#the battle was over by the time he dragged himself out of the water and got to the gallows to help meredith

[bog-mummies]

Why did your inquisitor and Cullen try to kill each other???

long story VERY short they both worked for meredith during da2. hal (inquisitor) sided against her but while cullen stayed loyal, so they fought

hal incapacitated cullen so cullen didn't have a chance to turn against meredith at the very end (he gets his character development later). they didnt actually want to kill eachother since they have sort of a sibling dynamic but they both felt like they had no choice but to fight.

it was super tense and awkward between them after meredith's death but they eventually made up. took a few years though

[anantaru]

⚝ DAY 13 — BITING/MARKING

kinktober 2024. — masterlist | ao3

— including. — cyno, diluc, tighnari, alhaitham

— warnings. — fem! reader, biting (mentions of blood), marking you up, oral (fem! receiving), dirty talk

⚝ CYNO

with cyno's facial expression being unreadable as he's towering above you, he sinks his teeth right below your collarbone like he's staking his claim— truly, placing his sharp canines like an executioner's precision or rather a scholar's fascination? and when your back arches at his sinful procedure, when your breath catches like a caught bird in your throat, he exhales like he's satisfied some ancient hunger.

his bites burn like a brand— lingering long after the pain was gone, with a sharpened, bone chilling control, each mark placed not in a frenzy but in precision you only see in battles, a discipline so complete it burned you from within.

his cock slip and slides into you as his teeth sink on your neck mid thrust, right as your nails rake red lines down his shoulder blades to support your shuddering body from the way cyno has been manhandling you all night— yet, the man doesn't even flinch, no, he just groans as if he likes it, coming low from deep inside his chest as though the taste of your skin and the contort of your pussy around his cock was something he must devour in full.

his fingers dig into your hips as he grounds you, holding you in place when he thrusts up again, adding up on rhythm this time— going from slower and more focused on marking you up to brutal, dragging against the walls of your body like he's carving his path into you, the sheer feeling of your drenched pussy convulsing around him like that, over and over milking his cock of all its worth was making his thrusts turn a little sloppy.

"you'll remember this," cyno groans lowly, dragging his tongue over the fresh mark, "no matter where you go, who you see, this mark, this ache, this stretch, it's mine," as the moans bubbling within your throat fail you at last, lost in the depth of your own disarray as your body welcomes to battering sparks in your belly, caught in the brutal grip of his cock splitting you with a suffocating force.

every motion of his rhythm, every shift of his hips, pull something tight inside of you— a yearning and a desperate want, your breathing hitching, unable to get used to his pace as each greedy roll of hips stretch you, devour you slow and consuming, until you were crushed by him entirely.

his cock felt impossibly thick inside you, each thrust a promise written in spit and bruises as the aching bloom of another bite just landed under your jaw, coaxing out tiny, precious whines from your strained throat.

and when cyno licks the blood from his bottom lip, smiling with enjoyment like he's swallowed your soul, you realize he hasn't even cum himself yet— naturally, he's edged himself on for hours since he doesn't plan to give himself any solace, not until your body was dripping with his teeth marks first.

your mind was drifting, lost in the haze of his name, a whisper that clung to you like smoke as his scent wrapped around you, heavy and persistent before pulling you deeper into the fog of him, until you could hardly remember where you end and where he begins.

it's as if every thought was branded by cyno— echoing endlessly in the hollow of your chest.

⚝ DILUC

diluc's teeth scrape against the inside of your thigh first— testing the waters with his touch being blistering, like a tremor on the edge of the abyss and well, the master of the dawn winery wasn't sure if he'll fall for the addictiveness of you— yet little does he realize he's already looking over the edge, licking his lips and enjoying the way you react and taste.

he groans when you flinch against him, or when your legs tremble open and part wider for him the moment his sharp teeth graze at the pulsing flesh, the sound of his grunts accompanying his bites so low it straight up melted into your skin like liquid heat.

diluc's mouth moves up next, his tongue dragging saliva along your flesh before he bites down again, this time slightly harder and searing, so it'll properly sting, "let them see," he breathes, voice all smoke and fire as he sucks a bruise into the softness of your lower area, right above your clit, "let them know you're mine before you can even speak and say it yourself, love."

