#imagination ignited

[enchantingepics]

Story Prompt 1

Once upon a time, in a coastal town where the whispers of the sea echoed through narrow alleys, there lived a couple bound by the ebb and flow of life's uncertainties. It was a picturesque evening when he took her hand, the sandy shore beneath their feet, and the sun setting on the horizon painted a canvas of serenity.

Yet, beneath the beauty of the moment, a storm brewed within her. The waves mirrored the turmoil she felt, questioning the course of her life as she compared herself to the progress of friends and family. In the midst of this internal tempest, he stood by her side, a lighthouse guiding her through the darkness.

Amid seagull calls and the rhythmic lapping of the waves, he reminded her of the overlooked joys and passions that colored her existence. From teaching children about sea creatures to creating chaotic kitchen masterpieces, their shared experiences were the palette that painted their unique love story.

He, her anchor, was the personification of success in her life. While acknowledging the importance of self-love and independence, he brought an extra layer of sweetness to her coffee, making her foundation stronger. As a breeze swept through, she nestled into his side, finding solace in his silent support.

Eventually, their steps led them to a forgotten stone structure, a place that held the echoes of their laughter and the memories of their early days. As they climbed the stairs to the terrace, the world unfolded before them like a breathtaking masterpiece. The sun, a fiery red orb, cast its glow on clouds adorned in hues of gold, while birds danced in the distant sky.

In the midst of this enchanting scene, he dropped to one knee, a glint of anticipation in his eyes. His heartfelt words echoed through the stone walls as he asked her to share a lifetime together. Overwhelmed with emotion, she could only manage a tearful "Yes."

Their embrace marked the beginning of a new chapter, a union born from love's enduring journey. As tears flowed freely, the couple reveled in the warmth of the moment, knowing that the storm within her had finally subsided, making way for a future filled with love, laughter, and shared sunsets. And so, as the sun dipped below the horizon, it signaled not only the end of a day but the start of a lifetime adventure for two souls intertwined by the sea and sealed with a promise of forever.

[shattermelyhfmlblog]

@warneraaronanderson @warnerslove

[littlemissmentallyunstable]

title: fix you

pairing: aaron warner x (first person) reader

synopsis: aaron returns from a meeting with his father, but something is off… (prior to the ignite me tattoo btw)

warnings: mentions of abuse, a bit suggestive at the end ;)

a/n: first aaron warner fic ever… thanks for reading 🤍🤍

tag list: @wish-i-were-heather @midiosaamor @sweetlikeanangel @maybxlle @whatsamongus @elysianwayy77 @bewitchingkisses @emelia07 @inmyheaddd @sweetreveriee @azysmate @anintellectualintellectual @off-to-the-r4ces

I hear someone stumble in and immediately panic seizes my chest. Aaron Warner doesn’t stumble, so logically it must be an intruder. But who the hell would’ve found a way into Aaron’s private quarters? I don’t care, I grab the gun from under the floor board and slowly approach the door. My heart bangs in my chest, crawling its way to my mouth. It’s so dark that I can barely see a thing. I hear a second step taken and I can tell by the way the weight is hitting the floor unevenly that it’s a shaky step. I take my chance and swiftly rush out, gun pointed towards the figure.

“You’re holding that all wrong, love,” says a dry voice.

“Aaron?” I ask, my voice catches in shock. I squint through the darkness in attempts to recognise him.

“Care to explain the gun?” he replies, eyebrows raised at my questionably aimed weapon.

“I thought you were an intruder,” I say, dropping my arms down to my side and playing the gun down.

“I am not,” Aaron tells me bluntly.

“Obviously,” I smile, attempting to touch his arm. But just as a go to clasp my hand around it, he moves.

Swiftly and almost silently, he walks past me. I feel his body brush against mine softly.

“Where are you going?” I ask.

“I need to shower,” he replies.

There’s something off about him. He stumbled in, his voice is uneven, he wants to get away from me. Something happened and I have this horrible feeling that it was something horrible.

“Are you okay?” I say, trying to seem casual.

“Fine,” he replies. His tone is blunt but cut-throat. He can tell I’m fishing for what’s really wrong and he’s making it clear he doesn’t want to talk. Unfortunately for him, he chose the wrong girl if he wants me to shut up and move on.

“Did it go okay?” I continue.

“It went how it usually did,” he tells me, his voice low.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” I ask. I knew who his dad was and how he was treated, I knew the traumatic stories of his childhood and the bad memories that would haunt him at night, I knew I wanted to kill the man who’d given them to him. But one thing I never knew was anything to do with the meetings held with his dad.

“You know my father, love. He isn’t a pleasant man and nor are his meetings,” he says plainly, “now I’m going to wash.”

He walks towards the bathroom, flicking the light on. The brightness is fluorescent and artificial. I begin to follow him and then I see it. I stop in my tracks. Reams of crimson ribbon decorate the back of his white shirt, jagged lines of the deepest blood red. The fabric has soaked in the liquid and it’s splayed out all across the white. My stomach turns.

“Aaron…” I say, my voice barely a whisper.

“Please, love,” he sighs, running a hand through his perfect hair, “I need to shower.”

“He hurt you,” I murmured, “again?”

He freezes suddenly, realising he’s bled through his white shirt. He’s too exposed to hide it from me this time. He can’t brush it under the carpet when the stains are on the surface. He lifts his head up, back still towards me.

“Don’t,” he says harshly, his voice so low it sounds dangerous.

I don’t say a word as he walks into the bathroom, but my legs can’t help but follow even though my brain is telling them it might be a better idea to not. I step inside quietly and I can feel his body tense.

“Aaron-“

“I said don’t,” he repeats, the bitterness in his tone making me flinch.

Something that resembles anger flickers in my chest. An amber flame of fury.

“Sit down,” I say, my voice firm and unwavering.

He stills, staring down. I don’t say a word and neither does he. In the silence, the air grows heavy and thick, weighted with unspoken words. I don’t know how long we stand like this until slowly he sits down on the lid of the toilet. I wait a few beats, then slowly crouch down, level with his knees and his eyes shooting straight to the floor.

“He hurt you again, didn’t he?” I ask for the second time.

He’s silent.

“Please Aaron,” I beg, “you can’t keep doing this.”

The desperation in my tone makes his heart ache, but still he doesn’t look at me as he says, “he’s hurt me my entire life, love, today he was no different.”

“Show me,” I murmured.

“I don’t want you to see this,” he grits through his teeth, still refusing to meet my eyes.

“I don’t care,” I say, “you can’t keep shutting me out.”

“I can and I will,” he replied curtly, turning away.

“Warner,” I snap, in an attempt to get his attention.

He looks up sharply. His green eyes flicker with some sort of hurt. I never called him Warner, he was my Aaron. Warner was for everyone else, but Aaron was for me.

“Let me help you,” I say firmly, “you need to let me in like I let you in, this goes two ways.”

He stares at me saying nothing for a while. I wonder when he’s going to get up and walk out. Maybe leave completely. Forever. That thought scares me the most. Aaron shuts down when he can’t share his problems. He shuts down and shuts me out.

I am surprised when he slowly takes his shirt off, revealing his battered back. I bite back a gasp and conceal the shock and horror from being displayed on my face. Amongst the jagged scars that ripple across his back, the ones I already knew of, the ones I had once traced, there were fresh wounds. Long, distorted shapes are looping across him, oozing fresh hot blood. Great purple bruises splayed out of the sides of each lash mark, creating some sort of sick and twisted abstract art piece.

He must be in so much pain.

“It’s a shame really,” he murmurs, “I quite liked that shirt.”

I pull myself together, “you have a dozen others like it.”

“I liked that one,” he replies quietly.

“I like you without a shirt better anyways,” I grin at him.

“Well,” he says cracking a half smile, “I suppose I can spare it then.”

“I suppose you can.”

I grab a wash cloth from the cabinet above and soak it with warm water. Gently, I dab his new lashings, trying to wash them. The deep red bleeds through the white of the cloth, spreading through it, like a river of hate. With each stroke I see his face contort.

“Does this hurt?” I ask tenderly.

“I’m fine,” he replies, his voice hard.

“You’re wincing,” I say flatly.

He glares at me. It’s hot.

“I’m fine,” he states.

I drop it and continue to clean. When I am satisfied that I’ve done the best I can, I return to the cabinet and pull out antiseptic and bandages.

“Not antiseptic,” Aaron grumbles.

