cece693

[cece693]

Hello! Could I request a Jason Grace x male reader fanficthat has like anger issues with the reader either being a son of ares or nemesis:D

If you decide to make this I thank you

Lightning in Your Veins

pairing: jason grace x male reader tags: son of ares, reader has anger issues, jason makes it better and is your safe place

Your fists clenched as you lunged at a training dummy in Camp Half-Blood’s arena, each strike hitting with enough force to startle even the most seasoned demigod. A few yards away, Jason Grace watched you with an unwavering gaze, stormy eyes revealing both concern and admiration. He had just finished his own sword exercises when he noticed you losing your temper—again.

“(M/N)!” he shouted over the clang of metal. “Take a breath!”

The tautness in your shoulders eased fractionally at the sound of his voice. Even though a raging fire still blazed beneath your skin, you forced yourself to pause, chest heaving. It wasn’t easy being the son of Ares. Anger seemed to run in your blood, threatening to break free at the slightest provocation.

But Jason was there. He was always there.

You first met Jason during an ambush on a quest. Embarrassingly enough, a stray arrow had grazed your arm. Blood dripped onto the forest floor, and you’d been half-blinded by pain and fury, ready to fight back with no regard for your own safety. He, battered from a scuffle with a cyclops, had insisted on helping you, ignoring his own wounds to wrap yours with shaking hands.

That day, lightning rippled across the sky and crackled in your heart. You’d never believed in those cliché moments of “electric sparks,” but the second you stared into his eyes—eyes that reminded you of storm clouds over a calm sea—your pulse pounded for an entirely different reason than anger.

Of course, it wasn’t all smooth sailing from that point on. You had a temper like no other, and Jason’s sometimes overbearing sense of duty often clashed with your single-minded need to face threats head-on. But in quieter moments—moments where he found you alone at the archery range late at night, or when the two of you snuck to the lake’s edge to watch the moonlight—there was no one else in the world you wanted by your side.

Now, back in the arena, you struggled to rein in that Ares-fueled fury. Sweat slid down your temple. You felt suffocated, embarrassed that you couldn’t control it, especially in front of him. Jason’s gentle approach was your only anchor.

“Take a breath,” he repeated softly, lowering your raised fists with his hands. He slid his fingers over yours, the contact sending a jolt of warmth through your arms. You exhaled shakily, remembering all the times his voice alone kept you tethered to reality when your anger threatened to consume you.

Jason’s thumb stroked the back of your hand, electricity humming just below his skin. “Are you okay?”

"Depends," you managed, a self-deprecating smirk curling your lips. “Do you mind if I punched that dummy so hard it nearly fell over?”

He chuckled. “I’d only be worried if you started punching me next.”

Despite your anger, you felt a flicker of humor. “I’d never do that…at least, not without a really good reason.” That earned a small laugh from him, and you found yourself relaxing, your shoulders no longer tense. Jason’s laughter was like a fresh breeze dispersing the thick storm clouds in your mind.

You were never great at words. To you, action always spoke louder than any poem or eloquent speech. So, when Jason slid his hand up your arm, hooking his fingers gently around your bicep, it was like he was reading your mind. No words needed—his presence and concern were proof enough of how much he cared.

“C’mon,” he said. “Let’s get out of here.”

He guided you toward a side bench beneath the shade of an oak tree. As you both sat down, the distant sounds of other demigods training faded to a dull clamor. You pressed the heels of your palms against your eyes, swallowing a wave of frustration at yourself. You hated feeling so out of control, so easy to provoke.

“Hey.” Jason’s voice was gentle. “I know it’s not easy, being the son of Ares and all.”

“Sometimes, I can’t stand it,” you admitted, raw honesty tumbling out. “Everything sets me off. And I’m worried one day I might hurt someone—someone I…” You trailed off, chest twisting. “Someone I love.”

Jason’s eyes flashed with sympathy. He squeezed your knee. “You’re stronger than that. You made a promise to control this, right? I’ve seen you fight the toughest monsters and outsmart the worst of your own impulses. I believe in you. And if you do lose it,” he added, his lip curling into a rare, fond smile, “I’ll be here to knock some sense back into you.”

You couldn’t help but laugh, a short bark of a sound that was more relief than true amusement. Jason’s unwavering faith in you was a lifeline you never knew you needed until you had it.

As the afternoon sun lengthened the shadows across the camp, you and Jason found yourselves drifting toward the strawberry fields for some quiet. The fields, usually bustling with satyrs and other campers tending to the plants, were empty in the late day. Golden rays lit the place like a scene from a painting, turning the leaves into shimmering emerald.

Jason walked beside you in comfortable silence, your shoulders occasionally brushing. When he gently reached for your hand, you let him take it, warmth blooming in your chest. Here, away from the clang of swords and the prying eyes of other demigods, it felt like it was just the two of you.

Stopping by a particularly lush patch of berries, Jason turned toward you. The breeze ruffled his blond hair, revealing the small scar above his right eyebrow—an old souvenir from another quest gone wrong. Before you could think, you reached out and traced it softly. He leaned into your touch, letting out a contented sigh.

“I’m not going anywhere, M/N,” he said, voice quiet but sure. “I’ll be here when your anger flares up. I’ll be here when you feel ashamed. I’ll be here when you feel like you can’t handle it.”

You blinked, your throat tightening with emotion. You couldn’t decide if it was embarrassment at your vulnerability or gratitude that someone—even a son of Jupiter—could care about you so much.

In response, you gently tugged him closer by the collar of his camp shirt, closing the distance until you could feel the heat of his breath. His eyes fluttered shut half a second before yours did. Your lips met in a tender, hesitant kiss that quickly grew surer, fueled by the swirl of conflicting emotions inside you—fear, passion, relief, love.

He tasted like the ozone before a thunderstorm, and you wondered if that was just Jason or your imagination conjuring sparks again.

When you finally broke apart, breathless, you were amazed at how calm you felt. Your anger was still there, coiled like a serpent in your chest, but with Jason at your side, it seemed…manageable.

“Thanks,” you murmured, brushing your forehead against his. “For believing in me. For staying.”

Jason squeezed your hand. “Anytime,” he promised, a small grin tugging at his lips. “After all, you’re stuck with me now.”

You found yourself laughing softly, your heart drumming with more excitement than dread for once. Maybe anger was part of who you were, but it wasn’t everything. And if there was anyone who could handle a spark of Ares—and give it right back—it was Jason Grace.

[cece693]

She Doesn't Know

pairing: alec lightwood x male reader tags: secret relationship, Alec isn't ready to come out, leads to you being flirted with a lot, jealous Alec, clary being clary, things are changed to fit my narrative better

Alec leaned against the stone pillar in the Institute’s training room, trying to ignore the slight tension coiling beneath his ribs. You were in the center of the open space, demonstrating an elegant series of blade techniques for a group of wide-eyed onlookers: Izzy, Jace, a handful of other Shadowhunters, and of course, the newest arrival—Clary.

There you stood, the picture of confidence and grace. Each arc of your blade elicited murmurs of appreciation from the small crowd, and Alec couldn’t help but feel an all-too-familiar twinge of envy. He watched from a short distance, arms folded over his chest, jaw tight.

You were his boyfriend. His partner. His. Yet, in the eyes of almost everyone else here, you were the Institute’s star: gorgeous, talented, charismatic. Alec had overheard rumors that you were the “ideal Shadowhunter”—the sort of person even the Inquisitor might commend without hesitation. You had been many people’s first crush: from timid recruits who looked up to you as the epitome of skill and kindness, to seasoned warriors who admired your strength and devotion to the Clave.

But none of that changed the fact that you were Alec’s secret—at least, outside of Izzy and Jace. His siblings knew, had known for a while, but it wasn’t something Alec wanted the entire Institute gossiping about, especially not while he was still grappling with how to tell his parents. And definitely not to Clary Fray, the redhead who’d only just discovered she was a Shadowhunter at all.

It didn’t help that Clary had developed an instant fascination with you from the moment she was rescued. Alec suspected it was more than just gratitude. She listened with rapt attention anytime you spoke, eyes shining like you were the only person in the room. And the problem wasn’t just that she was smitten. It was that you, being the gentle soul you were, rarely turned anyone away. You humored her questions, you corrected her stance in training, you comforted her when the nightmares of her mother’s kidnapping returned.

Alec’s heart twisted in on itself every time he saw her giggling at something you said. He couldn’t exactly scold Clary for enjoying your company—she didn’t know you were taken. Worse yet, Alec couldn’t just stride up and put an arm around you to make some blatant claim. Not in front of a group that still assumed Alec’s straight.

“She doesn’t know,” Izzy said softly as she approached. Alec was startled; he hadn’t heard her footsteps. She was wearing her signature confident smile, but it was tinged with sympathy. “Don’t be so hard on yourself.”

Alec sighed, keeping his gaze locked on you. Having stopped your training, you now were talking to Clary, the little girl's laughter echoing through the room, high and bright. Alec could almost taste the jealousy on his tongue. “I know she doesn’t know,” he grumbled, shifting uncomfortably. “I just—It feels like he’s everyone’s favorite. Even with Jace—”

“Jace is his parabatai,” Izzy interjected teasingly, lifting a dark eyebrow. “Don’t tell me you still think he's making a move on your boyfriend. When they drew those runes, he basically gave up those feelings.”

Alec heaved a silent breath. “It’s not…I know Jace respects our relationship. It’s just—he’s my best friend too, right? So it feels strange that whenever I look for him, or for my boyfriend, they’re off training together, or exchanging some inside joke.”

Izzy placed a comforting hand on Alec’s arm. “You’re not used to sharing, but you’re going to have to. You can’t lock him up in your room away from everyone else.”

Alec shot her a glare, but a reluctant half-smile tugged at his lips. “That wouldn't be such a bad idea, actually. But, seriously, that's not what I’m trying to do.”

“I know,” Izzy said, voice gentler. “Talk to him. He’d want to know if you’re feeling this way.” Alec glanced from Izzy back to you. He knew she was right; you’d pick up on his mood soon if you hadn’t already. You always had a knack for sensing when Alec was troubled. Or jealous.

Later that evening, Alec found you seated on one of the long benches in an alcove behind the Institute’s library. Dim overhead lights cast dancing shadows along the shelves. You’d folded your arms on the table in front of you, scribbling notes on a mission report.

He hesitated in the doorway for a moment, admiring the way your hair fell over your forehead, the focus etched across your face. Of course people gravitated toward you—you were breathtaking, inside and out. Alec’s chest warmed at the reminder that, for now, your heart belonged to him.

Taking a quiet breath, he approached and gently rested a hand on your shoulder. You looked up, a brilliant smile lighting up your features the moment you saw him. The corners of Alec’s mouth tugged up, and he sunk down on the bench beside you.

“Hey,” you said softly, setting aside your pen. “You okay? You seemed a bit off in training earlier.”

He shrugged, then shook his head, deciding to be honest. “I’m just…” He swallowed. “A little jealous, I guess.”

Your eyebrows arched in surprise before softening with understanding. “Of Clary?”

Alec’s mouth parted, but he hesitated. It felt foolish to say it out loud. “She doesn’t know about us,” he finally admitted. “And I can’t exactly blame her for…flirting.” His lips twisted wryly around the word. “But it drives me crazy.”

You slid closer, your thigh brushing his. A comforting warmth radiated between your bodies. “I can see that.” Your voice was gentler than ever. “I’ve been trying to discourage her without being mean, but she’s persistent.”