he holds you close, the heat of his body a constant reminder of the battle raging inside him— a conflict between control and the undeniable hunger that only you could satisfy, in fact, he's a man driven by deep emotions, and every gesture of affection from him reflected that inner fire, tempered by his normally reserved nature.

he presses his tongue into your clit next, thick and burning as he laps at the sensitive pearl, your body opening up to him so hard you sob out and hide your hands within his hair— your fingers clawing at his strands and digging him deeper into your cunt, nails dragging over his scalp like you're trying to ground yourself through the overstimulation and the wetness of his tongue.

your legs crush his head as your skin turns all sticky with sweat and spit and the wet slap of his tongue repeatedly lapping over your pussy as he slides his wet muscle between your folds with that feverish, balmy pace— his hand now searching one of your own to tangle his fingers within it, while the other was gripping at your thigh and pushing you into his mouth, fucking you with his tongue so wet and wild it felt like you might break apart any second.

to your surprise, diluc bites again— not hard, silly, but catching you off guard as he teasingly grazes his teeth over the sensitive skin, shamelessly groaning into your pussy like he's only just begun.

"no one else could made you fall apart like this, right?" diluc breathes, his voice wrecked, trembling at the edges of awe and delirium as the flicks of his tongue showed the opposite, battering you up, "you were built to come undone under me."

⚝ TIGHNARI

tighnari presses his nose into your neck first, his breathing stagnated and hot against your skin as he takes in your scent, whispering sweet nothings you honestly couldn't even decipher— it's something about that low, vibrating choice of tone that barely counted as anything but pure love.

although then, then he bites— utterly fast and sharp without you seeing it coming at all as the pain sinks into the spot between your neck and collarbone, your legs seizing up instantly, twitching violently as your moans break into whines and cries of his name, like something inside you snapped from the sharp press of teeth, from the way you took it.

"you're always so sensitive, crying already," tighnari mocks you a little, licking the aching spot blooming across your skin, "you're so easy to mark up, you're taking it so well," as his kisses remain precise, attempting to decipher the unspoken language of your skin, each press of his lips a careful investigation into your deepest desires.

you were entranced by your boyfriend, you feel it with every snap of his hips— every thick, punishing inch shoving inside you as your body turns soaked, squelching each time he grinds his cock in, the filthy noise becoming even louder when he pushes out as your thighs quiver around his hips.

in all honesty, tighnari wasn't even trying to be gentle with you, he wants to see you clutching at the sheets and demanding more, dizzy from the filth he's putting on you, more so from how full you were as he looks down on where your bodies connected, his tail coiling tightly around your ankle like he cannot stand any distance between you.

his teeth sink in again— just under your ear this time, where it'll definitely hurt and turn you on the most as your vision blurs when your walls clench tight around his length, choking his cock and milking him like your body's gone utterly feral.

tighnari sounds starved for you, yeah, like he's been crawling through a lifetime of thirst just to end up here, fucked so deep inside of you and getting milked by your walls as he cannot tell where he would end up without you as his breath shudders at your ear, hips pressing in like he wanted to disappear inside and never come back.

although, his voice always remains soft, a little aloof too, but there's a certain pressure in it— a quiet insistence, as if he's asking for permission to learn the depths of you a bit more, not simply to possess or claim you, but to understand your pleasure and memorize what you liked the most.

⚝ ALHAITHAM

with the precision of someone calculating the limits of reason, alhaitham's hands move with each touch resembling a quiet experiment whereas you— his willing subject, lets him bite down like he's tasting you— quiet and calculated as his mouth seals over the dip of your breast when you cry out, not just from the pain but from the claim of it, the quiet violence of his precision.