“Don’t be a baby,” I retort with a laugh, cutting the bandages to the right size.

“I’m not!” he says, a bit too defensively.

“I’m not letting those wounds get infected Aaron, I’m using antiseptic,” I tell him, unable to suppress my smile.

He rolls his eyes and reluctantly lets me press antiseptic into each open gash. He hisses each time, refusing to cry out so I attempt to be as quick and efficient as I can.

When I am finished, I move on the bandages. I stand in front of him and work around. Gently, I wrap the bandage over his back and torso. His hands suddenly clasp my waist, his grip is firm. I bite back a gasp. His hands are so hot I can feel them through my clothes, though in this moment I wish I didn’t have the barrier of clothes.

I try to ignore the distraction he knows he’s making. Softly and methodically I continue to bandage his back and once I make the final wrap I lean down and press my lips on his. He kisses back eagerly, pulling me onto his lap. I wrap my thighs around his hips and continue to plant tender kisses all over his mouth. I’m dizzied by the sensations of passion. We pull away finally when neither of us can think straight and his eyes lock with mine, the delicate green tainted with something I couldn’t quite place my finger on.

“How do you feel?” I ask, brushing a strand of blonde that had fallen, out of the way.

“After that,” he murmurs with a grin, “on top of the world.”

“Your back,” I deadpan.

“I don’t care about my back,” he groans, “kiss me again.”

“Aaron,” I say, my tone accusing.

“Please, love,” he begs, closing his eyes, “I’m suffering withdrawal symptoms here.”

“Aaron,” I laugh.

“Just one kiss, it won’t hurt,” he says quietly, brushing his thumb over my bottom lip. His touch so airy I almost don’t feel it.

“I’m not kissing you until you answer me,” I reply.

“You like to make my life difficult don’t you?” he sighs.

“Ditto,” I poke my tongue out.

“It’s much better now you’ve worked your magic,” he answers my question, gazing at me.

There’s a long pause, but it feels like our eyes carry on the conversation. But every time I look into those emerald voids, I feel his pain. And it makes me see red.

“He shouldn’t do this to you,” I murmur, anger lacing my tone.

“I know,” he replies.

“I hate it,” I practically growl, my face all screwed up at the thought of someone hurting Aaron. My Aaron. I hadn’t had time to get angry earlier, I’d been too worried about the wounds. Now they were clean and dressed, I have the opportunity.

“I know,” he says again.

“I want to stop it,” I tell him, then falter, “but I don’t know how.”

“I’ve been trying to work that out for a while, love,” he says, nuzzling into my collarbone.

“Just,” I pause and sigh, “please let me help you, you don’t have to hide for everyone you know.”

“It’s what I know how to do,” he murmurs, looking up, “opening up is the opposite of how I was trained to be.”

“But you’ll try?” I ask hopefully.

“I’ll do anything for you, love,” he smiles, tucking my hair behind my ear.

I smile, my cheeks glowing a soft pink.

“I love you,” he whispers with another kiss.

“I love you too,” I giggle, melting into him.

He cups my face in his hands and kisses me slowly, tenderly. The motion is long and drawn out, each millisecond testing my self control. Desperation claws at me, all I want to do is kiss him harder and faster but I stay patient. My hands find their way to the back of his neck and comfortably into his hair.

“Let’s go to bed,” he says against my lips.

“You don’t sleep until three o’clock in the morning,” I scoff.

He turns and looks at me, a twinkle in his eye and a smirk placed comfortably on his lips, “who says we’re sleeping?”

a/n: this is my first aaron warner fic and cut me some slack bc I have not read shatter me in months, I really should do another reread… but hopefully I captured the characters okay. But tbh after reading it back I kind of hate it, it feels rushed and weird but yolo so I’m posting it anyways!!

and I know what you’re thinking ‘bella you promised us the mysterious blonde part 4’… I know it is being written, it’s just really long and I want it to be perfect so there are a few little fics in between

shatter me masterlist

[icarusignite]

You’re on Your Own, Kid (p.1)

Pairing: Bruce Wayne x Civilian!Reader

Summary: Amongst the glittering heights of Gotham's elite, you fight to build something of your own, only to watch it crumble under the weight of your father’s sins. And just when you need him most, Bruce Wayne vanishes, leaving you to weather scandal, betrayal, and ruin alone. Love turns to silence. Devotion becomes distance. Now, as the city tears you apart, he watches from the shadows, haunted by the truth, and by the pieces of you he left behind.

Tropes: childhood friends to lovers. Pre-established relationship. Possessive Bruce. Fluff and domesticity. Some angst and betrayal later on, and Bruce being emotionally constipated, hurt/comfort, angst to fluff. promise he'll grovel in part 2

Word Count: 6.9k

A/N: LOL the conglomerate shenanigans mentioned here are just to set the stage, so it may not be entirely accurate. We're just going for vibes once again. Also, I'm sorry I keep splitting these into parts, I just have a hard time keeping focus when it gets too long and then I'm not able to proofread it lol. Also, I had Dan Mora's Bruce in mind when I wrote this cuz he is scrumptious, but honestly feel free to imagine your fav, they're all hot af <3 As usual comments/reblogs/likes are all super appreciated, I love hearing yalls thoughts!

Part 1 | Part 2 | AO3

The room you were in was too cold and grey, full of men who thought salt-and-pepper hair and a Rolex gave them license to speak louder and listen less. You sat at the long conference table, posture straight, pen tapping an idle rhythm against the polished mahogany. Across from you, some relic of the financial world droned on about stock volatility and historical precedence, his words wrapped in condescension and misplaced self-importance.

You should've given him the respect his tenure demanded, but the way his eyes passed over you, like you were ornamental rather than integral, sent a rush of disdain crawling up your spine. Respect, as far as you were concerned, was earned, not assumed. And certainly not owed to anyone who looked at you like you were a misdelivered invitation.

Still, you'd been born into a world of masks and teeth, and you wore yours like fine silk. Your smile was patient, and you nodded politely through his tirade, letting him tire himself out like a dog barking at a closed door. Then, with poise as sharp as a stiletto heel, you stood.

"I appreciate your concerns," you said smoothly, the corners of your mouth curving into a smile that didn't quite reach your eyes. "But allow me to show you why they're unfounded."

You clicked your presentation open, and the sleek slides glowed behind you, casting your silhouette in authority. Your voice, when it rang out, was crisp and commanding. You outlined every metric, forecasted every outcome, and highlighted each strategic benefit of the partnership with the precision of a scalpel. Your delivery was not just persuasive, it was irrefutable.

"And with Wayne Enterprises' logistical strength paired with our R&D innovation, projected returns stand to exceed expectations by the second quarter. This isn't just a good move. It's a brilliant one."

A thoughtful silence followed. You saw it in the way heads tilted slightly, the furrow of brows that wasn't skepticism but grudging admiration. Most of the room wore expressions of reluctant respect, like they hadn't expected much and had gotten more than they bargained for.

Except him. The same fossil from earlier, with his cheap cologne and cheaper smirk, leaned forward and said, "That all sounds lovely, but are we to believe this isn't just a shiny little passion project? You paint a pretty picture, but partnerships with startups like yours are risky, even with your—" he paused, eyes sweeping you up and down in a gesture that wasn't even subtle, "—charisma."

Your responding smile was dangerous. From the corner of your eye, you saw your boyfriend's hand tighten just slightly where it rested near his coffee. There was a tick in his jaw, a silent flare of temper you knew too well. He sat at the head of the table, a quiet monolith in tailored charcoal, the very definition of controlled power. CEO of Wayne Enterprises, majority shareholder, your childhood best friend, and right now, a storm barely held at bay.

You cut him off with a single sharp glance. A silent don't you dare.

If you were going to navigate this brutal industry, you wouldn't do it in the shadow of Bruce Wayne, not even as the person who owned his heart.

You looked back at the man with the condescending tone and the fragile ego. "Well, if by 'passion project' you mean a venture backed by years of market research, two patents pending, and one multimillion-dollar seed round completed in half the time it takes most of your portfolio companies to launch a website—then yes. I suppose you could call it that."

A few sniggers rang around the room, but you kept going.

"As for risk, I would suggest you revisit our financials—slide seventeen if you missed it. The risk assessment is well within tolerance, and frankly, far lower than that synthetic textiles deal you pushed through last spring. Remember that? Didn't pan out so well."