Alec let out a breath he’d been holding. “I don’t want to let my jealousy show. And I definitely don’t want anyone else figuring out my…preferences before I’m ready.” The words still felt awkward on his tongue, but it was the truth. “It feels like all eyes are on us, you know? You’re…well, you’re you.” He almost laughed at his own phrasing. “People watch you. They notice who you talk to, who you train with, who you spend time with. If they notice me acting possessive or something, questions will start.”

You reached for his hand and squeezed. “I understand. There’s a lot riding on you, on your family name, on how the Clave sees you.” Your voice lowered. “I just want you to be comfortable. I don’t want to hide, but I also don’t want to force you out before you’re ready.”

Alec’s chest felt tight. Gratitude washed over him in a gentle wave. “Thank you.” He closed his eyes for a moment, focusing on the reassuring feel of your hand in his. “I’d never want you to hide either, but—yeah, it’s complicated.”

“It is.” You brushed a thumb over his knuckles. “I care about you, Alec. That’s not going to change, no matter who else needs a training partner or who else tries flirting.” A soft smile tugged at your lips. “And if Clary presses too hard, I’ll find a tactful way to let her know I’m not interested.”

Heat rose to Alec’s cheeks. It felt absurd that a single line could chase away so many of his doubts. You had a way of cutting through his insecurities with your kindness. Every word felt like a reaffirmation of your loyalty to him.

For a second, Alec let himself imagine a future where the entire Institute knew the truth—where he could step forward and simply stand behind you during training, wrap an arm around your waist without worrying about the stares. Where Clary could look at you both and see just how uninterested you were in her. One day. Soon, maybe.

[cece693]

If this is weird sorry but day 2 of asking for Edward scissorhands smut (doesn’t have to it be😥!!!!)

You Won't Hurt Me

pairing: edward scissorhands x gender neutral reader tags: there's some smut but not very graphic, Edward is a cinnamon roll so he's letting the reader take charge, insecurity over scissorhands

Edward had always been gentle—quietly observant and endlessly kind. It was in his nature to watch over the things and people he treasured from a cautious distance. Yet there were moments when the gentle sweep of his dark eyes betrayed a flicker of longing, a yearning to be closer to you. You understood those silences. You saw it in the way he’d curl his scissor blades toward himself whenever you stood near, as if even his own presence was a danger to you.

The mansion on the hill was quiet tonight. A single lamp in the corridor threw long, ghostly shapes across the floor. You were alone with Edward in his makeshift bedroom. It felt intimate—his bed, his half-finished sculptures in the corner, and the faint hum of nighttime insects beyond the window. You sat on the edge of the mattress, waiting patiently, while Edward remained a few steps away, fingers clenching and unclenching in trembling scissor-blades.

“Edward…” you began softly, reaching out in invitation. “Will you come closer?”

He swallowed hard, amber eyes darting between your hand and his own bladed fingers. You could almost hear the cogs in his mind turning, wrestling between desire and fear. His voice, small and unsteady, finally broke the silence.

“I—I don’t want to hurt you.”

“You won’t,” you promised, sliding off the mattress to stand by his side. Careful but unafraid, you reached for his wrists—gingerly lifting the metallic ends, mindful to avoid the sharp edges. His breath caught, surprise coloring his features.

Your voice remained a gentle murmur. “I trust you, Edward. I’m not scared.” He wanted to believe you, that much was clear. The warmth in his eyes flared with hope, yet he still hesitated. The razor-sharp scissors that replaced his hands had dictated his life for as long as he could remember, keeping him at a distance from the affection he craved. But here you stood, heart beating steadily, giving him permission to be close—to be intimate.

“Edward,” you whispered, “I want to show you something.”

Hesitant, you guided his arms to rest against your sides. Placing your hands on his shoulders, you leaned in to brush your lips across the softness of his. The kiss was feather-light, a moment of letting him feel what safe intimacy could be like. His shoulders trembled beneath your palms; the scissor-blades quivered where they hovered away from your body, each blade carefully angled so as not to harm you.

When you pulled back, he looked at you in wonder. With the faintest smile, you nudged him gently toward the bed. “It’s okay,” you said, voice low and reassuring.

He backed up until his calves touched the mattress. You placed one knee beside him, then settled next to him, giving him a moment to adjust. His breath came in hushed gasps, but there was excitement there, too—a trembling yearning in the way he looked at you.

“I’ve never…” he began, cheeks flushing as his voice trailed off.

You placed a comforting hand on his cheek, thumb caressing his pale skin littered with scars. “Then we can learn together. Only as much as you’re ready for.”

Edward nodded, lips parted. Your heart fluttered at the trust he showed—despite his apprehension, despite the blades that could so easily turn a tender moment into tragedy. You were determined to show him that you were safe, that you wanted this closeness as much as he did.

You leaned in again, pressing another slow kiss to his mouth. His lips were soft and pliant under yours, and you could feel each shaky exhale as your noses brushed. A quiet moan escaped him when you guided his face closer, tangling your free hand gently into the wild black hair that fell around his eyes.

Your kiss deepened, filling with the promise of warmth. You could almost sense the moment Edward let himself believe that he wouldn’t hurt you, that perhaps this moment of tenderness was bigger than his fear. You felt his body relax—just a fraction—and he leaned into you with earnest, shy passion.

Your fingers combed through his hair, soothing him as you found a rhythm—kisses turning breathless, each soft sound in the still room magnified by the hush of night. Edward remained so conscious of his scissors, arms lifted away from you, letting them hover in a safe distance at first. But little by little, you guided him, resting his forearms near your waist so his blades only grazed the sheets, not your skin.

He was learning to trust his own strength, and you were there to remind him at every step with gentle touches and reassuring whispers. When you tugged lightly at his clothing, he made a small, surprised noise. There was nervous curiosity in his eyes as you unfastened buckles and belts, carefully setting them aside. He reciprocated, his scissor-fingers trembling as they hovered near your shirt. You guided him with your hands, helping him slip and tug fabric free without harm.

Skin warmed skin in a shared hush of breath. Vulnerability radiated between you—an overwhelming newness for him, and for you, a privilege to be his first. He responded to your touches with something fragile, yet ardent, each gentle brush of your hand drawing a soft gasp from his lips.

You coaxed him onto his back, guiding his limbs so that the sharp edges wouldn’t dig into either of you. He gazed up at you, wide-eyed, lost in trust and an unspoken blend of nerves and anticipation. Carefully, you bent closer, pressing a tender kiss to his collarbone, then down along the pale expanse of his chest, your breath fanning over him in comforting waves. Edward shivered beneath you, every exhale a stutter of sound that confirmed both his anxiety and his pleasure.

Gradually, lips explored newly bared skin, kisses peppering a trail that left him panting softly. Your reassuring murmurs steadied him, gentle words reminding Edward he was safe, that you wanted every part of this. Your hands guided him further, brushing over the sensitive planes of his body with mindful affection. Each time he tensed, you paused, pressing your lips to his temple, stroking your fingers through his hair, and waiting until he relaxed once more.

At last, desire took over the tremors of doubt. Edward’s breathing grew low and heavy, matching the heat that spilled through every limb you touched. You, too, lost yourself in the moment. The dance of your joined bodies was slow, deliberate. Every kiss was a vow that you wouldn’t scare or startle him. Every brush of your fingers was a promise that his sharp edges could be navigated with care.

When it was over, Edward curled into your embrace. His scissors were carefully tucked against his own chest now, so they wouldn’t cut you, but they didn’t feel like a burden in that moment. Your fingers traced slow circles on his bare shoulder, his head resting in the crook of your neck. A dazed sort of calm filled the air.

Your whisper broke the gentle quiet. “You didn’t hurt me, Edward.”

He closed his eyes, voice catching on the edge of relief. “I—I’m so glad,” he managed.

You kissed his forehead, letting the silence settle around you both like a gentle blanket. In the stillness, Edward drifted closer, nuzzling timidly into your warmth. With your arms wrapped around him, it was impossible for him to feel like a danger. Instead, he felt sheltered, wanted, and free to rest in the security of your affection.

[cece693]

Cece!!!! drop another fic and my life is yours!!!!!!

I love the joker fic you wrote. I love love love it. Please i humbly request that you maybe write a part 2. I really enjoyed it.

Please and thank you <3

Painted Devotion Pt. 2

pairing: the joker x male reader tags: harley quinn appearance, she's jay's wingwoman, never underestimate a girl's devotion to the crazy clown, kidnapping, forced to admit feelings

You thought you’d heard it all before. The Joker had been oddly insistent the last time you fought—proclaiming in that maddening cackle of his that he loved you. You brushed it off as another of his twisted jokes, something to keep you off-balance in the heat of battle. Heroes don’t fall for their arch-nemeses, right?

After that night, you did what any good, cape-wearing hero would do: you ignored it. Weeks passed. You put more thugs behind bars, broke up a few shady deals, and spent your evenings patrolling the city’s rooftops. Whenever the Joker’s name came up, you responded with the usual calm detachment. If the clown was serious, you reasoned, he’d show up again soon enough.

It turned out you weren’t wrong, but it wasn’t the Joker himself who paid you a visit first.

It all went down late on a Tuesday evening, when the city’s neon lights glowed under a cloudy sky. You jumped from building to building, scanning the streets below for trouble—typical hero business—when a sudden whack against your head turned everything to black.

You came to your senses strapped to a battered office chair in a musty old warehouse. Why were these villains always obsessed with warehouses? Blinking away the starbursts in your vision, you looked up to see the beaming face of Harley Quinn.

“Took ya long enough!” she chirped, tapping a bat against her shoulder. “I was thinkin’ you’d never wake up.”

You winced, testing the ropes around your wrists. “I don’t suppose you’d consider untying me, Harley?”

She only threw her head back in a bright, almost musical laugh. “Aw, you’re adorable—but no. Listen,” she leaned in, eyes sparkling with mischief, “I need you to see somethin’. And I know you’re all buddy-buddy with logic and morals and justice, so I figured I’d have to knock you out first to get ya here.”

Before you could protest, she hopped behind the chair and gave it a firm shove. You were forced to roll along the cracked concrete floor, deeper into the warehouse. Doors creaked. Muffled laughter (and maybe a scream or two) echoed down some corridor. Eventually, Harley kicked open a metal door and shoved you inside.

The room was…Well, let’s just say the décor put your most devoted fans’ ‘Wall of Weird’ scrapbooks to shame. You saw your face plastered on almost every surface—pictures from tabloids, newspaper clippings, freeze-frames from TV news. Some were ringed by messy hearts in red marker. A few were dotted with random notes, scrawled in that unmistakable loopy handwriting: “My favorite hero.” “Do-gooder with a spine.” “Ugh, I love to hate him.”

At the center of it all, like some twisted shrine, sat the Joker himself. Except…he looked different. His face was devoid of makeup, pale skin showing stubble along his jawline. The vibrant green hair was half faded, revealing scruffy brownish roots. His clothes were wrinkled and rumpled, like he’d been wearing the same outfit for days (and by the smell, he probably had). He stared blankly at the collage of your photos on the wall, barely acknowledging your entrance.

Your eyes flicked around the room. “What is this?”

Harley prodded the back of your chair again, rolling you closer. “This is our problem, handsome. Mistah J’s been moping around for weeks—weeks!—all ‘cuz you’re treatin’ him like the punchline to a bad joke. No pun intended.”

Still bleary-eyed, you caught the Joker’s gaze. He lifted his head only slightly, half-lidded eyes meeting yours. There was something—dare you say it—sad about him.

“You okay there, Joker?” you ventured, voice hesitant.

“Okay?!” The Joker’s voice cracked in a mockery of his usual mania. “Oh, yes, I’m marvelous, darling. Nothing like heartbreak to add a dash of * zest * to life.” His sarcasm dripped, but the spark in his eye was faded.