"do you see what you do to me?" alhaitham whispers as he seals your skin with teeth and tongue, dragging the bruise out slowly and watching the inflamed splotch rise like he's planting something unique into your skin, "you whine so easily for me," his presence looms like an unfinished sentence, always on the verge of something deeper, something more, testing your limits without speaking a word.

his cock was heavy inside of you, yet moving slow, stretching your cunt open with every roll of hips, making you slick from the base to your thighs but putting the most attention on your neck.

you're pinned beneath him, legs folded back, belly trembling from how fast he hits your most sensitive parts as he suppresses any noises coming from his throat— instead, he watches, alhaitham watches like a scholar and a sinner both, his eyes dark with need, tracking every flutter of your cunt like it's the only truth he's ever believed in, the blissful expression battered all over your face was a sight to die for.

you feel like you're being studied and destroyed all at once, your back arching in tune with his movements as your eyes roll back into your head, his hips shifting his angle when you scream the moment he changes the grip on your hips, fucking into you hard.

alhaitham slants forward to cage you within his big arms, hugging you, his large hands cupping behind your head in order to prevent you from bumping against the head board as he attacks a tender spot deep inside your warmth, catching every twitch and swallow of your pussy on his cock.

"i could write a thesis on how you fall apart," he admits bluntly with that damned smirk on his face, biting the underside of your jaw now as his tongue slowly drags over the mark afterwards, "but it's so much more satisfying to make you show me instead."

©2025 anantaru do not repost, copy, translate, modify, claim as your own

[antagonistic-sunsetgirl]

Cardassians are a very protective people

My favourite idea is that Garak is so scared of bringing Julian to Cardassia. Terrified. Surely she will eat him alive. The sun will fry his doctor and are ration bars even designed with humans in mind?? And oh, his people! Julian's part of one of the most dominant species in the Federation. He's probably never experienced Xenophobia in his life. If Cardassia hates him, how can Garak expect him to love it enough to stay, stay with him enough to start a life, a family-?

And then. I haven't decided how yet. Maybe someone at the hospital realizes Julian takes patient-doctor confidentiality UBER seriously. Cardassian doctors won't gossip about their patients, certainly not, but if someone with enough authority asks? Of course they'll share information. It's the state. Not Julian. He will go to war over your privacy. Some political adversery of Garak's is emergency-treated for PTSD by Julian and goes into the next debate fully expecting Garak to know every detail of that weakness, to exploit it. And he just. Had no idea. This man, a heavily rumoured, ah, intelligence expert, lives with this doctor. And he obviously has no clue about this thing.

News spreads. Julian starts getting the hardest-hit cases, the most vulnerable people. Cardassians that would never have sought treatment because they feel exposed, and an exposed Cardassian backs up into a corner and bites your fingers off. No matter what internal injuries are festering at their minds. But Julian has experience with luring Garak out of corners.

Gently, reliably, this man coaxes and heals until he becomes someone Cardassians trust with their deepest, darkest wounds. An old Gul shows up. As soon as he's shown into Bashir's office he bursts into sobs, full-blown panic attack. Cardassians never have panic attacks, certainly not in front of others, and certainly not Guls. But this man travelled four hours on foot because he heard this stranger listens and doesn't tell and understands, he accepts. Doesn't he know he did terrible things? But he soothes with Cardassian words on a foreign tongue and doesn't try to touch him until he asks to be held.

Soldiers whose minds can't tell if they're in space battle or on a reconstruction site. An old woman comes in and silently bares her flank. There's an old knife wound that was never treated and is gnarly on her skin, pulling it apart. This is not the first torture wound someone has silently asked to be healed, for the very first time, by Julian. A surgeon he doesn't know opens his door. He can't operate. His hands shake and all he smells is burnt flesh. Cardassia needs him so much and he just can't. Julian lets him watch his operations. See wins, watch people wake up again. Then there's the children. They say he doesn't even ask where your parents are. He just lets you sit with him. If you sob and tell him you're scared, so scared, does he even know what an orphan is worth on Cardassia, he'll hold you tightly like he wants to physically prove to you how valuable you are. He will say, clear and sure, that Cardassia would be lost without you. So foreign. If you tell him the memories are too much, he'll give you a sleeping pill that's not like the stuff you get on the street. It won't get you addicted.

