectual hunt.

    He, however, was failing Russian 301, and the solution was an enforced, peer-led intervention. His required tutor was a junior who knew the language “by osmosis”, and who, Shane knew from the university bulletin and an unfortunate run-in near the campus gym, belonged to the most obnoxious caste on campus: the frat star athletes.

    Ilya fucking Rozanov.

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    07 Dec 2025