Harley sighed, pulling a collapsible chair (because apparently she was prepared) out from the corner and flopping down in front of you. “All right, kiddos, gather ‘round. Therapy time. I’ve been watchin’ Dr. Phil reruns, so I’m basically an expert.” She clapped her hands, then pointed the bat in your direction. “Now, let’s address the big, honkin’ elephant in the room: What’s the deal with you ignorin’ my puddin’ after he confessed his oh-so-genuine feelin’s, hmm?”

Caught off guard, you just stared. “What do you want me to say, Harley? He literally told me in the middle of a fight that he…that he loved me.”

At that, the Joker—still slumped in the makeshift shrine—rolled his eyes. “So that’s what’s got you all twisted, is it? You can’t possibly fathom that the Clown Prince of Crime might have genuine emotions?” He offered a weak, mocking laugh, but it turned into more of a pathetic cough. “Ridiculous.”

You shifted in your chair, still unable to free your wrists from the ropes. “It’s not that I don’t believe you. I just—didn’t want to engage with…this.” Your eyes flicked around the shrine. “I mean, look at this place.”

Harley tsked, crossing her legs. “Now, that ain’t so nice. Mistah J put a lotta care into it.”

Joker’s mouth twitched, as though a grin was trying to emerge but couldn’t quite make it. “I tried not to, you know. Tried not to let you worm your way into my chaotic heart.” He gave a theatrical sigh. “But there you are every time I close my eyes.”

You felt a flush threaten your cheeks. “Well, you’re not exactly easy to forget either.”

“Aha!” Harley pointed her bat at you triumphantly. “Progress!” She scribbled an imaginary note on her open palm. “You acknowledge you can’t forget Joker. Step one: acceptance of repressed feelings.”

“Harley, stop reading into every single—”

“Shh!” She pressed a finger to her lips, spinning her bat like a pen. “We’re in therapy. No interrupting.”

You groaned but stayed quiet.

“Now.” Harley turned to the Joker. “Mistah J, it seems like your love life’s gotten messy. You can’t keep starin’ at that collage. Gotta talk it out. Go on, say something sweet.”

The Joker gave another drab cough, then locked eyes with you, his voice quiet and oddly sincere. “I meant what I said,” he began. “For all the times we’ve danced our little dance, you’re the only one who’s ever made me second-guess my own madness. I hate it—and I love it, all the same.”

The room felt eerily still. You swallowed, faint warmth creeping into your chest. “You love that I chase you around the city, busting your plans?”

He shrugged. “I love that you bother to. No one else sees me the way you do. You try to understand my next step. You push back. You hold a mirror up to all my chaos.”

“It’s more than that, though,” Harley interjected, not-so-subtly. “Right, Mistah J?” She gave him a pointed look.

The Joker released a long, melodramatic sigh. “Yes, yes. I find you utterly fascinating beyond the usual cat-and-mouse business.” A half-smile tugged at his lips. “And you have those hero’s eyes; bright with idealism. It’s both nauseating and addictively sweet.”

A flicker of genuine sympathy welled up in you, despite your better judgment. “What do you want from me?”

He rose to his feet, standing unsteadily but with some of his old swagger returning. “Just…don’t pretend it never happened. This feeling—whatever it is. If you hate me for it, so be it. But ignoring me completely?” He let out a soft, bitter laugh. “That’s more torture than Arkham’s solitary confinement.”

You glanced at Harley, who was watching with rapt attention, bat propped under her chin like she was enthralled in a rom-com. Then you looked back at the Joker, disheveled and oddly vulnerable in his half-washed face and patchy green hair. With a deep breath, you admitted, “I…can’t ignore you. You’re in my head, too. Maybe not in the same way, but—”

“Oh, hush.” He cut you off with a wave of his hand, yet there was a trace of relief in his voice. “That’s all I needed to hear.”

Harley squealed in delight, springing up from her chair. “Then that’s settled, right? You’re gonna stop mopin’, Mistah J, and you—” she pointed to you, “—quit actin’ like none of this is happening.”

She spun around the room, picking up a pair of scissors with a flourish. “Now, the therapy rules say if a hostage is no longer needed, I free ‘em.” She winked, then came over to snip the ropes at your wrists. “Ta-da! You two can figure out the rest yourselves.”

With your wrists free, you stood, rubbing the raw lines where the rope had been. Harley strolled off, humming some jaunty tune, leaving you and the Joker alone in the messy hideout. An awkward silence fell between you. Then the Joker nudged a stray newspaper clipping—one featuring a huge, front-page photo of you—underneath a loose pile to hide it.

You met his eyes. They still had that glint of madness, but a note of exhaustion, too. “Listen, Joker,” you started softly. “I’m not saying everything’s changed, just because—”

“Don’t,” he cut in, though his voice was calmer than usual. “Don’t try to define it. It’s not a fairy tale. It’s just…us.”

“…Right,” you said. “But maybe we could handle it better than, you know, kidnapping, murder, property damage, etc.”

He gave a half-hearted chuckle. “We’ll see. Old habits die hard.”

Before you could formulate a witty retort, he leaned in, surprising you with a swift, almost gentle press of his lips against yours. The sensation was oddly quiet, lacking the usual theatrical flourish you associated with him. Just a moment, then gone.

His grin returned—small, but unmistakably the Joker. “Consider that my official invitation not to ignore me next time.”

Your cheeks flared hot, but you managed a smirk. “I’ll keep it in mind.”

And with that, he stepped aside, allowing you a path to the door. There might have been a million unresolved questions swirling in your head—where do we go from here? Is this a trick? Am I supposed to arrest him now?—but in that instant, you simply took a shaky breath and turned away.

You left the hideout feeling strangely lighter. You still had your duty, and he still had his mania, but at least the air between you wasn’t suffocating with unspoken truths. And behind you, in that dingy warehouse, you knew he was probably already painting his face with renewed gusto—maybe even re-dying his hair that trademark green.

[cece693]

Kiss, Marry, Kill

pairing: jasper hale x male reader tags: human reader, jasper being hurt over small things, Emmett being his joking self, party games, crack fic?

Streamers of gold and cream swirled from the high ceiling of the Cullens’ mansion, and the soft glow of fairy lights made everything look like a magical dreamland—well, at least to your human friends, who couldn’t stop gawking at the place. For you, it was home away from home. After all, you spent so much time here with Jasper that the polished floors and glittering chandeliers had become more familiar than your own dorm room.

Still, tonight felt different. It was your birthday—the last you’d celebrate with a beating heart. Next year, you’d be fully immortal, forever attached to Jasper’s side. But first, you had a party to survive.

You had just finished eating a perfect slice of birthday cake (courtesy of Esme’s unwavering drive to make it tasty for even someone who despised cake) when Jessica's voice boomed across the music:

“Birthday boy! Get over here! We need you!”

Her tone made you freeze. You recognized that brand of enthusiasm. It usually meant trouble or embarrassing party games. With a resigned sigh, you left the comfort of the food table and found Jessica huddled in the living room with Angela, Mike, and a handful of other curious onlookers.

“We’re playing Kiss, Marry, Kill,” Jessica announced, flipping her hair as if she was unveiling some grand plan. “And you’re up first!”

Your stomach sank like a stone in a lake. An array of wide, excited eyes turned your way, including Mike’s—who offered a sheepish wave. You prayed to whatever powers exist that Jasper wasn’t within earshot. “C’mon, Jess,” you said, forcing a laugh. “Don’t you think I’m too old for this?”

She scoffed, rolling her eyes. “You’re twenty-one, not eighty-one! Besides, Emmett is all fired up just hearing about it.”

You heard a low chuckle from across the room. Emmett, leaning casually by the DVD shelf, flexed his biceps with a wink. Rosalie smacked his arm in mock annoyance. Great—there went your hopes of keeping this discreet.

“Alright, fine,” you relented, your cheeks heating. “Let’s get this over with.”

Jessica cleared her throat dramatically and raised a tiny notebook where she’d jotted down names. “So, Kiss, Marry, Kill…” She paused, letting the suspense build. “Mike, Emmett, and Tyler!”

You snorted. Of course she’d drag Emmett in. And Tyler? The guy who you briefly had a fling with before getting with Jasper? Oh boy, now you desperately hoped Jasper wasn't even in the house.

“Okay,” you began slowly. “Let me, uh…weigh my options…”

Immediately you thought of killing Tyler. No way would you announce you'll hypothetically kiss or marry him, it was tough enough to break your friends-with-benefits relationship. You didn't want to give him false hope when that ship has sailed. Mike was potentially clingy, might send you heart-shaped candies on Valentine’s Day with bad puns, but he was overall harmless. And Emmett, there would never be a boring day in your life, it was Rosalie you were worried about. She'll definitely kill you if you even dared to steal him away.

As these thoughts zipped through your mind, you realized the circle of friends was waiting with bated breath. “Alright,” you said, “if I have to choose, I'll kiss Mike…”you said, pointing lamely in his direction.

You heard him choke on a soft, “Really?”

Rolling your eyes, you glanced at Emmett, who was now wagging his eyebrows. "I'll marry Emmett. He’s entertaining, funny, strong, and got a great sense of humor..." you rattled off, trying not to laugh as Emmett bounced in his spot like a child. “You hear that, Rosie? I’m marriage material!” Rosalie simply rolled her eyes.

"And I'll kill Tyler. No offense man, but you did almost take out Bella with that van years ago, so maybe it's karmic justice. Rest in peace.”

While your friends erupted into laughter, especially at the idea of your 'marriage' with Emmett, you maneuvered your way through the crowd, itching to find Jasper. While it was merely a game, you knew it would rub your cowboy the wrong way to hear you'll marry his brother. Looking everywhere for him—his room, the kitchen, the living room, hell, even the bathroom—you had just returned to the kitchen where Edward suddenly flashed in front of you.

“Jeez, Edward!” you exclaimed, pressing a hand to your chest. “I'm still human, remember?"

He just shrugged with a knowing smile. “He’s in Carlisle’s study. I’d go talk to him if I were you.”

His expression told you everything you needed to know—Jasper was not in a good mood. With a nod, you headed toward the study, ducking under a few gold streamers.

You found Jasper sitting at Carlisle’s desk, arms folded, staring intently at the wall. His blond hair fell into his face, casting shadows across his darkening eyes. The moment you stepped in, he flicked his eyes up, then away, like he couldn’t decide if he wanted to see you or avoid you.

“Jazz?” you said softly, closing the door behind you. “Want to tell me what’s bothering you?”

His expression darkened as he let out a humorless laugh. “Don’t act like you don’t know. I heard everything. You’re apparently planning to marry Emmett now.” Though the jealousy stung your heart, his wording was so ridiculous you almost snorted. But one look at his face told you laughter would not help.

“It was a joke, Jazz. You know that.”

His Southern drawl grew sharper. “A joke, sure, but it sounded pretty convincing. You did have reasons lined up for why Emmett would be such a great husband.”

Your jaw dropped. “You’re serious right now?”

He held your gaze, frustration and hurt swirling in those golden irises. “If you wanna go marry him, go ahead,” he said bitterly. “It’s your birthday; maybe that’ll be my gift to you—freedom from me.” You took a breath, forcing yourself not to snap back. He was centuries old, but that didn’t stop him from occasionally having the emotional meltdown of a teenager.

“Jasper, you know I love you,” you said, voice cracking slightly. “The only reason I said I’d marry Emmett is because Tyler and Mike are the other two options. And I definitely wasn’t going to marry them.”