He's odd, and a stranger. He has no scales but moves like that doesn't matter. He faints a lot in the sun. Garak knows Julian overworks himself and forgets how much more water he needs. He lives in constant terror that he won't be there the next time it happens, can't drag his doctor to the nearest house and pour water over his neck. And then it does happen. Garak measuredly leaves a very important meeting before breaking out into a sprint because his secretary informed him someone found Julian unconscious at midday. Garak finds him sitting in the shade. An old woman is frowning over him and insistently pouring small sips of saltwater down his throat. How does she know the right ratio? A young man is eagerly checking his pulse, pressing a little too hard from what Garak can tell, and has to listen to Julian's smiling intructions on what a normal human pulse rate is. A teen is standing at the side, not looking at Julian. Her gaze instantly snaps to Garak approaching. Like a vigil, she doesn't move from Julian's side and tracks Garak's movements until she determines who he is. Then he's levelled with a badly hidden reproachful glare, reprimanding him for leaving their doctor in peril for even a minute.

Garak takes Julian home with less words of anger than usual after these episodes. Most of it comes from fear, they both know. But he has realized that Cardassia apparently won't kill his doctor. And if she tries, her inhabitants will forcefully remind her that this Federation doctor with kind eyes and callused hands stands under the protection of a very, very loyal people.

Oh I am so writing this fic

[antinousletmehit]

HAIAIA REI!! I HOPE YOU HAVE A GOOD DAYY/NIGHT/EVENING , REMEMBER TO DRINK WATER AND TAKE BREAKS!! I KNOW YOU'RE PROBABLY BUSY WITH A LOT OF REQUESTS BUT I WAS THINKING OF A TELEMACHUS X READER WHERE THE READER IS LIKE MANHANDLES HIM (I thought it was funny and a bit silly THEHE) AND HE JUST FALLS MORE IN LOVE WITH HER BUT ODYSSEUS WAS NEARBY AND HE'S JUST LIKE "😧" please do it if you're not uncomfortable tho!! And when you have time!! :33 ANYWAYY HAVE A GOOD DAY/NIGHT/EVENING

୨୧┇how I feel after doing Aikos request after a month

────୨ৎ──── ────୨ৎ──── ───

Odysseus had seen battle. He had faced monsters, endured storms, and survived the wrath of gods. But nothing—nothing—could have prepared him for the absolute absurdity of watching his son get dragged by the hair through the halls of the palace, looking completely smitten.

You had a firm grip on Telemachus’s thick curls, yanking him along as he stumbled after you, only half-resisting. “You absolute idiot,” you growled. “I told you to stop sneaking out at night, but do you listen? No. Now I have to make sure you don’t get yourself killed.”

Telemachus, despite being unceremoniously hauled by his hair, was grinning like an idiot. His face was flushed, and he looked practically delighted. “You’re so strong,” he sighed, stumbling slightly as you yanked him forward. “Gods, it’s hot.”

Odysseus stood frozen in the middle of the hall, watching with an expression of pure disbelief. “You’re—what?” you snapped, throwing a glare over your shoulder.

Telemachus just gazed at you with open admiration, like you had personally brought him down from Olympus. “I love when you handle me like this,” he said, voice a little too dreamy for someone being dragged.

You groaned, rolling your eyes. “You would.”

Odysseus couldn’t take it anymore. “Boy,” he barked, stepping forward, “why in the name of all the gods are you letting someone drag you by the hair?”

Telemachus blinked at his father as if the answer were obvious. “Because she’s perfect,” he said, shrugging even as you tightened your grip on his curls. Odysseus opened his mouth. Then shut it. He inhaled deeply, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“Have you no pride?” he finally managed, voice strained.

Telemachus just grinned. “Not when it comes to her.”

You scoffed, finally releasing his hair with a shove. He barely even stumbled, just beaming at you like a lovesick fool. “I swear,” Odysseus muttered under his breath, shaking his head, “I should’ve left you in Pylos.”

Telemachus dusted himself off, still watching you with that infuriatingly fond expression. “So,” he said, tilting his head. “Are you gonna toss me around some more, or is that it?” Odysseus gave up. You, however, grabbed Telemachus by the collar and pulled him close.