You didn't blink as you said it, and the man's face darkened, but he didn't speak again. When you sat down, the room was quiet, save for the quiet shuffle of notes and murmurs of agreement. You felt it: the shift. You were the storm they hadn't seen coming.

And across the table, Bruce's eyes never left you. His expression was unreadable to the rest of them, but you saw the subtle lift of one brow, the corner of his mouth twitching. Pride, and something warmer.

The remainder of the meeting slipped by quickly, numbers tossed across the table like poker chips, and for once, most of them landed in your favour. A majority vote. A round of congratulations followed—handshakes, nods, and smiles with just enough sincerity to count. You took them all in stride, offering your own gratitude before ducking out hurriedly. 

You didn't see the way Bruce's gaze followed you, how his tall frame lingered near the doorway a moment too long, as if willing you to turn back. As if he expected you to wait for him, to fall in step beside him the way you usually did.

But you didn't. You had people to meet. Calls to make. Updates to deliver. Your world moved fast, and you moved faster.

The rest of your day passed in a blur of boardrooms and breakout meetings, each conversation a continuation of the victory you'd carved out that morning. You wore your exhaustion like armour, hidden beneath crisp tailoring and a resolute gleam in your eye that warned anyone from suggesting you take a break.

By the time the last of your employees had filed out and the office corridors grew quiet with the hush of after-hours, you were at the end of your tether. You decided to take a short break, strolling the hallways of your headquarters and rolling your neck with a sigh, fingers kneading at the stiff knot beneath your collarbone.

Just then, a hand caught your wrist, pulling you gently into the shadow of an alcove. You inhaled sharply out of reflex, your spine going taut, until your gaze met a pair of broad shoulders you knew better than your own reflection.

The tension bled out from your body. "Bruce."

The man in front of you didn't let go. "Shouldn't you have gone home by now? What're you still doing here?"

"This is my workplace. I've still got work," you pointed out. "It's you who should've gone home by now. You're the guest here, after all."

"You can let your team handle the rest of it."

"You know I can't do that."

Bruce exhaled slowly, the sound edged with exasperation. His hands slid from your wrist to your shoulders, thumbs pressing into the tight muscles there with surprising care. You almost groaned at the relief, but bit it back, refusing to show him that you were this close to melting under his touch.

"You've been staying up late for weeks trying to finalize this deal," he said softly, brows furrowing. "And now that you have, you should rest. It's not healthy for you to go on like this. Let me take you out to lunch."

"Not healthy? Says the man with an even worse sleep schedule than me?" You glanced at the elegant watch on your wrist and lamented. "And at this time, we should be grabbing dinner."

Bruce shrugged with that maddening nonchalance of his, as if time were merely a suggestion. "Sure. Dinner it is, then."

"Bruce...don't tell me you skipped lunch too."

He had the nerve to look unbothered. "Not my fault someone was too busy to accompany me."

You blinked, guilt nibbling at the edge of your resolve, but before you could offer any apologies, he spoke again. 

"You know, I almost threw my coffee at him."

You blinked. "Excuse me?"

"The man from earlier." The words left his mouth bitterly. "The way he looked at you. Talked to you. Like he thought he was clever, like he thought he could get under your skin."

"Oh? That's what got under your skin?"

Your boyfriend didn't flinch. Just looked at you with that heavy, unreadable intensity that made your heart beat a little too loud in your chest. "I don't like when other men look at you like that. Like they're entitled to even think about you."

"Bruce!" Your voice was half reprimand, half breathless laugh. "Are you seriously jealous of a man who couldn't even figure out how his PowerPoint slides worked?"

"I'm serious."

You sighed, reaching up to smooth your fingers along the lapels of his blazer. "So am I. And besides, I handled him just fine."

His expression didn't shift for a moment, but eventually, the faintest tug at the corner of his mouth betrayed him.

"Yes," he admitted almost reverently. "You did." 

His gaze dropped to your lips for just a second before flicking back up. "You always do."

You grinned, triumphant. "Damn right, I do."

"But that doesn't mean I liked it. I know you can fight your own battles. That doesn't mean I want to watch someone else try to belittle you and get away with it."

You slipped your hands up, resting them on either side of his neck. "You don't have to protect me."

"I know. That's why I didn't step in."

"Good." You tapped his chest twice, firmly. "Because if you did, I'd have made you wait in the hallway like a schoolboy. You are in my territory after all."

That earned you a proper smirk. "Someone's bold today."

"You're impossible."

"And you're brilliant," he returned, brushing his knuckles against your cheek. "Which is why you deserve a dinner where no one interrupts you or calls your projections ambitious like it's an insult."

"Only if you promise to pick a place with no paparazzi. I am not dressed to be captured at unflattering angles."

Bruce pulled back in disbelief. "You're joking."

You stepped away and gestured to yourself with a dramatic flourish, as if unveiling a masterpiece gone awry. "Am I? Look at me. This blazer?" You plucked at the crumpled lapel. "Was an emergency grab after I spilled coffee on my blouse and had to scrub it out in the office bathroom like some tragic rom-com character." You pointed to the faintly darker patch near your waist. "Still damp."

His eyes followed your motions with the tenderness of a man who saw none of the chaos you were describing.

"And my hair looks like I lost a battle with a fan and a filing cabinet." 

Bruce didn't even blink. "You look stunning."

"You're just saying that."

"No. I'm not. You look stunning. Like you always do."

You faltered, ever so slightly, and despite the frustration, the day-old coffee stains, and the ache in your spine from too many hours hunched over a screen, you believed him.

You glanced down at yourself again, then back at him. "You, on the other hand, are a walking PR campaign. How is it that after several hours and three crises, you still look like you just stepped out of a magazine cover shoot?"

He winked. "Genetics. And less coffee spillage, apparently."

You groaned, swatting at his chest again. "Unfair."

Bruce caught your hand mid-air and laced his fingers through yours. "Dinner," he insisted, gently tugging you forward again. "No cameras to capture your alluring charm. I'd rather keep that all to myself tonight."

You hesitated, the fight draining from your shoulders. "Alright. But if I see even one camera flash—"

"I'll tackle them myself," he promised, lips brushing the back of your hand with just enough gravity to make your breath hitch.

"How noble of you. Gotham's very own superhero."

"And you're still the most beautiful person in the room."

"Stop flirting with me. I might start thinking you like me."

He looked at you so intensely that your knees almost buckled. "I do."

And just like that, you melted.

It was ridiculous how quickly his words could undo you. There was no grand gesture, no dramatic speech, no orchestra swelling behind him, and yet the way he said it, low and certain and entirely unbothered by how much it affected you, made your heart stumble in its rhythm.

You suddenly understood why he'd been granted that moniker: Gotham's most eligible bachelor. The billionaire playboy. The man whose name was always paired with another woman's on gossip sites, his photo splashed across magazine covers, eyes smouldering, collar artfully undone.

Bruce Wayne knew how to be charming.

He wielded charisma the way other men wielded money or power. Elegantly. Effortlessly. And oh, hadn't you once mocked him for it? You'd teased him mercilessly, rolling your eyes at every tabloid article and every polished date-night photo he'd been caught in before the two of you became something real.

You'd called them all fools—the ones who let themselves be swayed by a well-timed smirk. Now you knew yourself to be the biggest fool of all. Despite how fiercely you'd resisted, despite how determined you'd been to never lose yourself to his charm, you had failed. You'd been dating for nearly a year now. Long enough that you should be used to him, to the casual intimacy, and the way he always found you at the end of the day like a tether pulling him home.

But you weren't used to it. Not even close. Somehow, it never stopped feeling surreal, that you were the person he looked at like this. Like you hung the stars.

"You're dangerous," you remarked, swallowing thickly. 

Bruce grinned. "Only to the people who would hurt you."

"No. To me."

His expression shifted, but you turned away before he could say anything more and you let yourself fall deeper. You tugged him down the hallway by the hand still clasped in yours.

"Come on, then." You cast a look over your shoulder. "You promised me dinner."

He followed obediently as if there was nowhere else in the world he'd rather be. "Of course. Just you and me, and hopefully someplace with real silverware."

"And dessert?"

"Only if you behave."

Your grin was wicked. "So... no dessert then."

"Now whose the one being impossible?" Bruce chuckled, that rare, warm sound that started deep in his chest and made your insides glow. 

"For the record," you added, "if anyone should be jealous, it's me."

"Oh?"