He ran a hand through his honey-blond hair, exasperation evident. “Still. Hearing you talk about Emmett like that…it wasn’t pleasant.”

“I’m sorry, but in the game, someone had to be Marry. And I—”

A loud creak announced a third party: Emmett barged in, wearing the dopiest grin. “Hey, fiancé!” he crowed, waggling his eyebrows.

Jasper’s eyes narrowed dangerously. “Emmett, I’m really not in the mood.”

Emmett tossed his hands up. “Okay, big guy, cool it. I just wanted to see if the wedding was still on or if I should start ripping up the invitations.”

You blushed furiously. “Emmett, get out!”

He laughed but obeyed, tossing a mock salute as he backed out, calling down the hallway, “Hey, Rosalie, we’re canceled… I mean, no, I’m not actually…It was a joke—don’t give me that look!”

When Emmett finally left, the door clicked shut, leaving you and Jasper alone again. You watched him quietly for a moment, noticing how his shoulders slumped with residual tension. “I’m sorry,” you repeated, stepping closer. “You mean everything to me—this game was Jessica’s silly idea, and I just got roped in. I swear, I never would’ve said it if I knew it’d hurt you.”

His jaw worked, and you could see he was trying to contain the waves of jealousy. You placed a tentative hand on his arm.

“I chose Emmett mostly for comedic effect, okay? Mike is…Mike, and I have history with Tyler. If I’d said I’d marry him, I’d be sleeping with one eye open. Emmett was the lesser evil.”

A flicker of amusement ghosted across his face—very brief. “So, you really don’t wish you had a ring from Emmett?”

You nearly laughed. “God, no. I’m sure Rosalie would kill me if I tried. And I only want your ring, anyway.”

He exhaled, some of the tension leaving his posture. Carefully, you slid your arms around his waist, feeling his cool body against yours. “You’re the one I want,” you insisted. “Always. Soon, we’ll be bonded forever—vampire to vampire. That’s bigger than a wedding.”

His eyes softened, and you could tell he was tuning into your sincerity—possibly even reading the waves of guilt and affection roiling off you. “I’m sorry I overreacted,” he said quietly, pressing his forehead to yours. “I just…don’t like the idea of sharing you.”

The door swung open again, this time revealing Alice, Bella, and Edward peeking inside—like a cluster of meddling siblings. “Are we good here?” Alice asked, twirling a piece of confetti between her fingers. “Because the party’s over, and I’m thinking of scheduling a no-more-dumb-games vow for the next birthday.”

Bella attempted a sympathetic smile. “We tried telling Jessica that it might not be the best idea.”

“Also, Emmett’s writing up a wedding registry,” Edward piped in, wry amusement in his tone. “You might want to stop him before he goes too far.”

Jasper let out a disgruntled sigh, rising from his seat. “I’ll put a stop to that.” You followed him out, hand in hand. The tension of the evening lingered in the air, but the weight was lifting, replaced by relief and some lingering embarrassment.

Back in the foyer, Emmett was dramatically dictating a registry list to Rosalie, who stared at him like he’d lost his mind. “Definitely want a waffle iron, and maybe a lifetime supply of hair gel for the big day—”

Jasper cleared his throat, and Emmett turned to see the two of you standing there. “Aww, the happy couple!” he teased, pressing his hands together.

“Emmett, enough,” Jasper hissed, though you could see the glint of amusement in his eyes.

Rosalie rolled her eyes and swatted Emmett with a leftover balloon. “You’re impossible.”

You let out a chuckle and caught Jasper’s eye. The corners of his lips lifted in a soft smile—an olive branch of sorts.

Alice, never one to miss a cue, fluttered over. “Now that the crisis is averted, how about we officially call it a night? There’s more cake on the table if you want it, but I doubt you do,” she teased, knowing full well none of the Cullens would partake.

“I might,” you joked. “Still human, remember?”

Jasper slid an arm around your waist, leaning down to press a cool kiss to your temple. “You might be human now,” he whispered, “but soon enough, we’ll have our forever.”

You smiled, heart full and light. “I wouldn’t want it any other way.”

[cece693]

I was wondering would you write for any of the characters from the Final Destination series ?

Hello There!

Sorry for taking sooo long to answer, but I haven't watched the movies or know the characters. However, if you would like me to write something about a character, you will have to give some background info in your ask and perhaps it shall be published :)

[cece693]

Hello, I'm so sorry to bother you 🥀, first I want to say that I really like your writing 🥰. I want to know if you write for Matt Murdock or any other of Charlie Cox characters.

Hello There!

I don't know much about the character you're referring to but Google is open and I'm willing to write for him. That is if you can overlook mistakes regarding plot lines, the characters/supporting characters and overall grammar.

[cece693]

MISCELLANEOUS!

The Joker

Male Reader

Painted Devotion and Painted Devotion Pt. 2 Summary: You and the Joker were nemesis. However, it seemed even the clown is privy to mood swings, especially when his tactics don't garner your attention.

JJ Maybank

Male Reader

Surfer Boy Summary: You and JJ were complete opposites. Where he was loud and playful, you were reserved and timid. However, that's what works for you. Especially when it comes down to sex.

Alec Lightwood

Male Reader

She Doesn't Know Summary: You and Alec were in a secret relationship—he wasn't ready to be out there and you accepted it. But when he sees people ogling with boyfriend, and then Clary enters the picture, Alec grows jealous.

[cece693]

Surfer Boy (SMUT)

pairing: jj maybank x male reader tags: not that well versed in the show, everyone's over the age of 18, adult content, attempted smut from writer, used google to research some of the show, someone requested this character but I lost the request, sorry :(

The golden sun dipped below the horizon, its dying rays streaking the Outer Banks in muted pinks and oranges. You were perched on the worn wooden steps of The Chateau, heart drumming in your chest. You’d never quite believed you’d get to be close to someone like JJ Maybank—reckless, wild, with the sort of grin that could upend your entire day. Yet, here you were, waiting for him to finish checking the surfboards inside.

You could hear JJ’s laughter coming from the shed, followed by the clatter of a board being put away. You inhaled slowly, hands trembling with anticipation and a bit of nerves. You were naturally shy, always second-guessing yourself—especially when you’re with JJ. Despite your reserved nature, you loved making sure he felt cared for. Something about how he unleashed that mischievous spark from your quiet soul...it made you want to give him the world.

Moments later, JJ emerged. He was still in boardshorts, hair an artful mess from the day’s surf, a smirk lingering on his lips. With that roguish tilt to his head, he gave you a look that never failed to make your stomach flip.

“Thanks for waiting on me, big guy,” JJ teased, tapping a finger against your knee before settling down onto the step beside you.

You shrugged, a smile quirking your lips. “I wouldn’t leave you behind.”

He leaned closer, his shoulder brushing yours. “You’re sweet,” he murmured, letting his gaze skip over your face. “You don’t have to be so nervous all the time, you know. We’re past that.”

JJ’s gentle coaxing warmed you from within. A few months into this relationship, and you were still amazed that the two of you fit together. On the surface, you seemed like polar opposites: you, the shy, caring type; him, bold, larger than life. But behind closed doors, your dynamic shifted in intriguing ways—JJ, so confident in every other area, found a certain satisfaction in letting you take control when it mattered most.

“Let’s head inside,” you offered softly, your voice nearly lost in the hush of the evening.

He only needed to see the flicker in your eyes to know exactly what you were proposing. Fingers curling around yours, he stood up and guided you in, your heart thudding against your ribcage with every step. The interior of The Chateau was dimly lit by the small lamp in the corner, shadows dancing in the cozy space.

In the calm, with the door closed behind you, the air changed. Electricity buzzed between you and JJ—an unspoken understanding you’d cultivated over stolen nights and whispered confessions. You took a seat on the edge of the couch, patting the cushion next to you. JJ obliged without question, straddling your thighs and placing his hands on your shoulders. His usual cocksure smile softened into something affectionate. “I like it when you get this look in your eye,” he whispered, “like you’re finally gonna show me who’s boss.”

That made you laugh quietly, cheeks flushing. Even though you were shy outside, in intimate moments you had a way of flipping the script—lips brushing just below JJ’s ear, hands guiding him with gentle firmness. You stroked your fingers through his sun-kissed hair, heart hammering at how easily he melted under your touch.

He sighed, a needy sound from somewhere deep in his chest, and pressed his body closer to yours. “C’mon,” JJ breathed, “I need you.”

You swallowed, a thrill running through you. “I’ve got you,” you answered, voice surprisingly steady.

You let your hand slide over JJ’s back, fingers lingering along each line of muscle. Despite your natural shyness, you felt a surge of confidence blossoming whenever you saw how responsive he was—how his breath caught, how he tilted his head back in pleasure.

Your lips met in a patient, exploring kiss. You pressed closer, savoring the warmth of his skin. JJ parted his lips for you, a soft moan slipping free. His fingers curled in your shirt, tugging it up until your abdomen was exposed to the cool air. His eagerness made your chest tighten with fondness, but before you could even express this, it seemed JJ was tired of the softness. Deepening the kiss, his fingers trailed down to the waistband of your pants, deftly undoing them until you felt the cool air against your skin. Before you even had time to protest, JJ had your length in hand, and a delighted gleam lit his gaze.

“Let me,” he whispered, sliding gracefully to his knees.

His mouth brushed your tip, breath ghosting over your skin. You bit back a groan at the soft, slick warmth that followed—JJ’s lips enveloped you in a wave of heat that made your knees threaten to buckle. “J-JJ,” you managed, voice cracking. Your hips wanted to desperately push further into that warmth, but you held back, arms gripping the seat for some semblance of control. But it was JJ who made the decision for you. Reaching up, he grasped your wrists, eyes lighten with devilish command: Don’t hold back. He guided your hands into his blond hair, urging you to grip.

A faint hiss of breath escaped him, almost a moan, as he moved again, taking you deeper into his mouth, tongue swirling with focused purpose. The pleasure made your head spin, and you tried not to tug at his hair too forcefully. But each time you tried to ease up, JJ pressed you tighter against him, an unmistakable insistence that he wanted—needed—the pressure. The sight of him there, pupils dilated, cheeks flushed, threatened to send you over the edge too quickly.

After several dizzying moments, you gently eased him back, breathing hard. He looked up at you, lips glistening, an unapologetic hunger in his eyes. “Too much?” he teased, voice husky.

You shook your head. “No—just…I don’t want to finish before we—”

“Good,” he murmured, standing up and drawing you into another heated kiss. “Because I want you inside me.” There was a fierce undercurrent in his plea—he wasn’t shy about his desire. He turned, tugging you toward the bed, and you followed, heart in your throat.

The instant you both reached the bed, JJ wasted no time. With surprising strength, he hurled you onto the mattress, a desperate gleam in his eyes. The world spun for a moment, but then he was over you, quickly discarding any remaining clothes in his way. His impatience was almost electric in the air; you could feel the tension in every touch.

“Need this,” he breathed, voice rough with want, as he straddled your hips. You tried to steady him, hands coming to grip his hips but he pinned them to the bed. With hooded eyes, you watched as he sunk down onto your length, no preparation nor lube. Both of you let out a sound that was half-gasp, half-moan. JJ’s head tipped back, blond hair falling across his forehead as he took you in deeper. A rush of heat flooded your chest at the sight—he looked utterly consumed, lips parted in ecstasy.

He rocked his hips, finding a rhythm that was more insistent than you’d anticipated. Each roll of his body sent sparks of pleasure skittering down your spine, and your breath caught in your throat. “Faster,” he panted, eyes squeezing shut, a wild urgency threading through every syllable. You could see the flush staining his cheeks, the way his chest rose and fell with each ragged breath.