“Do that stupid sneaking-out act again,” you warned, voice low and dangerous, “and I’ll throw you down the stairs next time.” Telemachus’s breath hitched. His face went red.

Odysseus groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “I’m leaving. I can’t witness this.” As he stormed off, you huffed and let go of Telemachus, who was now watching you with an almost dazed expression.

“…You really like this, don’t you?” you asked, crossing your arms.

Telemachus just smiled, still flushed. “With you? I’d let you throw me off a cliff.”

[esotericbluntbaby]

impact

hamzahthefantastic x reader

description: after a rocky breakup with hamzah, your friend decided to drag you out for a night of entertainment. stumbling upon an boxing match, you thought that you'd be able to take your mind off the heartbreak you persevered through, not knowing that the very man who caused it was in the ring.

mentions: boxer! hamzah, ex! hamzah, hamzah's kind of an ass, blood, bruises, violence, angst, hurt/comfort, happy ending, forced proximity she/her pronouns

edged u guys with this sorry!

--

hamzah wasn't the best boyfriend. in fact, he was relatively one of the worst people that you could think of.

the pain you suffered stemmed from a relationship of about two and a half years; that much time attached to someone like ball and chain tends to hurt when the chain is cut off. throughout, you asked yourself what could've possibly happened to the man you fell in love with. he grew distant without explanation over time, becoming a ghost of the memories, emotions, and connection that the two of you once had. you spent your nights crying at night in your apartment because you had no clue where he was, nor did he care enough to text you about why he hasn't spoken to you in hours.

though you loved him, you realized the dynamic of your relationship was turning into spoiled milk. the love you once felt so deeply for him slowly turned into anguish and resentment for the time wasted. tears lessened the more you grew used to his absence as conversations began to die down, growing numb to the hurt he caused you by taking himself away from you. the sheets around you became the most "home" you've felt since you rarely felt his body around you, even when he was around. your heart grumbled with the new-found hunger that he made you feel; a craving that could no longer be quenched in the way that flowers crave water and sunlight to grow. how foolish of you to fall in love with someone who no longer knows how to love; how foolish of you to fall in love with someone who could break you apart by taking the love he had for you away.

two years, and even more of simply knowing hamzah, was gone within several texts and the block button being pressed, leaving you numb to any emotion that you were capable of feeling. you originally weren't going to block him, especially because you wanted to give him a final shot at explaining if he was going through a personal struggle or depression that spread onto you; if he was, you would've been more supportive than you currently were. however, you fought an internal battle with yourself on if you'd fold and stay with the mere joy that seeing his text message would give you. you no longer wanted to hurt, nor did you want to feel second. you had to block him in order to heal.

it has been 6 months ever since those text messages were sent and your life became a constant struggle of pondering. you thought that ending things would stop your craving for the "why"s and "what-if"s; instead, it amplified it. he definitely wouldn't text you; even if he did, you had him blocked both mentally and physically. so, you became an insomniac due to the running thoughts and memories that circled in your head every night. it wasn't healthy for you, of course, but you had no clue how to stop it.

that was until you figured out how to distract yourself from the mere thought of him. shaving away the part of your brain that contained him, you began to be as busy as possible as a coping mechanism for his leave. temporarily, it worked; however, you still dreamt of a life with him. you still dreamt of a life with the hamzah that kissed you that fateful night, tainting your lips with the feeling of love and staining your life with his own imprint on you.

--

tonight was supposed to be a night-in: chinese food, a romcom, and possibly some weed, if you really felt like it. however, your friend rin decided to drag you alongside her to this boxing match with her boyfriend, tyler. the last thing you wanted to be doing was third-wheeling your friend in an area that wasn't of your expertise, however, you owed her for the time that she gave you the rest of her rolling papers when you were out. so, putting on your leather coat, you headed off and walked to the address she sent you.

rin's colorful locs made her stand out from the crowd of people in front of the warehouse, as well as her lively personality. giving her a hug and feeling the fuzz on her sweater, you forgot what it was like to feel the touch of another person. it made you feel slightly loser-esque, but it was soon brushed off when tyler greeted you with a simple smile and wave.