"Nearly half my staff looked ready to faint the moment you loosened your tie during your introduction."

"Guess I'll have to keep my tie on, then."

"Hmm, we'll revisit that decision later."

Behind you, Bruce Wayne smiled like a man who knew exactly how lucky he was.

Bruce insisted on driving, and you didn't protest. It was late, your feet ached from running around in pinching shoes all day, and the thought of slipping into the cocoon of his ridiculously luxurious car made the decision an easy one. Besides, he offered with that maddeningly smooth baritone of his, "You can pick up your car from here tomorrow morning. I'll drive you myself if you have to."

"I already have a chauffeur, Bruce," you teased. "I don't need another one."

You sank into the plush leather of the passenger seat with a sigh, the door shutting out the world behind you. The subtle scent of his cologne clung to the air—sandalwood, bergamot, and something inherently him. It wrapped around you like a second skin, comforting and just a little dizzying.

When you turned your head lazily toward the driver's seat, you found Bruce already watching you with that unnerving intensity. A thousand thoughts cycloned behind those stormy blue eyes, none of which he'd voice until he was ready.

You opened your mouth to say something teasing—probably about the dramatics of being stared at like a particularly compelling oil painting—but then he shifted, reaching into the inside pocket of his tailored coat to draw out a small velvet box.

Your body tensed before your mind had time to catch up. It was absurd. You'd been dating for almost a year, not nearly long enough to expect anything that serious. Right? Nonetheless, the sight of the box alone made your pulse quicken. It would not be entirely unwelcome. 

"Bruce—"

He opened it before you could spiral further, and nestled inside was not a ring, but a necklace. It was platinum, by the look of it, with a slender, almost imperceptible inlay of black diamonds. Refined and sleek, just like him. 

"To mark the deal," he clarified. "The start of another successful venture."

"You couldn't have possibly known the deal would go through."

He looked at you like you'd just insulted Alfred's biscuits. "Of course I did. You always accomplish what you set your mind to."

When he motioned for you to turn in your seat, you obeyed without a word. Warm fingers brushed your hair gently to one side, lingering just a moment too long against your skin before he reached around to fasten the clasp. The metal was cool against your collarbone, but his kiss to the back of your neck made you forget that detail entirely.

It wasn't just the kiss. It was the reverence in it. As if he were grounding you, silently telling you that in a world so ruthlessly fast, so relentlessly sharp, you were the one thing he wanted to slow down for.

You turned back to face him, feeling more seen than you had all day, but then something caught your eye. There was a faint bruise along his right cheekbone. Barely visible under the glow of the dashboard lights, but unmistakably there.

You frowned. You'd been too busy these past few weeks to pay proper attention, but now that you looked, he seemed worn. There was a touch of stiffness in the way he moved, the slight tightness around his eyes that didn't come from fatigue alone.

You had known Bruce Wayne since you were kids. You had seen him fall from trees and scrape his knees, heard him lie his way out of trouble with that disarming charisma. You knew the man behind the socialite mask better than most, so you knew this wasn't new.

You didn't know exactly what he did during the weeks he disappeared—off the grid, unreachable, returning with faint limps and fresh bruises he never explained. But you had a suspicion. You hadn't confronted him yet, of course. Not because you didn't care, but because you cared too much. You knew that if you pulled too hard on that thread, it would unravel something neither of you were quite ready to face.

You reached up without thinking, fingers ghosting just beneath the bruise. "You've been busy too," you murmured. "Are you alright?"

Bruce felt the guilt settle in his chest the moment your lips brushed his cheek, just above the fading bruise. It was a small gesture, but so full of love, that it tore through him like a bullet. You kissed him like he was something precious. Like he wasn't a man slowly weaving a noose around the neck of your world.

He'd lied to you.

No, not lied, just omitted. The difference was razor-thin, but he felt the sting regardless. The necklace hadn't just been a gift to celebrate your business deal. It was an apology for the truth he was keeping from you.

You thought he was there to support you today. And he was. He had been watching you with pride blooming in his chest as you stood your ground, fielded every question, and held your own like the veteran you were, but that wasn't the only reason he'd been in the building.

He hadn't told you about all his meetings later, and the real reason he had been at your office so late. He hadn't told you about your father.

Bruce knew too well that power often wore its virtue like a mask, and now, whispers were swirling—accounts of shady dealings, money funnelled through offshore accounts, associations with criminal networks that had never seen daylight. Whispers he couldn't ignore.

And your father had never been a man who left loose ends. Which meant that this building—your building—was a mausoleum of secrets waiting to be cracked open. And you, his only child, were the heir to it all.

You chattered beside him in the car, unaware of the war waging inside his head. You flitted between stories about team dynamics, upcoming plans, and the assistant you were mentoring, while all he could do was scrutinize you. 

Did you know? Were you wearing a mask, just like him? Had you always been pretending, too?

He hated the thoughts as soon as they surfaced. Hated that his instinct was to doubt you, but that was the curse of the cowl. Every time he got too close to something good, his mind reached for the cracks in it. He lived his life trying to peel back facades, so what right did he have to pretend your smile wasn't another mask?

And yet, you had been the one and only real thing in his life. He glanced at you, noting the way you absentmindedly toyed with the chain he had clasped around your neck. The little frown you gave your phone when the screen lit up with emails. The way you never took your eyes off him, even while talking, as if making sure he was still there.

If it was a mask, it was the most convincing one he'd ever seen, and that scared him more than anything.

If you were indeed hiding something, if you had known what heinous crimes your father was involved in, if you'd lied to him just as he was lying to you now, Bruce wasn't sure what he'd do. He wasn't sure if he'd be able to separate the man from the mission. If he could still do what he had to do when the time came.

The fall of your father's legacy was inevitable, and when it did come—when it came by his own hand—he prayed to every god he didn't believe in that he'd be able to extract his heart from it all. Because right now, it was tangled up in you.

Hopelessly. Irrevocably.

And the part that terrified him most? He wasn't sure he even wanted to untangle it.

Bruce let your voice wash over him, tugging him gently away from the grim spiral of his thoughts.

"...and of course, I had to step in before they nearly came to blows over who gets to run point on outreach," you were saying, exasperated but amused. "I had to remind them we're running a corporation, not a reality TV show."

"Sounds like you're running a daycare."

"You're not wrong." You leaned your head back against the seat, stretching your arms forward with a tired groan. "Except they're all in their fifties and think an Excel spreadsheet is a form of advanced sorcery."

He chuckled, eyes wandering across the empty parking lot around him, willing himself to put an end to your rambles and start the car. But he liked it when you talked like this, unguarded and loose-limbed with the ease of being with someone who knew you too well to be impressed. You didn't try to dazzle him. You never had to.

You sighed, the air in your lungs leaving you in a huff. "Now that my father's stepping back from everything, it means I have to do all of this myself."

Bruce's hands flexed ever so slightly on the wheel, but you didn't notice. "You never have to do anything by yourself."

Another lie. 

You shot him a grateful look. "Thanks, but I mean, he says he's taking time off to prioritize 'other things,' but won't tell me what those things are. Knowing him, it's either an obscure island retreat with no cell reception or another one of his mysterious hobbies that he refuses to elaborate on. Meanwhile, I'm playing heir, HR manager, and brand strategist all at once."

He hummed in acknowledgment.

"I had to sit down with one of our interns yesterday because she thought responding to emails with reaction memes was acceptable workplace etiquette."

Bruce raised a brow. "You're rather involved, aren't you? I'm sure someone else could have handled it in your stead. Give you time to decompress."

You shrugged. "That's what Father says, but I like doing things my way. You get to know your employees better like this."

That made him smile despite himself. Your ability to find humour in every situation, to lead without being cold, to carry the weight of an empire and yet talk about it like it was just another Tuesday impressed him more than anything. 

All the while, he sat beside you, nodding along without giving you an inkling of what he was hiding. If he told you—if he said your father wasn't just retreating to some hidden beach or vague spiritual journey but was instead being investigated for laundering money through shell companies tied to mob interests—you might stop looking so at peace. You might stop trusting him, and he wasn't quite ready for that.

Eventually, you turned to face him, a lopsided smile pulling at your lips. "I'm boring you, aren't I?"

He shook his head. "No. You never bore me."

Your grin deepened, and you leaned forward to press your cheek against his shoulder affectionately. "You're sweet when you're tired."