You tried to offer some gentle guidance—he was moving so fast you worried he might hurt himself—but he shook his head, a determined gleam in his eyes. “I’m good,” he managed, voice trembling with pleasure. “I want it like this.”

His hands found yours again, this time threading your fingers together for balance. The heat of his grip spurred you on, and you finally surrendered to the fervor in his every movement. Each powerful thrust of his hips drew matching gasps and quiet moans from your throat. As he leaned forward, you pressed a hand to his lower back, steadying him while he chased his pleasure. You could feel the tension coiling in his muscles, the slight shudder in his thighs whenever you hit just the right spot. The sounds he made—those breathy whimpers, the ragged moans—told you he was close to unraveling.

His body arched with a sudden snap of motion, head thrown back, eyes nearly rolling shut in ecstasy. “Oh—” he gasped, voice cracking as he lost himself in that powerful rush. The sight of him at the mercy of the sensations he’d demanded brought you close to the edge too, and within moments, you followed, waves of pleasure stealing your breath away.

You stayed like that, chests heaving in tandem, lost to the world. Eventually, JJ slumped forward, forehead resting against yours. The haziness of pleasure still clung to both of you like a heavy fog. When your vision finally cleared, you could see the flushed grin curving at his lips. “I told you,” he murmured, voice still raw, “I wanted it fast.”

You smoothed a hand over his hair, which was slightly damp from exertion. “You did,” you admitted softly, heart still pounding. “Did I hurt you?”

JJ shook his head, capturing your chin with gentle fingers. “Not even close,” he said, pressing a quick, tender kiss to your lips. Then he straightened and added, a mischievous spark returning to his gaze, “Next time, though don’t make me work so hard for it.”

A breathless chuckle escaped you as you curled an arm around his waist, drawing him down to rest against your chest. You could feel the rapid beat of his heart, the shared sense of fulfillment that warmed your entire body. When your breathing finally steadied, you brushed a stray strand of blond hair from his eyes. He grinned, nuzzling closer.

[cece693]

Painted Devotion

pairing: the joker x male reader tags: male reader is a hero, joker is infatuated with you, no joker used in mind, the thought is there

The moment the SWAT team hauls him away, you think this is finally over—until you hear that cackling laugh echo through the paddy wagon window.

A few days pass. You immerse yourself in your usual hero duties—cleaning up small-time heists, taking down petty thugs. But it doesn’t escape your notice that you almost miss the Joker’s particular brand of chaos. There was something in his eyes that day, a wild, obsessive affection that went beyond the typical villain-hero dynamic.

You’re patrolling a dingy back alley near the Bowery when it happens again. A security guard from the Gotham Museum of Contemporary Art is doubled over, reeling from a sudden gas attack. The faint green haze around him makes your stomach churn; you’d know that Joker toxin anywhere. Instantly, your heart pounds. He’s out. He’s free. Or worse—this is part of his elaborate scheme to bait you again.

You slip into the museum through a shattered stained-glass window. The corridors are dim, silent except for your footsteps. Then you see it: a large neon sign mounted on the marble statue of the museum’s founder. The sign reads: “You hardly come to see me. So I brought my exhibit to YOU!” in swirling, chaotic letters. Around the base of the statue are clown-faced mannequins, each posing with various “Joker merchandise”—fake bombs, painted roses, over-sized playing cards.

A voice croons from above: “Hero? Heeeero, come out, come out, wherever you are…”

The Joker drops down from a second-floor balcony, landing with a theatrical flourish. He’s practically bouncing on his toes, as though he’s been waiting for this moment all night.

“Oh, I knew you’d show,” he says, a desperate glee flickering across his painted face. “After all, you always do. But you sure are taking your sweet time.” He adjusts his lapels, letting out a comically offended huff.

You glance around, searching for hostages or bombs. But surprisingly, you see none. Just the Joker, grinning from ear to ear, his eyes crinkled in a mix of frustration and delight.

He points a gloved finger at you, wagging it like a scolding parent. “I heard you had a run-in with…oh, what’s-his-name…Candlefly? Firefly? Some lesser insect who tried to torch a warehouse? He barely even had to set a building ablaze, and poof, you came running! Meanwhile, your dear Joker?” He clutches his heart, feigning heartbreak. “I have to pull the entire Gotham Philharmonic into a fish tank, or blow up half the Arkham library just to get you to glance my way!”

Stepping closer, you notice he’s trembling, excitement layered with genuine distress. It’s disturbing how you can practically feel his longing crackling in the air.

“Haven’t you been getting my letters?” he whines. “I’ve poured out my heart on stationery that cost a fortune! And that last ‘little gift’… you didn’t even thank me.” He pouts, lip jutting out like a petulant child. “Don’t you know how to accept a token of affection, or do I need to teach you some manners?”

Your brows furrow, keeping your guard up. “This isn’t how you show affe—”

He cuts you off with a playful stomp, then does an overdramatic twirl. “Oh, don’t you lecture me on love, hero! I try so hard. You ignore me, but you still find time for these losers instead of your dear Joker!” He narrows his eyes, voice wavering between mania and heartbreak. “It’s humiliating, you know.”

Despite the dangerous situation, you feel a twinge of pity. His feelings—warped though they are—seem undeniably genuine.

You stand your ground, trying to quell the swirl of sympathy. “Joker, people are getting hurt because of these stunts. Whatever…feelings you have, it doesn’t justify—”

“Feelings?” His manic grin twists into a desperate smile. “Oh, I have more than feelings, dear. I’m infatuated. Smitten. I want to see that lovely expression of shock on your face whenever I pop into your life. Isn’t that romantic?” He sighs dreamily, then cocks his head. “Don’t you like being wanted?”

Your jaw tightens. You can’t let him get under your skin. Instead, you try to see if he’s rigged the museum with explosives; it’d be typical Joker. You subtly shift your gaze, looking for signs.

He notices immediately. “Looking for bombs, are we?” he snickers. “No bombs this time. No guns. Just me.” A faltering grin paints his face. “I wanted to talk. Really talk. Because if I have to blow up another building to get your attention, well…” He shrugs, glancing away with an exaggerated wave of his hand. “I will, but I’d prefer not to. I want you all to myself, without those distractions.”

He slinks forward until there’s scarcely a foot between you. His gloved hand stretches out, almost daring to brush your chest.

“Is it really so hard to drop by Arkham for a chat? Maybe we could schedule a…date.” He laughs, though there’s desperation woven into his tone. “But no, you’re too busy chasing every nobody in Gotham. I suppose I’m just…unremarkable to you.”

He pouts again—really hamming it up—his voice taking on a whiny edge. “You don’t love me. You only show up out of obligation. It’s not fair.” You swallow hard. The tension is suffocating, a bizarre blend of comedic theatrics and real heartbreak. You have no illusions about his capacity for violence, but that undercurrent of raw longing is shaking your resolve.

“You can’t keep doing this,” you finally manage. “People are scared, Joker. They’re terrified. And you’re not giving me a choice but to respond.”

He giggles, shoulders bouncing. “Precisely! That’s the point, my dashing do-gooder! If the only way to see that handsome face of yours is to threaten the entire city, then so be it. I’ll do whatever it takes, because I— I— oh, you’ll laugh at me if I say it.”

He claps a hand over his face, peeking at you through splayed fingers. The sight would be comical if it weren’t so chilling. You stand there, arms tense at your sides, waiting for the next shoe to drop.

A moment later, he sighs heavily, dropping his hand. “But I have to say it: I love you, you stubborn, noble idiot! There! Now it’s out, for heaven’s sake. Laugh, scream, do what you want.” He throws his arms up, voice cracking with frustration. “But don’t you dare run off to fight some C-lister while I’m locked away again. I won’t stand for it, do you hear me? I won’t stand for it!”

As if on cue, the sirens outside begin wailing, bright red and blue lights swirling through the museum windows. The GCPD. They’ve arrived, no doubt alerted to the disturbance. Joker glances at the lights, then back at you, his expression torn between amusement and disappointment.

He exhales a broken laugh, lifting his hands in a theatrical surrender. “I guess our rendezvous is over.” He twists around, letting the cops see him, raising his arms as they enter. But even as the officers draw near, weapons trained, his attention remains locked on you.

Your mind spins with everything unsaid, everything you never dreamed you’d hear from the Clown Prince of Crime. He meets your gaze once more, a faint scowl on his lips.

“Next time,” he murmurs, “maybe you’ll come of your own accord.” He tilts his head, his voice turning whiny again. “Because I’m so sick of having to go through all. This. Trouble.”

The cops close in, cuffing his outstretched hands. Joker doesn’t protest; he simply grins—a delirious mixture of sadness and triumph. As they pull him away, he lets out a manic giggle, calling over his shoulder:

“I’ll be waiting, my sweet hero. I’ll keep sending gifts— and next time, you won’t ignore me, will you?”

The museum falls silent, the Joker’s cackle fading into the background as he’s led outside. Part of you is relieved it’s over. Another part knows it won’t ever truly be over—because for the Joker, you’re not just a heroic rival. You’re an obsession, a twisted muse, the one he can’t bear to be without… even if he has to destroy Gotham to make you come running.

[cece693]

could you do a percy jackson x child of dionysus reader? either fem or gn?

The Vine and The Sea

pairing: percy jackson x gender neutral reader tags: child of dionysus, your the comedic relief in most situations, percy sees beyond that though, simple concept but really cute

The first time Percy Jackson noticed you, it wasn’t because you were causing chaos—though, as a child of Dionysus, that was often your specialty. It was because you were sitting on the steps of the Big House, twirling a grapevine lazily around your finger while everyone else was busy preparing for the next game of Capture the Flag.

Percy, never one to shy away from meeting new people, approached you with that signature crooked smile. “Not into bloodshed?” he teased, nodding toward the distant sounds of swords clashing in the training arena.

You looked up at him, your expression unreadable. “Oh, I’m all for a little drama,” you replied, a mischievous glint in your eye. “I just prefer mine with less bruising and more theatrics.”

Percy chuckled, plopping down beside you. “I’m Percy. You new here?”

“Y/N,” you introduced yourself. “Yeah, just got here. They weren’t too thrilled when I turned the strawberry fields into a wine vineyard, though.”

Percy blinked, unsure if you were joking. “Uh, yeah, Mr. D probably didn’t like that.”

You smirked. “Surprisingly, he didn’t mind. I think he respects the creativity. The strawberries are fine, by the way. I’m not a monster.”

Percy found himself laughing again, drawn to your sharp wit and the way you seemed to carry yourself like the world was one big stage. Over the next few days, he noticed you more and more. You had a knack for turning even the most mundane moments into something theatrical, your Dionysian flair manifesting in spontaneous bursts of laughter, color, and music.

But what really caught Percy’s attention was your ability to calm even the tensest situations. One afternoon, when Clarisse was on the verge of throttling a camper over a sparring match, you stepped in with a simple snap of your fingers. Suddenly, the air filled with the intoxicating scent of wine, and the vines creeping along the fence began to blossom. The tension dissolved into laughter as Clarisse and the camper found themselves wrapped in vines, unable to move without giggling.

“You’ve got a gift,” Percy told you later, as you both sat by the campfire.

“More like a curse,” you replied, your tone softening. “People expect me to be the life of the party, the one who fixes everything with a little magic. But it’s not always that easy.”

Percy frowned, his sea-green eyes meeting yours. “You don’t have to be what everyone expects. Trust me, I get it. Being the son of Poseidon isn’t all it’s cracked up to be, either.”

You smiled at him, a genuine warmth breaking through your usual mask of sarcasm. “Thanks, Percy. I guess we’re both trying to figure it out, huh?”