"i haven't seen you in forever!" rin exclaimed, bathing in the fact that you came.

you smiled, "yeah, sorry, i've just been busy. how've you been?"

"i've been so good- me and tyler just moved in together, actually."

a flashback of a conversation you had with hamzah about moving in with him painfully entered your mind. you needed to distract yourself from the thoughts before they consumed you like quicksand.

"i'm so happy for you- how is it?" you asked the both of them.

tyler jokingly snarked, "besides all the hair that falls into the drain that she makes me clean up," she playfully hit him, "it's been amazing."

"oh, stop it! it isn't all the time-"

"yes, it is!

"no-"

the conversation fell into empty background noise as their banter created the emergence of the very problem you were running away from. in all honestly, you couldn't help but feel envious of the two in front of you as their playfulness reminded you of hamzah. lately, almost everything reminded you of him. you pushed the thought out of your head and reached the front of the line to buy your tickets. heading into the warehouse, you took your seats as you suddenly felt the loneliest you've ever felt as they began to become immersed in each other's presence. you were simply a third party.

--

growing tired of the boxing match in front of you, whom you didn't even know the names of, you decided to get up and stretch your legs, as well as explore the place you were at. you lied, saying that you had to use the restroom, and walked around a couple of times. it was only until you heard an announcer in the other room that you stopped in your tracks, feeling your throat grow a lump and your heart drop to the floor.

"aaand hamzah's down, folks! will he be able to recover?"

you flinched at the mere mention of his name. hamzah's relatively popular, especially within middle eastern communities, or at least, that's what you told yourself. curiousity always killed the cat, though, no matter how strong it was. unsurprisingly, you walked into the other room to allow your thoughts to be at ease. surely, it couldn't be the hamzah that you know of.

except it was.

he was almost unrecognizable.

the once curly, brown hair you'd run your hands into as he'd fall asleep was now buzzed and bleached to a toned blonde. he was fit; his muscles were always there, but watching him in the ring made you realized that he was now toned. his face now adorned a gash on his cheekbone, as well as bruises decorating his skin. though you resented him, you still worried for his wellbeing. you stared as his opponent blocked and punched him.

hamzah's eyes then locked onto yours for a solid 5 seconds, before his opponent socked him in the face. your hand covered your mouth as you gasped at the sight in front of you. he was hit so hard that he fell over as if he was a drunk man trying to walk after taking shots in the double digits. you wondered if he'd be able to get up; though he wasn't a fighter for you, he was definitely a fighter for himself. as the ref was about to call a stop to the match, he pushed himself up. a fire ignited in his eyes and he pushed himself to the max.

hamzah was now blocking every single punch thrown at him, as if he got into the mind of his opponent and could predict where he'd try to hit him. his punches seemed twice as strong, making his opponent wince and shrivel at each one thrown at him. before you knew it, the match was over

and hamzah won.

--

saying goodbye to your friends, you walked outside being met with freezing air. snow fell from the sky onto you and your surroundings; you soon came to the realization that you had to walk home in the cold as it snowed. not only did you have to walk in the cold, you also had to walk in the dark. you began to walk into the direction of your house until you felt a hand on your shoulder. thinking that rin forgot something in your purse, you turned around immediately. except, your eyes were met with hamzah's; he looked even better up close.

"are you really gonna walk home in the dark while it's snowing?"

you were confused on how he was able to talk to you as if he didn't smash your heart into pieces and leave you to fix it on your own. another part of you was upset at the fact that he was.

"yeah."

"no, let me drive you."

you scoffed, "hamzah, i really don't want to be alone in a car with you."

"you think i'd try anything?"

"i know you wouldn't, but that doesn't change anything. bye, hamzah."

you turned away once more, beginning to walk back to your house. until, his hand grasped your shoulder once more and softly swung you around.

"no, please," desperation was laced into his eyes, "please. it isn't safe."

you weighed your options: possibly freeze to death or get kidnapped and murdered, or endure the most awkward car ride of your life.

you chose the second option, not knowing what it would entail.