Bruce didn't answer. Didn't tell you that sweetness had nothing to do with it. He was simply hanging on to this moment because it might be the last. 

When he pressed his lips to the top of your head, you closed your eyes and tilted your face upward, waiting. You were bathed in moonlight where it streamed through the windshield, casting silver onto your cheekbones—beautiful in a way that made something twinge in Bruce's chest.

God, how was he supposed to let this go?

The following week would no doubt bring chaos. Warrants. Arrests. Headlines. And your last name and company would be at the center of it all.

You hadn't done anything. He tried to believe it with every fibre of his being. Nevertheless, innocence wouldn't shield you from collateral damage, and your father's sins had already rooted themselves deep into the legacy you were expected to carry. Bruce knew what it was like, to wear the weight of someone else's mistakes. 

He moved before he could talk himself out of it, drinking in the sight of you under the cool glow of Gotham's night. Your eyes were half-lidded with burnout, lips slightly parted as you caught your breath after a long day, and he thought that this might be the last time he'd get to see you like this. 

Peaceful. Unburdened. His.

With one hand cradling your jaw, and the other threading through your hair, he kissed you—suddenly, feverishly—as if trying to drink in every second of you before the world tore it away.

You made a sound of surprise against his mouth but didn't pull away, and your lips moved instinctively, the weariness dissipating from your frame as you gripped his lapel.

It was a desperate kiss. Apologetic. Fiercely tender in the way sorrow often was. His mouth moved with urgency as if he could etch himself into your bones through the press of his lips, and his thumb brushed the high point of your cheek, memorizing the shape.

When he finally pulled back, his breath was ragged, eyes dark and searching as he pressed his forehead to yours. You whispered something he didn't quite catch, dazed from the intensity of it all, your fingers curling loosely at his chest.

He wanted to tell you everything. He wanted to tell you nothing. 

You were the one to break the silence first. "If that's your way of saying congratulations, I approve."

Bruce snickered, still studying you like he hadn't convinced himself you were real. "Not exactly what I had planned."

"Well, if you're going to keep kissing me like the world's ending, you'd better at least feed me first."

"Is that your subtle way of saying you're hungry?"

"No, Bruce. That was me very unsubtly saying I'm starving."

"Right. Dinner."

"Drive, Wayne," you teased, pointing toward the steering wheel. "Or I swear, I'll ditch you for the nearest taco truck."

"Tempting offer," he mused as he shifted the car into gear. "But I had something a little nicer in mind."

"As long as it has fries and something chocolate, I won't be picky."

He nodded. "Fries, chocolate... and anything else you want. Tonight's yours."

You gave him a lazy smile. "Careful. I'll hold you to that."

The following week passed in silence. Not the gentle, comforting kind, but the kind that came before a storm, stretching over your days like a veil. That should have been your first warning.

Your father, without so much as a word of preparation, had flown out of the city on an impromptu vacation. You'd laughed about it on the phone, but you didn't question him. You didn't ask what, exactly, he was vacationing from, simply assuring him that you'd keep everything running in his absence.

Bruce had disappeared too. Vanished into the shadows of whatever double life he lived so deftly. That, you didn't question either. You were used to his absences and loved him despite them.

But this time you had promised yourself it would be different. When he returned, you would confront him. No more pretending not to notice the bruises blooming on his skin like violets in winter. No more silent glances or pretending he was just clumsy. You would ask. Demand. Insist that if he wanted to carry darkness in his marrow, he could at least allow you to help him shoulder the burden. No one should have to endure on their own, least of all him. 

Mercifully, the week was uneventful, allowing you to throw yourself headfirst into work, burying yourself beneath spreadsheets, projections, and meetings that bled into late nights. It was exhausting, yes, but it was yours. This new partnership was more than a win. It was the first real step toward something you had built with your own hands, separate from the empire your family name carried. This startup bore your vision. Your effort. Your name.

It had to succeed.

Then came the end. Or, rather, the beginning of it.

It started with the warrants. Then the headlines, the seizure of your childhood home, and the freezing of accounts. Accusations poured in like stormwater, each one a colder betrayal than the last. Investigations sullied every stitch of your life. Your father's name—once gilded in social circles and whispered with respect—now flashed across every screen, tangled in scandal, corruption, and crime.

The man himself was gone without explanation, and you were left to face it alone. The questions you didn't have the answers to, decisions made without your knowledge, strings pulled behind closed doors while you played puppet in boardrooms now turned battlegrounds. Stocks plummeted. Investors withdrew. The empire teetered.

All the while, you sat in sterile rooms with lawyers and crisis managers, trading sleep for strategy, tears for resolve. You plastered on poise like it was armour, but it cracked in the quiet moments. 

And Bruce Wayne? He had abandoned you too. 

At first, you offered him the benefit of the doubt. Missed calls, unread texts. You told yourself he was somewhere remote and unreachable. Busy. You even whispered forgiveness into the night air, fingers curling around your phone, willing him to call back.

Then came the sightings. He made appearances at galas, the high-rises of Wayne Enterprises, and in glossy society pages, polished as ever. Gotham's prince, untouched by the ruin that had devoured you.

Yet still no call or text. He'd cut you out of his life as easily as removing a puzzle piece that no longer fit.

And God, how you needed someone. Someone who wasn't paid by the hour to listen. Someone who would hold your shaking hands without judgment. Someone who knew the person behind the company. Behind the name. Behind the press statements and tight smiles.

Foolishly, you had once thought that it would be him, but now, with everything crumbling and no one left in the wreckage but you, it seemed even Bruce had abandoned you to the dumpster fire of your life. 

Today had been particularly brutal, another day of chasing explanations in courtrooms, of being expected to defend decisions you hadn't made, of trying to hold together the crumbling legacy that now tasted like rust on your tongue. You'd been forced to put your startup on indefinite pause just to keep your family's empire from imploding in real-time.

And still, you were losing.

A part of you wanted to let it burn. Let the headlines win. Let the stockholders protest.

But you couldn't. You owed it to your heritage. To the people who'd built this long before you.

To your father.

Your father who, despite the horrors unveiled in the past week, had once held your hand and told you the stars would bow to you. That you were his pride and joy. The memory of that version of him still clung to you, and though part of you hated him now—for vanishing without explanation, for forcing you to carry the shame of his choices—you still loved him. Loved him enough to wish for his return. 

The resentment boiled beneath your skin, nonetheless. For all the speeches about sacrifice and honour, he had vanished. Fled the city without a word. Left you to face the vultures and the wolves.

The media painted him a monster. The government labelled him a criminal. And you, his only child, had been left trying to convince yourself that he'd come back. But you feared it too because if he returned, he would be arrested. If he returned, there would be no more ambiguity to shield you. No more room for hope.

You couldn't even return to the one place in the world that had once made you feel safe.

Your childhood home had been stripped from you like everything else. Ousted, cast out by court orders and federal warrants, as agents and investigators swarmed the grounds in search of evidence. Evidence of what, you still weren't even sure. Your manor was no longer yours to enter, and the home you'd grown up in now belonged to suspicion and strangers.

So instead, you found shelter where the flashbulbs couldn't find you.

A run-down motel on the ragged edge of Gotham. Where the carpets smelled like mildew and the windows didn't lock right. Where the wallpaper peeled like old scabs and the silence could be bought by the hour. No one here cared who you were as long as you could pay them, and that anonymity was the closest thing to peace you could find.

You paced the floor in your socks, a worn patch in the carpet bearing witness to your anxiety.

Outside the door, a drunkard was making a commotion and you didn't have the energy to deal with it. Legal jargon. Press releases. Budget deficits. The ever-climbing mountain of debt. You had enough to deal with.

You cracked open another energy drink—your fourth? Fifth? You'd lost count—and downed it with the mechanical rhythm of survival. The empty can hit the trash with a hollow clang, joining its crumpled kin in the overflowing bin. Evidence of all the nights you'd tried to fix what was no longer fixable.

Finally, you collapsed backward onto the narrow bed, letting the stiff mattress and cheap sheets catch you. The springs groaned under your weight, and the ceiling stared down, stained like everything else in your life.

You turned your head to look at the crooked curtain. The window behind it gave a partial view of the street, where headlights passed like ghosts and neon signs flickered like dying stars. Anyone could look in. You knew that. The first-floor room had been a reckless decision, but what did it matter? 

The loneliness returned to coil around your ribs like barbed wire, because you hadn't expected to go through this alone. All you could wish for was that someone—anyone—would tell you what the hell you were supposed to do next.