Over time, your bond with Percy deepened. He admired the way you could make him laugh, even on the darkest days, and you appreciated the way he saw through your Dionysian theatrics to the person underneath. You joined him on quests, your powers proving invaluable when diplomacy was needed more than brute force—or when monsters needed to be distracted by a particularly theatrical illusion of a Bacchanalia.

One night, as you sat together by the shoreline, the moonlight dancing on the waves, Percy turned to you, his expression unusually serious. “You know,” he said, “for someone who says they hate being the center of attention, you’ve definitely become the center of mine.”

You raised an eyebrow, your heart skipping a beat. “Is that your way of saying you like me, Seaweed Brain?”

He blushed, scratching the back of his neck. “Yeah, I guess it is.”

You leaned closer, the scent of salt and sea mixing with the faint aroma of grapes that always seemed to cling to you. “Good,” you whispered. “Because I like you too.”

The kiss you shared was soft and fleeting, but it was enough to cement what had been growing between you for weeks. Together, you were a force to be reckoned with—the sea and the vine, chaos and calm, perfectly intertwined.

[cece693]

Bound By Appetite (SMUT)

pairing: hannibal lecter x male reader tags: hannibal cheats on alana, but is it really when they're just fuck buddies, male reader is alana's brother, will is just a victim, adult content, smut, blowjob

Hannibal Lecter knew how to mask his desires beneath a composed exterior, but a singular glance from you always threatened to fracture that control. It was something in the way you carried yourself—taller than your sister Alana, more assured, your demeanor tinged with just the right amount of mystery to intrigue him. He had slept with Alana because it offered him a respectable facade if the FBI ever got close enough to discover his more deviant acts, but when his eyes met yours during a visit you made to your sister, he was hooked. Your presence, your voice, your insight kindled in him what Alana never had nor could dare to. You were the one he truly wanted.

That much became undeniably clear the first time Hannibal had managed to seduce you. It wasn't in his nature to relinquish control, but when his back hit the mattress and your lips explored every inch of his skin, it ignited a new hunger in him, beyond even his taste for the forbidden. It took some convincing on his part to make you see that night as something other than a mistake, and more so to establish that connection he'd been gone without for decades. Hannibal would keep you locked in his basement if you dared to reject him, but it seemed you had felt similarly.

In the hush of his home, Hannibal’s outward civility peeled back to reveal an ardent, almost predatory fixation. He viewed your body as a rare delicacy, your mind as a labyrinth he longed to explore, and your presence as an irreplaceable treasure in his otherwise carefully curated life.

It was on one of these nights—after a sumptuous meal in Hannibal’s dining room—that the tenuous calm between you and him was disturbed. The main course had been “lamb,” though you suspected (as always) that the truth might be more monstrous. You decided not to ask. The taste was exquisite, your mood as buoyant as the rich red wine swirling in your glass.

Hannibal’s gaze remained locked upon you, dark eyes alight with a contained hunger. You had already promised you would stay the night. If there was any question left about your fidelity, his intent to keep you there until dawn was clear in every subtle shift of his posture.

But a shrill tone from your phone shattered the quiet. You winced, reaching into your jacket pocket and letting out a soft apology when you caught sight of the caller ID—Will Graham. In any other situation, you might have allowed the call to ring through to voicemail, but recent events complicated matters: you and Will had begun dancing around one another, testing the waters of a more traditional relationship. You had shared a few lingering kisses. Perhaps you were curious about what normalcy would feel like, away from Hannibal’s forbidding shadow.

Hannibal’s smile thinned. Though he set aside his utensils with a flourish of politeness, you knew he loathed this interruption. You offered Hannibal a guilty look as you answered. “Hey, Will,” you said, keeping your voice even.

Will’s tone was tentative, yet warm. “I finally got you. I was worried I caught you at a bad time.”

“No, I’m just…finishing dinner,” you replied carefully.

Across from you, Hannibal leaned back in his seat, posture so calm it seemed eerie. His eyes never left you. A spark of jealousy flickered behind those carefully constructed walls of composure. It simmered deeper when Will ventured to ask if you’d like to meet tomorrow morning for a coffee at his home. You swallowed, feeling heat crawl up your neck. Hannibal said nothing, but you could sense the tension creeping into every elegant line of his body. He despises anyone vying for your attention.

“Will, I’m…I’m kind of occupied right now,” you told him, your heart jumping when Hannibal rose smoothly, circling the table to stand behind your chair.

Will persisted. “Well, I really want to see you again." He sounded hopeful. "If you don't want coffee, perhaps just a simple breakfast—" Your breath caught as Hannibal’s fingertips settled on your shoulders. Then, with disconcerting grace, he nudged your chair back just enough to create space. The scrape of the chair legs against the floor made you tense. You knew precisely what he was planning—some not-so-subtle reminder that you belonged to him.

“Will, can we discuss this another time?” you managed, your voice faltering when Hannibal’s arms slid around your waist.

Will paused, clearly sensing your unease. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

“I’m fine,” you lied, your heart pounding. “Tomorrow, yeah?”

Hannibal bent closer, his breath ghosting across the back of your neck. He spoke so quietly only you could hear: “Don’t you think Will should know his place?”

A tremor laced your spine, but you didn’t have time to respond before he slipped to his knees. Your grip tightened around the phone as Hannibal’s deft fingers worked open your belt, your zipper. He pressed the palm of his hand below your navel, urging you to shift. You could almost taste the possessive fury emanating off him—your interest in Will fueling a sort of primal jealousy he refused to mask.

“Hannibal—” you murmured under your breath, a futile protest.

He did not answer except by freeing you from the confines of your trousers, his motions precise and unhurried. The notion that you might remain completely composed on the phone with Will while Hannibal did this to you was inconceivable. But that was precisely what Hannibal intended: to watch you falter, to watch you realize that no mundane connection with Will Graham could overshadow the stark intensity he offered.

“Hey,” Will’s voice came again, “is something happening? You sound—”

Hannibal wrapped his mouth around you in a single fluid motion, and your entire body jolted. The phone nearly slipped from your hand. Waves of pleasure undercut your ability to form coherent words. You tried—and failed—to swallow a gasp. Your hand shot out to brace against the table’s edge while the other clutched the phone. “Will, I—I’m here,” you choked out, your voice embarrassingly breathy. “Just… finishing dinner.”

Hannibal’s tongue worked agonizing patterns that obliterated any chance of calm. He was deliberate—this was not a gentle act, but a show of domination woven into the pleasure. A low hum vibrated through his throat, intensifying each burst of sensation, each quiet moan you tried so hard to stifle. "Okay." Will sounded uncertain, but you didn't care, especially when you tried to not moan at the sinful image Hannibal currently created. "So, tomorrow? Or do you have something already planned?"

In a moment of pity or sadism, Hannibal eased the speed of his ministrations, letting you draw a rattling breath. He slid his hands up your sides, anchoring your hips in place so you couldn’t pull away if you tried. "Yes, tomorrow sounds perfect—" A sharp inhale caught your words when Hannibal resumed his torturous, calculated pace. “But I really have to go now. Take care." Hannibal’s satisfied murmur around you sent pleasure zinging straight up your spine. He wanted Will to hear the quiver in your voice, wanted you to know exactly who commanded your desire.

“Okay,” Will answered, perplexed. “Goodnight, see you soon.”

The line went dead, and you let the phone drop onto the table with a clatter. Freed from pretense, your head fell back against the chair, a ragged moan escaping your throat. Hannibal, no longer constrained by the presence of a third party on the line, began to move in earnest. He swallowed around you, sucking, swirling his tongue, each motion of his mouth orchestrated with merciless elegance.

Your mind hazed, every nerve lit up by the sensation. You tried to swallow the cries building in your throat, but Hannibal was relentless. This was how he expressed the depth of his jealousy, by consuming you quite literally. Possessiveness roiled beneath each caress, as though he might devour you rather than allow you to belong to anyone else.

You felt the telltale curl of heat in your abdomen, your muscles tensing, thighs trembling. Hannibal read you like a well-worn script. He tightened his hold, swallowing you deeper, coaxing you into the precipice of release. With a strangled groan, you surrendered, your body snapping taut as pleasure raked through you.

Hannibal took it all, his eyes sliding shut as he savored every moment. Only when you finally slumped back, chest heaving, did he relinquish you. He stood with his usual, unhurried poise, dabbing at the corner of his mouth with the pad of his thumb.

His dark gaze met yours—smug, perhaps, but also blazing with an undercurrent of satisfaction. You caught your breath, warmth still buzzing in your limbs. When he leaned down, you instinctively closed the distance, pressing a hard, heated kiss to his lips. The taste of yourself lingered on him, fueling your own swirl of possessive desire.

When you pulled back, Hannibal’s mouth quirked in a small, dangerous smile. He brushed his thumb over your lower lip. “You agreed to meet Will tomorrow. Perhaps something will get in the way and ruin your plans."

You said nothing, merely tightened your hold on his arm. In that searing moment, as Hannibal stared down at you with an air of unspoken triumph, any notion of a normal, innocent future with Will Graham felt like a distant dream. You might have dipped your toe in that possibility—but Hannibal’s ravenous gravity always pulled you back under.

You had already promised to spend the night—and you suspected Hannibal would ensure you stayed until dawn and beyond. The phone lay dormant on the table, Will’s name still glowing in your call history. For now, it was an afterthought. Caught in Hannibal’s thrall, you couldn’t think of anywhere else you’d rather be—or perhaps you no longer had a choice.

[cece693]

Affectionate

pairing: bucky barnes x male reader tags: bucky being treated like a normal being, male reader is very affectionate, kinda like tony, flirting like lil puppies

“Barnes, my sweet metal-armed dumpling, you’ve got bedhead.”

You say it with a chuckle as you effortlessly drape an arm around Bucky’s broad shoulders, and for a moment, the entire room goes silent. Natasha’s trained eyes narrow from across the conference table, ready to spring into action. Tony’s eyebrows shoot up behind his tinted glasses, and Steve actually tenses, fists tightening like he’s expecting Bucky to toss you across the room at any second. All around, the team braces themselves, anticipating a meltdown—a flashback—anything resembling the Winter Soldier they still fear might be lingering inside the man you have so casually slung your arm over.

In the resulting quiet, Bucky’s expression flickers, and for a heartbeat, you wonder if the Avengers might be right. His jaw flexes, and his fingers curl slightly before unclenching.

Then he lets out a small huff of a laugh, the corners of his lips lifting, and you feel his posture relax against your side. “Seriously, you’re making a scene,” he murmurs, quieter than usual. But there’s absolutely no bite behind his voice, no threat—just the husky edge that always manages to send a pleasant shiver through you. “Knock it off,” he adds, though there’s a ghost of a smile there.

Knock it off? Absolutely not. The man is gorgeous—dark hair still damp from a shower, the mechanical arm catching the overhead lights, his face etched with haunted lines that only make him look even more rugged and unfairly attractive. How can you possibly resist? You’re only human (albeit an Avenger-human with a penchant for tackling alien invasions and Hydra remnants). But still, you have eyes.

You just grin, giving his shoulder a quick squeeze before loosening your hold. “Aww, Barnes, you know you’d miss it if I did.”

Bucky grumbles something in reply, but there’s a lightness there, an ease he didn’t carry before. The rest of the team, however, remains on full alert—like big cats itching to pounce. Steve in particular looks about two seconds away from physically peeling you off of Bucky. Even Clint, who was half-dozing in the corner, sits up, eyes keen.

“Cap,” Clint warns softly, nodding toward where your hand is still lingering near Bucky’s nape, fingertips idly tracing the spot where flesh meets vibranium plating.

Steve clears his throat. “Everything okay there, Buck?”

Everyone seems to hold their breath again, and you can practically see the tension in the air. Poor Bruce is looking uncertain, Wanda is biting her lip, and Sam’s eyebrows are drawn together in concern. They’re so worried that Bucky’s going to have an episode, or get triggered, or that he’s going to accidentally crush your bones with that metal fist if you keep…well, doing what you’re doing.

And if this were two years ago, maybe they’d be right. If this were weeks after his deprogramming, back when he couldn’t even look into a mirror without disassociating, Bucky might’ve pushed you across the room with lethal force. Or at the very least, wrenched free of your hold, stiff and wary. But they don’t see the subtle signs that you do: the tension in Bucky’s shoulders is not the tension of danger, but of mild embarrassment. He looks shy, maybe even flustered. He’s definitely not displeased. And if anything, you know he’s grateful you treat him like a normal person, not a ticking time bomb with horrifying memories.

He shrugs off Steve’s concern with a tight-lipped smirk. “I’m fine,” he says. “I’m not made of glass.”

Or vibranium, you add silently with another playful grin. You resist the urge to poke at his arm, but your fingers twitch at the thought. Next time, you promise yourself.

Tony slides a diagnostic tablet across the table as if presenting evidence. “Look, I’m all for affection, but maybe, for the sake of our dear ex-Hydra assassin’s comfort, we keep it PG-13 in the debrief?” He’s half-joking, half-serious, eyebrows shooting up when you lean closer to Bucky again.

You tilt your head at Tony. “I’m not exactly straddling him on the table, Tony. Chill.”

“Just you watch,” Sam mutters under his breath, arms folded across his chest, likely recalling a previous incident in which your casual affection got a bit…handsy. Hey, you can’t help it, Bucky’s arms are a national treasure.

From beside you, Bucky sighs. “Seriously, guys, it’s okay. This—” he flicks his eyes at the point where your forearm slides across his back “—it’s nice.” He lowers his gaze, almost bashful, but admits quietly, “Makes me feel like…y’know. Like I’m—”

“A normal dude, living a normal life,” you finish for him, your voice softer. It’s what both of you want, though neither of you outright says so in crowded company.

“Alright,” Tony relents with a theatrical sigh. “I mean, if Barnes is okay with it, I guess we can let it go.”

“Seriously, Tony,” you huff, “I’m not some savage about to devour the man.”

Bucky sends you a cheeky side glance. “Could’ve fooled me,” he grumbles, but his lips twist into an amused smirk.

“Watch it, metal dumpling,” you shoot back fondly, the new (and very ridiculous) nickname making Tony gag in mock horror.

There’s a collective groan and roll of eyes from the team, but underneath that, there’s this subtle wave of contentment. You can feel it in the air—everyone’s settling into this new normal. Sure, Bucky carries a lot of ghosts and trauma, but right now, with your arm around him, he just feels alive. Connected. Like the piece of him that’s still James Barnes is being coaxed to the surface.

And you? Well, you’re just happy to be the one to coax it out of him. Bucky might be Hydra’s ex-assassin, but you can’t help it—he’s also hot as hell, and you’re pretty sure your vision works just fine, thank you very much.

“Alright,” Steve says, clearing his throat again, a slight pink tinge on his cheeks from secondhand embarrassment. “So…mission debrief?”

“Mission debrief,” you echo. Without missing a beat, you re-sling your arm across Bucky’s shoulders, ignoring the universal eye-roll from the rest of the team. Bucky doesn’t shove you away. He doesn’t tense. He just gives your knee a quick pat under the table, and for a single, quiet second in that big conference room, you can swear you feel a little more at home.

And yeah—maybe you’ll have to tone it down for the sake of collective sanity. But then again, the look in Bucky’s eyes says he needs this just as much as you do.

So if anyone’s got a problem with it, well…they can take it up with the ex-Winter Soldier himself—and hope they can handle the glare he’ll give them for standing in the way of his self-proclaimed “annoying but sweet” Avenger.

[cece693]

I Don't Need A Gentleman

pairing: edward cullen x gender neutral reader tags: edward is old fashioned and kinda a prude, the reader is not, reader doesn't want vanilla sex anymore, alice and rosalie are cool sister in laws

You lounge on the massive, cream-colored couch in the Cullens’ living room, scrolling absentmindedly through your phone as Alice and Rosalie flip through a stack of fashion magazines. It’s one of those rare, lazy evenings—no imminent threats, no pressing vampire drama—just the family scattered around the house doing their own thing. Alice bumps your foot with hers. “You’re weirdly quiet today. Seriously, what’s up?”

You look up, tapping the phone against your knee. “It’s kind of about Edward.”

Rosalie arches a perfectly groomed brow. “What did our golden boy do now?”

Your cheeks—if they still could—might blush. “He didn’t really do anything wrong, exactly. It’s just…” You pause, gathering your thoughts. Even though you’ve been married to Edward for a while, it can still be tough to put some things into words. “He’s super considerate, and I adore that about him. But sometimes—okay, a lot of times—I just wish he’d show a little more…passion? Fire?”

Alice makes a sympathetic face, setting her magazine aside. “He can be a bit old-school, yeah. He has that ‘eternally seventeen’ gentleman thing down to a T.”

“Tell me about it,” you huff. “I’m a vampire, too! I mean, I’m not exactly made of glass. But he keeps treating me like I’m this delicate flower that might crumble if the wind blows too hard. I swear, sometimes our kisses feel like little pecks—like he’s worried I’ll spontaneously combust if he lingers longer than three seconds.”

Rosalie leans back, crossing her arms. “Look, Edward’s always been overly cautious. It’s one of his most annoying…okay, fine, endearing qualities. But you can’t blame him for wanting to protect you. He’s basically built that way.”

You sit up straighter, pushing your hair out of your face. “Totally. I get it. I love how he’s protective, and, well, a total gentleman. But I need more of that oomph. Y’know, that feeling where you just can’t keep your hands off each other.”

Alice snorts a laugh. “I never thought I’d hear you say ‘oomph.’ You should definitely say that to Edward’s face. He’d probably blush so hard, if vampires could blush.”

“Yeah, yeah,” you say, rolling your eyes playfully. “But how do I bring it up without hurting his feelings? He’s so sensitive. The moment he thinks he’s made me even slightly uncomfortable, he clams up.”

Rosalie sets the magazine aside with a little thump. “You’re married. He can handle the conversation. Trust me, you should be honest about it. Being in love for, what, decades? That means talking about the hard stuff, or the passionate stuff.” She smirks at that last part.

Alice nods enthusiastically, tucking her legs up beneath her. “The best way is just to be straightforward. Tell him how you feel without making it sound like he’s doing something wrong. Emphasize that you love his old-fashioned side—it’s part of why you married him, right? But also make it crystal clear that you want him to dial up the heat. You’re a vampire, for crying out loud, not some breakable human.”

You exhale, feeling a sense of relief wash over you. “You guys are right. I’m probably overthinking it. I’m worried he’ll take it the wrong way, but I can’t just keep ignoring how frustrated I am.”

“Exactly.” Alice taps your knee again. “He’ll listen, especially if you remind him that you still love all the things that make him Edward. He just needs to hear that you want him to trust your strength, too.”

Rosalie stands, stretching with the fluidity of a cat. “And if that doesn’t work, just throw him up against a wall somewhere. That’ll get the point across.”

Alice gasps in mock horror. “Rosalie Hale! That’s your brother you’re talking about.”

She smirks. “Hey, I’m just saying, sometimes subtlety isn’t the answer.”

You laugh, shaking your head. “Let me try talking first before I start tossing him around.”

Alice and Rosalie share amused glances as you stand, giving a quick wave. “Thanks for the advice, seriously.”

“Anytime,” Alice sings out.

“Go get ’em,” Rosalie adds, winking.

You head up the stairs to find Edward, heart fluttering in that familiar way only he can cause, despite both of you being, well, undead. He’s in his usual spot in the family’s library, flipping through a thick novel—something old and fancy, undoubtedly. The moment he senses you, he glances up with a small smile, eyes full of that unwavering devotion.

“Hey,” you say, crossing the room until you’re close enough to rest a hand on his shoulder. “Got a minute to talk?”

“Of course,” Edward responds softly, setting the book aside. He tilts his head, concern flickering in those golden eyes. “Is everything all right?”

“It is,” you reassure him, settling in beside him on the velvet couch. You can still hear Alice’s and Rosalie’s voices drifting faintly from downstairs, but you focus on Edward. “I just wanted to share something that’s been on my mind, and it’s really important to me.”

He nods earnestly. “You know you can tell me anything.”

Taking a breath, you gently place your hand over his. “So, we’ve been together for a long time. We’re married, and I’m a vampire—just like you, right? But sometimes I feel like you’re handling me with kid gloves. I love your gentlemanly side, and I’d never want you to completely lose that. But I want us to be able to express our love passionately, without you worrying so much that I’ll break.”

Edward’s gaze drops to your entwined hands. “I—I see,” he says quietly. “I never meant to make you feel like you weren’t my equal. It’s just…I can’t shake the habit of worrying you might be hurt or regret something if I let go too much. Even though you’re stronger than any human I once knew, it’s hard to override decades of caution.”

Leaning in, you brush a gentle kiss against his cheek. “I know. And I respect how deeply you care. But hey, my strength is legit.” You grin, flexing half-jokingly. “I promise, I can handle more. And if something’s too much, I’ll tell you.”

Edward’s lips curve into a small smile. “Thank you for being honest with me. I guess I needed a reminder that I’m not the only one in this relationship who has a say—especially when it comes to showing affection.”

Your heart (metaphorically) flutters at the genuine warmth in his voice. “Exactly. I love being with you, and I don’t want you to hold back. We can figure out the balance, you know, do the old-fashioned courting stuff, but also, I don’t know…maybe occasionally break the furniture?”

His eyes widen for half a second in surprise, then he laughs, the sound soft and musical. “I’ll keep that in mind,” he teases, sliding a hand around your waist to pull you closer. This time, when you tilt your head up for a kiss, you feel him lean in just a bit more—a tiny, tangible shift. His lips linger, his cool hand splaying across your back. The moment stretches on until you both draw away, contented smiles on your faces.

“That,” you whisper, thumb brushing against his jaw, “was exactly what I’ve been missing.”

Edward’s eyes shine with affection. “Then I’ll make sure you never miss it again.”

Downstairs, you can practically hear Alice’s “Yes!” whispered under her breath, and you know Rosalie is grinning in that smug way that says, “Told you so.” It makes you laugh softly. But that’s the beauty of this big, unconventional vampire family.

Edward gently presses his forehead against yours. Neither of you needs to breathe, but the moment feels like a breath of fresh air anyway. Old-fashioned or not, he’s all yours—and he’s finally letting you show him that you’re every bit the strong partner he deserves. And judging by the heat in his eyes, this is just the beginning.

[cece693]

HAII I LOVE YOUR PJO FICS SO MUCH!! can i request jason x son of aphrodite thats really pretty ( and popular because of it ) but has severe social anxiety/is scared of talking to people so he just doesnt really interact with anyone ? THANK YOU 💜💜💜💜💜💜

My Safe Place

pairing: jason grace x son of aphrodite tags: fluff, jason is the reader's safe place, keeping it simple and short, fic came out more like a headcannon

Jason Grace had always believed in destiny—a series of fateful encounters woven together by the gods themselves. And meeting you, the son of Aphrodite, felt like the most divine twist of fate he'd ever experienced. You were stunning, a masterpiece carved by the hands of the goddess of love herself. Your golden hair caught the sunlight like threads of silk, and your eyes, a swirling blend of emerald and seafoam, seemed to hold the secrets of the universe. But what captivated Jason most wasn’t your immense beauty; it was your quiet, unassuming kindness.