Bruce Wayne had messed up. He'd messed up big time, and no plan or contingency could protect him from the aftermath of this. Not from the bone-deep ache of knowing he had done the one thing he swore never to do.

He had hurt you. No, worse, he had abandoned you.

The decision to disappear had felt strategic at first, necessary even. A merciful amputation. He had convinced himself that radio silence was a kindness. If he ghosted out of your life completely, then at least you could hate him instead of waiting for him. It was easier. You deserved better. And if he could just stay away, maybe you'd find something like peace again.

But it hurt more than he'd expected it to.

In the bitter hours between midnight and dawn, Bruce sat in the cold of the Batcave, surrounded by monitors and case files and the hum of silence. Your name remained unspoken, but your absence was carved into the air like a phantom. You haunted every inch of him.

In his most delusional moments, he tried to tell himself that you were just a fling. A casual dalliance. A distraction. But the lie always collapsed under the weight of memory.

You weren't some convenient warmth in the dark. You were the kid who used to curl up beside him in the library of Wayne Manor, huddled under the same blanket with a flashlight between you, whispering stories and pretending the world beyond those four walls didn't exist. You were the one who used to help Alfred bake cookies and sneak extras into his coat pockets like a co-conspirator. You were the one who had dragged him out to the gardens to stargaze after his parents' funeral, because you knew he couldn't sleep, and didn't ask why.

Every hallway of his manor remembered you. The way you used to peek around corners before sneaking up behind him. The faded marks on the billiards table from that time you got frustrated and slammed your cue stick in half. The sketch you left framed in the guest room. His home was no longer a home, because you had stopped existing in it. 

He'd tried to remove all the signs of you, but each act of erasure only made your absence more apparent. 

Worst of all was Afred's disapproval. The old butler didn't say anything directly, but the glances lingered longer, the tea was brewed with a touch too much bitterness, and sometimes Bruce would find the framed picture of the two of you—taken at a gala last year—mysteriously returned to the shelf no matter how many times he tucked it away.

Then there were the galas themselves. Pretending. Performing. Wearing the mask of Gotham's untouchable bachelor again.

Every night without you on his arm was agony. The flash of cameras, the flirtations, the empty laughter, it all made his skin crawl. The socialites gathered to him like moths to a flame, and the tabloids declared him single and so very available again.

But the truth was, he hadn't forgotten you.

He made sure every patrol began and ended outside the dingy motel you'd taken refuge in. A place that made his blood boil with its peeling paint and faulty locks and the creaking sign out front that buzzed half-lit neon into the darkness. He was furious with you for choosing a place so unsafe, but he was even more furious with himself for forcing you into it.

You should have been safe in your own home. Or even in his home, if nowhere else. But he had stripped you of everything and offered you nothing in return.

He did what he could anonymously. He paid off the worst of the paparazzi who managed to tail you. Made sure they didn't get too close, didn't publish the more invasive photos, didn't shout cruel questions in your face. He had them warned—some less gently than others.

He arranged for the more dangerous elements around the motel to disappear. Muggers. Stalkers. Dealers. Drunks. The ones who caused noise in the middle of the night. The ones who might scare you. He made sure they never came back.

He made anonymous contributions to your legal team, to fund the best defence lawyers in Gotham. He whispered into the right ears at the right firms to slow the hemorrhaging of your company stock. And when certain contracts came under scrutiny, he pulled strings to have Wayne Enterprises temporarily shoulder some of the burden without naming you directly.

He was helping from the shadows because he couldn't face you. He couldn't stand the thought of looking you in the eyes and seeing disappointment. Or worse—hatred. 

You were the strongest person he knew. You would survive this, but you would not survive him and the ruin that he brought with him everywhere he went. He was poison, and everything he touched eventually soured. 

Your life was already on fire, and he had no idea how to put it out without reducing you to charcoal ruin along with everything else had had ever loved and lost. 

[your-mommy-ems]

Juliette: I hate Warner so much. He's such an awful monster, I want to kill him, I can't believe I missed his heart, I should have--

Warner: *pets dog*

Juliette: Shit.

[whousestypewriters]

──── ୨ৎ CHRISTMAS WITH YOU — AARON WARNER + READER ‧₊˚

a/n: hiii lovelies!! this is probs the most random fic ive ever written (im at tennis and got bored so here we are) but im in a christmas mood so expect a few xmas themed fics to come ur wayyy 🤭🤭 ALSO THE NEXT PART OF THE GRAY FIC WILL BE UP SOON!!!

aaron didn’t like holidays, okay? he really didn’t like them. the needless dressing up for halloween, the crazy amount of chocolate consumed on easter, the countdown and partying on new years. it was all just very pointless to him. christmas was his least favorite though.

he despised the horrible holiday.

the unnecessary money spent on pointless gifts that people will forget about in two weeks and the false sense of cheer and merriment that dies the second christmas is over are just some of his many reasons why he dislikes the holiday.

or maybe it was the fact that is father used to come home over christmas. he doesn’t like to dwell too much on that one.

so imagine his luck when he finds out the girl of his dreams, the love of his life is obsessed with the holiday, he's torn.

he tried. he really tried to put up with it, but at some point enough is enough and he has to leave the house, the amount of christmas decorations you have put up - which according to you is not enough but according to everyone else is a sickening amount - is driving him insane.

he loves you, but hanging tinsel inside your closet was a bit too much for him. so he escaped. to the front porch. he wasn't actually going anywhere, that's just stupid, why would he leave on christmas eve? thats basically just him begging for kenji to hunt him down and attempt to kick his ass.

so obviously he didn't leave, thats just childish.

but he did sit down on the steps of his house and rested his head in his hands. breathing in the cold fresh air. it's been snowing all day, and its only just paused, he's grateful for that. usually the only reprieve he receives is late at night when you're running your hands through his hair and murmuring sweet nothings into his ear. so this moment is nice - it would be nicer with you, but he always thinks that.

the moment's disturbed when he hears the front door open and your soft footsteps that follow.

"what are you doing out here, aaron?" your voice is soft and calming, he loves your voice, it always seems to bring him peace.

"i was just getting some fresh air," he answers and you watch the steam leave his mouth. okay yeah it's pretty cold, maybe he shouldn't have come out here in only a sweatshirt and plaid flannel plants - matching with yours - you let him because it seemed like he needed a moment. but in only pajamas? not that smart.

but damn does he look good in them.

actually you applaud yourself getting him to wear the outfit. he wasn't thrilled when you suggested matching pj's and watching christmas movies all day. but the fact he still put them on makes your heart warm.

you know he's not a fan of the christmas thing. and maybe some part of you wanted to try and get him to love it, but clearly shoving christmas-y themed things in his face wasn't the way to go.

you sit down on the step next to him and wrap the blanket you dragged out here around his shoulders.

"i'm sorry for forcing all the christmas things on you," you say resting your head on his shoulder.

"don't be, love," he says his voice low. "it's me not you, never you."

"i kinda just pushed everything onto you, though, and expected you to love it," you sigh. "i know christmas isn't your favorite holiday, so i was just trying to make it special for you, its our first christmas together i wanted it to be extra special."

"it is special," aaron answers. "its special because you're here with me. its special because you're trying to make it special for me. its special because you love me enough to try and do all this," he waves his hand back towards to the house.

you smile at that, shivering slightly from the cold. how is aaron not cold right now?

"lets head inside, love," he murmurs wrapping his arms around you and gently helping you up. "we can go watch that christmas movie i know you've been dying to watch."

"its okay," you hum as he wraps his arms around your waist and kisses the crook of your neck as you walk. "we don't have to do that."

"i want to, for you. and maybe, maybe i'll start to like christmas, but only if its with you."

𐔌 . ⋮ 🏷️ tags .ᐟ ֹ ₊ ꒱

@arqbella, @midiosaamor, @reminiscentreader, @maybxlle, @sweetreveriee, @kozumesphone

@tornqdowarnings @benny1989fredd, @shiftingtomydrs, @ruriloveshim, @sheinstyou

[elbiotipo]

There was a longer, better article about this, but it's interesting that virtually all fantasy is reactionary in the sense that the heroes are questing (almost, of course there are exceptions) to turn things back to what they were. Either stopping a great evil that is going to destroy the current world which is Fine As It Is, or living in a dystopian evil empire and try to return the Old Kingdom or the Old Republic which was good and nostalgic. It's always "the Old Days were better" or "we must preserve our current way of life", never "we will build a better future beyond our current society".