You avoided attention like the plague. Social settings made you visibly uneasy, and the few times Jason had seen you among their peers at Camp Half-Blood, you'd clung to the edges of conversations, smiling nervously and rarely speaking unless addressed directly. Most people at camp thought your shyness was some aloof form of vanity, a stereotype that Jason knew couldn’t be further from the truth.

One particular evening, Jason decided to make things easier for his boyfriend. Knowing that you had hit your social limit for the day, Jason arranged for their dinner to be brought to your cabin. When Jason knocked gently on the door, you opened it with a look of surprise and relief. “Jason,” you whispered, voice warm despite your visible exhaustion.

“Hey,” He greeted, holding up the basket of food. “Thought we’d have a quiet dinner here tonight. Just the two of us.”

Your eyes lit up, and you stepped aside to let Jason in. “That sounds perfect. Thank you.”

Jason set the basket on a small table near the window. Your cabin was as cozy as ever, filled with soft blankets, scented candles, and the faint scent of lavender. The two settled on the plush rug in the center of the room, their dinner spread out between them. Jason made sure to keep the conversation light, asking you about your plants and the sketches you'd been working on.

As they ate, your shoulders visibly relaxed. You leaned into Jason, finding comfort in his presence. After dinner, Jason pulled you into his arms, and they moved to the couch, surrounded by the soft glow of the candles. You nestled against Jason’s chest, your head resting just below Jason’s chin.

“You’re always so thoughtful,” You murmured, your voice tinged with gratitude.

Jason pressed a kiss to your hair. “You deserve it. I want you to feel safe and loved. Always.”

“I do. With you, I always do.”

They spent the rest of the evening wrapped in each other’s arms, talking about everything and nothing. Jason told you stories from his time at Camp Jupiter, making you laugh softly. You, in turn, shared quiet confessions of your fears and dreams, trusting Jason in a way you trusted no one else. By the time the candles burned low, you were half-asleep in Jason’s arms, your breathing steady and calm.

[cece693]

Can you make a ftm reader and Micheal Myers where Micheal breaks in and there's a fight but then BOOM smut

Silent Pursuit

pairing: michael myers x gender neutral reader tags: no smut today (apologies), but the lead up is there, michael is his silent and murderous self, can't help that you find him hot, if you want smut then perhaps I can make a part 2

The wind howled through the trees outside your home as you sat in the dim light of your bedroom. Something had been gnawing at you for days, an unshakable feeling of being watched. You weren’t paranoid by nature, but this was different. Every time you stepped outside, you felt the weight of eyes on you. You’d catch fleeting glimpses of movement in the shadows, but whenever you turned to confront it, there was nothing.

Tonight, though, the feeling was worse. It was suffocating. You locked your bedroom door out of instinct, the hairs on the back of your neck standing on end. As you glanced toward the window, the faint outline of a figure—tall and motionless—stood just beyond the glass.

Your blood turned cold.

It was him.

The rumors in town had whispered of a masked killer who left behind only carnage. You’d shrugged it off like everyone else, but now, as those hollow, lifeless eyes bore into yours through the mask, you realized the truth: Michael Myers wasn’t a myth.

You grabbed your phone, hands trembling as you tried to dial for help. But before you could press the call button, a crash echoed through the house. The sound of shattering glass and heavy footsteps reached your ears. He was inside.

Your family—your parents, your younger siblings—were still downstairs. You froze, heart hammering as screams erupted, then were suddenly silenced. The thud of bodies hitting the floor followed, each one like a nail driven into your chest. Tears blurred your vision as you backed away from the door, knowing there was no time to mourn, no time to think. There was only survival.

The footsteps were getting closer.

You unlocked the window, threw it open, and climbed out onto the roof. The cold air bit at your skin, but adrenaline kept you moving. You didn’t look back as you lowered yourself down to the ground, your legs barely catching you before you bolted toward the woods.

The darkness enveloped you, the trees casting twisted shadows under the pale moonlight. You could hear him behind you, each crunch of leaves and snap of twigs louder than the last. He wasn’t running, but he didn’t need to. Michael Myers never rushed; his relentlessness was enough to wear anyone down. You ducked under branches, your breaths ragged as you fought to stay ahead. The thought of your family’s lifeless bodies fueled your panic, your legs burning as you pushed yourself harder.

Suddenly, you tripped over a root and crashed to the ground. Pain shot through your ankle as you scrambled to get up, but he was there, standing just a few feet away. His white mask gleamed in the moonlight, his tilted head studying you like a predator sizing up its prey. “Stay back!” you screamed, your voice cracking as you grabbed a branch and swung it at him. He didn’t even flinch. With one fluid motion, he batted the branch aside and closed the distance between you.

You did the only thing you could think of: you turned and ran again, ignoring the stabbing pain in your ankle. You could feel his presence behind you, an unrelenting force that seemed to grow closer no matter how fast you moved.

A faint light flickered in the distance—a cabin? A campsite? You didn’t care. It was hope, and hope was enough to drive you forward. You burst through the door of the small, decrepit cabin, slamming it shut behind you. Your eyes darted around for anything to use as a weapon or barricade. You found a rusty knife on the counter and gripped it tightly.

The door creaked open.

Michael stood there, his massive frame filling the doorway. The knife in your hand felt like a toy compared to the glinting blade he carried. Your chest heaved as you pointed it at him, your voice trembling. “Stay away from me.” He didn’t stop. Each step forward was deliberate, methodical. You swung the knife, but he caught your wrist with ease, his grip like iron. The blade fell to the floor with a clang.

This was it.

But then, something strange happened. He didn’t strike. He just stared at you, his head tilting once again. You froze, your breath hitching as his grip on your wrist loosened slightly. For a moment, the world was silent except for the pounding of your heart. Why wasn’t he killing you? Did he see something in you? Or was he simply savoring the fear in your eyes? Before you could process it, Michael was on you—his hand moved from your wrist, its calloused surface grazing your skin, before settling firmly on your hip. A shiver ran through you, but not entirely from fear.

Michael’s imposing frame pressed against you, and you could feel the coiled strength beneath his grey suit—muscle honed for destruction now caging you in. His body was solid, unyielding, radiating a heat that contrasted sharply with the chill of the night. You were trapped, and yet, the fear coursing through your veins mingled with something darker, something that made your breath come faster and your heart pound harder.

His hand, still on your hip, tightened slightly, as if asserting dominance. The weight of his presence was suffocating, yet you couldn't look away from him. His mask tilted downward, the cold surface brushing against your skin with an eerie intimacy. The contact was fleeting but deliberate, almost as if he were placing a kiss.

Your chest heaved, your lips parting in a sharp intake of breath as his face hovered close. Those icy blue eyes behind the mask bore into you, void of emotion yet strangely magnetic. There was no malice, no rage—just an unsettling stillness that left you guessing. You couldn’t read him, couldn’t decipher whether this was the prelude to your demise or something far more twisted.

[cece693]

Hihi, may I request a Hannibal x Reader where the Reader has NPD and doesn't form a connection with anyone till he meets Hannibal? A bit self-indulgent, but I reckon Hannibal would be fascinated by the prospect of being 'special' to a narcissist.

My Mirror

pairing: hannibal lecter x male reader tags: no background info used when writing this, sorry in advance, vain male reader, hannibal indulges him, talk about superiority

You’ve never been one for emotional attachments—an understatement, truly. Where others might feel devotion or longing, you observe a mild, clinical detachment. People, with their petty wants and whining needs, amuse you for a time but rarely hold your attention for long. You’ve grown comfortable in the self-contained world of your own superiority.

In clinical terms, you’ve been labeled with narcissistic personality disorder—NPD. The label doesn’t disturb you. In your eyes, the world is simply out of sync with you; it fails to meet the high standards you’ve set. You don’t consider this a “disorder,” exactly. Yet you recognize that it isolates you. No one has ever managed to breach the lofty gates of your interest…until meeting him.

The first time you hear of Dr. Hannibal Lecter, you’re skeptical. Your colleagues and acquaintances speak of him in hushed, reverent tones: a brilliant psychiatrist, a culinary savant, a polymath of refined tastes. You grow used to overhearing their effusive praise, and it only piques a faint curiosity at best. Everyone extols him so highly—could he possibly live up to the hype?

Yet, from the moment Hannibal Lecter opens the door to his lavish Baltimore townhouse, you sense a shift. The warmth of candlelight glints off polished silver in the foyer. The faint aroma of roasting meat teases your senses. But none of these details hold your attention half as much as the man himself. Dark, composed eyes meet yours—eyes that see you in a way no one else has before. You feel an uncanny ripple of fascination, and it snags you before you can slip away behind your usual polite mask of distance.

Throughout the evening, you watch Hannibal with an intensity you typically reserve only for yourself. He tends to his guests with an elegant flourish, every word precisely chosen, every subtle gesture purposeful. It’s all done with a perfection that borders on artistry.

At dinner, you test him—sliding in a barbed remark about the “vapidness” of certain guests, just to see how he’ll react.

Hannibal raises his glass and murmurs, “You see them as uninteresting, do you?” There’s something in his voice, a mild fascination, that instantly pricks your pride in a pleasurable way.

“Don’t you?”

He offers a small, knowing smile. “Their concerns may be pedestrian,” he allows. “Yet, occasionally, there is merit in observing what they fail to perceive.” His gaze flickers to you, lingering. “And how do you find me?”

It’s a straightforward question, one most people would dodge, but you don’t. “Relevant,” you reply smoothly. “Rarely do I meet someone who isn’t painfully predictable.”

You expect a mild scoff, or perhaps a faint show of offense. Instead, Hannibal’s eyes gleam with a genuine spark of intrigue. “How refreshing,” he says, a gentle timbre in his voice that resonates.

As word of your growing closeness spreads among your acquaintances, it ignites a ripple of scandalized curiosity. After all, you’re you: proud, self-assured, never known to settle on anything or anyone that doesn't meet your standards. Many interpret your relationship to be built on purely superficial aspects—perhaps you're just dazzled by Hannibal's wealth (as if you don't have money of your own) or you seek to climb the social ladder (as if you would desire to spend your priceless time entertaining the mindless sheep for longer than necessary.)

They see your vanity, your precise grooming, your tendency to remark on the trivialities of others’ failures. They judge you for it. But what they can’t see is how Hannibal perceives you differently. He recognizes that your so-called “superficiality” is both shield and sword: you offer praise only where it’s truly earned, and you expect nothing less in return. He praises your refined tastes, marvels at your knowledge of art and culture. Far from dismissing your grandeur, he encourages it. In moments stolen away from prying eyes, Hannibal’s soft voice murmurs the subtlest compliments:

“You wear that suit as though it were designed exclusively for you. Magnificent.”

“Your insights on Baroque architecture are enthralling. Not many people appreciate ornamentation like we do.”

No one has ever spoken to you this way, not without an undercurrent of envy or mockery. Yet Hannibal’s praises feel earnest, almost reverential. His acceptance of your worldview—that you are remarkable—bolsters an unfamiliar warmth within you. You, in turn, find his own superiority mesmerizing. This is what it’s like, you think, to be understood.

If others see only the two of you exchanging indulgent remarks about fine wines, then let them. If they think it’s just a coupling of vanity and pretension, so be it. What truly matters is the inexpressible energy that crackles in the space between you—a reflection of two minds that appreciate the rare delight in one another.