[ellstronaut]

not to be that person but fuck

n don’t get me wrong I love smut as much as the next person but I cannot stand meaningless smut. With no substance just mindless sex with no passion or any ounce of affection attached to it. No buildup, no pining, no tension so thick it’s palpable no “fuck why are these jeans glued on” no “clumsiness or characters being awkward because sex is awkward sometimes and intimidating” no characterisation, character development or poking fun in a lighthearted way because

“dino boxers really?”

the way they’d be so unapologetic about it too maybe not even vocal but the look that fucking look that screams “yeah? n what you’re gonna do about it?” or maybe they’re flustered but that’s hot either way because it’s them, it’s their quirk

It’s the little details

The vulnerability? The insecurities—trying something new but being afraid to cross or plunge into unknown territories

but it’s their touch—guidance—that unspoken “you’re safe with me”

Subtle hotness/intimacy man

But yeah sex sells. Let’s be real. It’s a cheap way to get views especially when not mindful of how characters would react in such situations

[jamespottersdaisy]

best Aaron Warner/Shatter Me fanart I've seen and I'm not joking. I screamed when I saw Aaron HSKDJSJXKSKZKSJSKZKS

Instagram : palinlineart

tiktok: palinline

[ant-thebooknerd]

[murasaki-cha]

I think that, after Unravel Me, Tahereh Mafi just went "How far can I take these books until they're not considered YA anymore?" And she has not stopped since...

Ignite Me? Holy crap

Restore Me? Sweet baby Jesus

Defy Me? That one scene with Kenji and Nazeera certainly made me forget all the trauma that book was giving me

Believe Me? My lord who authorised that??

All This Twisted Glory? How they allowed Cyrus' dream to remain in the book will forever be a mystery to me

Like at this point I think Tahereh Mafi is just too powerful and book editors just cannot say no to her. She is too good it will ruin them if they refuse. It's the only possible explanation.

[shattermelyhfmlblog]

Remember when warnette

"Are you attracted to him? "

"I'm attracted to you"

"I'm serious"

"So am I"

And then AARON WARNER, THE CHIEF COMMANDER OF SECTOR-45 BLUSHED!?!?!?!?

Credits to the writer.

[littlemissmentallyunstable]

title: the future pink walls

pairing: aaron warner x reader

synopsis: you desperately try to convince your moody husband to spruce up his dull room decor but it turns into something much more exciting…

warnings: implication of making love

a/n: the reader character was meant to be a bit lorelai gilmore-esque sooo I’m hoping you guys can see that and as more aaron warner has been heavily requested I had to oblige 🤭🤭

taglist: @wish-i-were-heather @midiosaamor @fleuriosa @maybxlle @whatsamongus @elysianwayy77 @lovethornes @emelia07 @inmyheaddd @sweetreveriee @azysmate @anintellectualintellectual @off-to-the-r4ces @hermesenthusiast @peppapigsposts

“Can we paint it pink?” I asked, folding my arms as I analysed the desk.

Brown was so boring and… woody. This room practically had no personality and needed a serious magic touch. I happened to think myself to have quite the sparkle in my fingertips.

“No,” Aaron said. Not sharply or snappily just a definitive end to a conversation he clearly did not want to have.

Too bad he married a stubborn mule of a woman with a very talkative nature. I flashed my puppy dog eyes in his direction.

“But it would look so darling in pink,” I cooed, holding up the coloured paper to the drawers one more time.

“It would clash with the decor,” he said stiffly, refusing to meet my eye as he looked visibly uncomfortable at the thought of a pink desk.

I sighed, and pondered, thinking of a way to work around that problem, “we could paint the decor pink.”

Aaron’s face somehow fell even flatter, “absolutely not.”

Men are so boring. It was just a little colour. I didn’t really understand what he was so afraid of. Besides the room was so outdated and dark, it was practically a funeral parlour. The only thing with a little personality was the dying desk plant.

“Why?” I pouted, making my eyes all wide and sparkly.

“It’s vintage,” he replied, glaring at me.

It was one of those glares that were insanely hot but just with the wrong timing. The little annoyed divot he got just above his eyebrow nearly made him adorable but I decided not to be so easily wooed by my husband, though I could’ve easily forgotten all about what I was talking about and taken him into my arms.

“Okay fine,” I replied, leaning on the desk now, “we can paint the walls pink at least.”

“No,” he deadpanned as if this conversation was worse than gorging his own eyes out with a bent spoon.

My eyebrows pinched together tightly, “did Kenji annoy you this morning?”

“Kenji annoys me every morning,” he shrugged, pulling down the sleeves of his suit jacket with a little aggression.

“More than usual?” I fished, eyebrows raised.

“No…” he responded, squinting his eyes by a fraction of an inch, in suspicion.

“Then why are you being so moody,” I asked.

“I am not being moody,” he said, a distasteful look on his face, “I am just unprepared to turn the office into a five year old girl’s dream bedroom.”

My jaw dropped and I held a hand to my chest and stared at him dead in the eye, “are you implying that I have the taste of a five year old?”

“I love you very much my love-“

“Oh no Mr,” I wagged my finger at him, “you cannot sway me, not one bit, I’m quite frankly very offended.”

I was teasing of course, but sometimes Aaron took everything that little too seriously. Now was one of those very amusing times.

He reached out for me, a flash of desperate panic in his eyes, “you know I didn’t mean-“

“No, I don’t actually,” I said, shrugging him off, “so sorry but I’m going to have to ignore you for the rest of eternity.”

“That’s a pretty long time,” he pointed out quietly, looking down at the floor like a naughty child.

“I’m too impatient for that…” I groaned, “…fine. For the rest of the day.”

“Well,” he shrugged, a sudden smile creeping across his features as he inched closer to me, “we don’t have to talk.”

His arms were practically calling me and I suddenly found myself craving to be in them. He knew what he was doing, using weakness against me. I turned my head to the side and shuffled backwards.

Then I put my hand up before he could touch my lips and gently pushed him away, “nu-uh, no kisses either.”

His face fell, “What?”

“It’s my new policy,” I shrugged smoothly.

“Then take it back,” he said, an untamed sharpness biting through his tone.

I smiled coyly, “no.”

“Take it back,” he repeated, with a little more annoyance.

A grin spread widely across my lips.

“Take what you said about the pink paint back,” I replied.

Cue the silence. There wasn’t even a cricket chorus or tumbleweed to accompany it. It was almost deafening.

“That’s what I thought,” I winked, turning my back to him.

“Love-“

“I’m ignoring you,” I sang, folding my arms.

“Sweetheart please-“

I began walking away, very slowly, humming a made up tune to myself, trying to override my brain going mental over the way he called me sweetheart.

“We can paint the spare room pink,” Aaron sighed.

I stopped in my tracks and spun around, both eyebrows shooting up. Aaron’s arms were folded tightly across his chest as he stared back at me.

“Really?” I asked, biting my lip as I tried to keep my excitement at bay.

“As pink as you like,” he said, as I stepped closer.

“Can we paint little clouds on the walls too?” I pushed it further to see how far I could take it.

“Yes,” he nodded immediately.

“And glitter,” I smirked.

He winced.

“And glitter…” I repeated, a little more aggressively, batting my eyelids.

He sighed outwardly, “and glitter.”

He was probably questioning his every life decision and to be quite honest, I couldn’t blame him. Out of all the millions of girls who would throw themselves to his every whim he chose the one that would force him into painting a pink room with clouds and glitter.

“Marry me,” I smiled, falling back into his arms.

He caught me flawlessly of course, with his muscular arms pressing tight against my back, the palm of his hand holding the small of my waist so delicately it made me shudder.

“We’re already married love,” he replied with an eye roll.

“Marry me again,” I shrugged, standing up right again, planting a quick kiss on his cheek, “you are immediately forgiven, you said the magic words of pink and cloud and glitter and now everything can be okay again!”

“Funny,” he mused, pursing his lips together, “when I give you what you want, I’m suddenly a saint.”

“I wouldn’t go so far as saint,” I scoffed my eyes flicking down for a mere moment.

The corners of his mouth turned up for a fraction of a second before his face returned to something more sinister, “you manipulated me into painting a room pink,” he almost laughed, like some sort of revelation he’d just come to, “I think you’re one of the only people who has ever done that to me.”

“I would never!” I gasped, melodramatically clutching my chest, pausing for a beat, then glancing at my nails, “but I am a primadonna and I like to get my way.”

“Hmmm I hadn’t noticed,” he rolled his eyes, placing his hands on my hips and pulling me closer into his body.

“Well I’m sorry,” I said, ignoring the blush that was clearly creeping up my neck, “but you really should’ve read the label before you bought the product.”

“You being the product?” he raised a sharp blonde brow at my inventive metaphor.

“Naturally,” I nodded.

“Well doesn’t that make our relationship sound so darling,” he said dryly, “besides it’s not my fault I couldn’t see you were such a manipulator, I was blinded by your beauty.”

I stared at him dead in the eye and struggled not to laugh. Every pore in my body just wanted to crack up but my inner monologue had to keep me in check.

‘Keep it together. Keep it together. Keep it together. He’s being sweet and charming and treating you like a princess and-‘

“What?”

“That was cheesy,” I teased, allowing myself a small giggle as I rested my arms so they locked together just behind his neck.

His lips pulled into a tight line, “you are the first and only ever woman that would call my flirting cheesy.”

“Wow and how many women have you been with before me,” I scoffed, I cocked my head to the side, “three?”

“Two actually,” he mumbled.

“Well they say third times a charm,” I winked.

“A charm…” he mused, “what an interesting way to put it.”

I laughed, “and yet you still like me.”

“I don’t like you, love,” he murmured, his hands suddenly awfully hot on my hips, “I’m infatuated with you.”

A shiver ran down my spine, right into the depths of my stomach where it gave the little butterflies even more energy as they started to dance and backflip and do all matter of acrobatics that I could only ever dream of.

“Did you just quote Shakespeare?” I asked.

Aaron looked unimpressed, “you are so undereducated in literature.”

“Just because no one uses the word infatuated anymore,” I tusked, rolling my eyes.

“I just did,” he replied, exasperated.

“Well you’re…” I struggled to find the right word, “…you.”

“I thought you liked me,” he murmured, pressing his forehead to mine.

“Meh,” I replied in a low voice, “depends on the day.”

“Oh really?” Aaron said.

“Mhmmm,” I mumbled, “today’s a come ci come ca kind of day.”

“Well let me make it an embrasse-moi jusqu'à ce que tu ne puisses plus respirer kind of day for you,” he whispered, planting a soft kiss on my cheek bone. It was so gentle I barely registered that I was touched.

“I have no clue what you just said but it was hot as hell,” I laughed, trailing my fingertips up his neck.

And suddenly he was kissing me. I couldn’t pin when it started he just was. More soft kisses but this time all over my mouth that were just to die for. A gentle, slow, heavenly manoeuvre that left me longing for more.

I giggled, “and I don’t mind if you do that again.”

Aaron Warner took comments like that seriously. I took my lips back into his and spoke poems of love with no words at all. His palm was pressed flat across my back as the passion and longing for it all sent me stumbling backwards into a wall. A switch flipped or that was what it felt like and suddenly desperation became such a raw and sweet taste. We were clinging to one another, hands deep in hair, crumpling clothes, eyes closed just to take in a moment this divine, this eternal. The kisses were rougher, full of such intensity and heat. They were rapid, one after the other barely time for thought, let alone breath. We forgot what oxygen was and all of its benefits because nothing compared to this.

“Stop talking,” he said in a low, husky voice, lips immediately back on mine as soon as he’d got the words out as if he couldn’t wait to satisfy his craving, his lust.

“I can’t,” I said breathlessly between a kiss, before Aaron went in for the next one, “it’s borderline impossible,” he kissed me again, “I genuinely think I have a problem.”

“Shhhh,” he whispered, his palm pressed between the back of my head and the wall, chest falling up and down against mine. His finger dragging softly across my tingling lips, then down my jaw to my chin. He tilted my head backwards slightly.

“God you’re so beautiful,” he whispered, looking at me like I was golden, like I was the universe, like I was everything.

A warmth spread across the left side of my chest as the beating of my heart began to race to a nearly dangerous speed.

“Yeah, you’re alright looking too,” I winked.

Aaron sighed, still breathless.

“I’m kidding,” I told him gently, “you are the most beautiful man I ever saw.”

He paused for a moment, a pinkish tint rising in his cheeks at just at the top of his ears.

He leant down, putting his mouth to my ear, “what did I tell you about talking?”

And then I was back on his mouth. In a labyrinth of twisting tongues and sugary breaths. Desire, it burnt a hollow hole to my heart, a fiery red flame licking my flesh, exposing the naked organ. Bold and pulsating, it beat only to his name. It will forever only beat to his name.

“You just spoke,” I said, drawing back for a moment, “it’s not fair if you get to and I don’t.”

“I have an off switch,” he replied, “you, on the other hand-“

“Hey I thought you loved me and all the French Shakespeare stuff,” I exclaimed, waving my hand at him.

“I do,” he whispered, nose brushing over mine, “just shhhh, love.”

“I don’t think I can,” I smiled.

“I believe in you,” he said on my lips.

Oh I never knew a man could touch so tenderly. His hand slipped beneath my shirt, they were on my waist, ice cold against the heat of my skin. Goosebumps decorated my curves as a chill down ran down my spine. And he never stopped kissing. It was back to a gentle, passionate rhythm of kisses, some longer and slower and some creeping into the area of longing from before but all so full of love. I could feel it so strongly, so poignantly, like some sort of otherworldly force that neither of us would ever be able to control.

I pull away for a second, my chest heaving up and down like a untamed madwoman.

“No,” kiss, “I’m,” kiss, “serious,” kiss , “Aaron,” kiss “I-“

My breath was sucked away with another kiss, until I physically couldn’t form words. It was one way to shut me up. My hands clung to the fabric of his shirt, trailing desperately up into the depths of his hair. I gripped the chunks of blonde with raw desperation. We stumbled backwards and my back hit the door. Pain shot through it for a fraction of a second and if it lingered any longer I didn’t feel it. My distraction was too great.

I fumbled around for the handle, pushing open the door as we backed into the bedroom, still tongue tied, lost in euphoria. My head spun, the room spun, but everything was so perfect. And then suddenly I was aware of the mattress beneath me and Aaron on top. He gave no indication he may stop. I didn’t even recall falling onto the bed, my brain so overridden by emotion that I couldn’t comprehend things properly.

I placed two hands firmly on his chest and he paused, breathless, lips plumped and red, hair wild and ragged.

“What is it, love? Do you want me to stop?”

Worry ran riot over his features and shame glistened in his emerald eyes. Never did I hold so much love for one being in all my life.

“Kenji and J are going to be here in ten minutes,” I reminded him, going to push him off but not quite bringing myself to.

His eyes roamed me up and down very slowly, as if he was taking in every second, before leaning down to my ear and whispering darkly, “we’ll make it quick.”

“You slut,” I chuckled in the back of my throat, as he pressed his lips back onto mine.

“You don’t mind, love?” he murmured, with a smirk that highlighted his dimples, “do you?”

“Oh,” I grinned, tilting my head back to take his lips back into mine, “not one bit.”

I wrapped an arm around neck as he pressed our lips back together. I pulled him down onto me.

a/n: guys idk if the end got too heated there… should I have written that 🫣🫣 I feel like shatter me is worse though, right??

anyways #bellaisbackfromthedead heyyyyy guys, sorry I’ve been so absent lately!! mocks have been killing me but it’s the last week this week so yayayyay should be up and running with lots of fics soon!! though I’d finish March off with a touch of aaron warner, I hope you all enjoyed xx

shatter me masterlist

[your-mommy-ems]

Kenji: Which country has the most birds?

Kenji: Portu-geese!

Nazeera: That's a language.

Kenji: Portu-gull?

Nazeera: Good recovery.

Juliette: I think you mean good re-dovery.

Aaron: TURKEY. HOW DID YOU MISS TURKEY?

[starrynightsxo]

cardan and warner are similar in the sense that cardan is deluded by the fact that jude holding a knife to his throat is making him weak and warner is delusional over juliette who shoots him... so therefore wants him... because she could've shot anyone... and it was in his arm... not his chest... so she didnt wanna kill him-. I think you get my point.

[i-only-see-daylight]

Kenji: Would you please not Adam this into a worse situation than it already is?

Adam: Hold on, did you just use my name as a verb?