--

you didn't realize how far you walked until you realized it took you 20 minutes to get back to your house. you were about to exit the car with a simple "thank you" until hamzah locked the doors. you knew he wouldn't do anything bad, so the whole endeavor confused you and slightly irritated you. your ex currently locked you in his car, parked in front of your house. what the hell did he want?

"hamzah-"

"please, just talk to me for a little."

"why?"

his eyebrows furrowed, "because i missed you."

"oh, and i didn't?"

"let me expla-"

your voice became wobbly with emotion, "no, hamzah. stop. please, just let me leave."

you could hear the yearning in his voice as he spoke, "please. just listen to me, please- you don't have to forgive me or like me after you do but, please, just listen."

"fine."

"i fucked up. i fucked up the most that anyone could by losing you. i realized how serious things were getting and i was so scared that i'd be holding you back."

your voice became softer than the jaggedness you held in it each sentence you spoke to him.

"why would you be holding me back?"

"you deserve someone that could give you more than i could. i could never be enough for you and i'm sorry about that."

"so you just- you just fucking leave? not even, like, leave me but just dip from the relationship on your own terms? are you serious, hamzah? i thought you were smart, how could you do something this fucking dumb?"

he sighed, "i know i'm a fucking idiot. you can call me a fucking idiot. you can call me a moron. you can call me stupid- i don't care. i'm sorry- i'm so sorry. words will never be able to express how fucking sorry i am."

silence echoed in the space between you, eye contact being the only langauge being spoken. you didn't forgive him, but you weren't mad at him. you realized that his distance was only out of insecurity and miscommunication on his end. you didn't know how to feel; training yourself to hate him never worked and this made it even harder.

"you look different."

"i had to," he admitted, "every time i looked in the mirror, i'd think of you."

"what do you mean?"

"i'd fix my curls and run my hands through them and then suddenly, i got this feeling that my hands were actually yours."

"i'm not following-"

"i'd run my hands through my hair and pretend it was you. i'd touch my face and my arms and my chest and think about how you would. i physically couldn't look like me anymore or else i would keep on thinking about you."

"really?"

"even with new hair and a new body, i still think of you, so it was kinda useless."

"i think you look nice."

"really?"

"i feel the same as you, in a way, just without the physical altering," you admitted, "i think about you, still."

"what about me?"

you ran out of words to correlate to your thoughts. you were overwhelmed with all the emotion and loneliness you felt throughout the night. you didn't know what to say, causing you to take shaky, deep breaths as tears welled up in your eyes. you were going to wing it.

"i dunno, i guess i just- i thought i wasn't enough for you. i thought you hated me for the longest time because you never spoke to me and i just- i didn't know what i did wrong."

"no, baby, i could never hate you," hamzah put his arm over your shoulder, "i'm sorry. i'm so sorry- i never meant to hurt you."

"i spent so many nights just crying, hamzah, and now that i'm talking to you, i don't know how to feel."

"baby, i'm sorry. you didn't do anything wrong- i was an idiot and i messed up so bad. you don't deserve this."

"if you just told me you were feeling insecure about your spot in our relationship, you could've just told me."

"i should've, i know."

"i didn't want you to be perfect. i just wanted you."

hamzah's hand cupped your cheek, a familiar sense of love and nostalgia emerging out of his fingertips.

"do you still want me?"

"i never stopped wanting you."

the bridge between your lips connected after being apart for so long as he kissed you with desperation and passion intertwined inside of it. for the first time in months, the both of you felt complete again.

"baby, i know i messed up. i promise i'll make it up to you- but for now, i just want you back. i beat myself up everyday about losing you and i just- i can't take it anymore. i need you back more than i need air to breathe."

"hamzah, i don't want to get hurt again-"

"and you won't. please."

you saw the sincere look in his face as you scanned for any form of a lie. it was either to fall or to take a leap; so, you lept.

"no more boxing. i can't watch my boyfriend get hurt like that anymore."

--

author's note

i kinda hate this lowk but do we want more boxer!hamzah fics?? do i make this into a regular occurrence??

[inseobts]

Hello, it's me again.

Can I request a Zoro X Reader,using the picture below? It's the aftermath of Onigashima when they are back on the sunny.

Credit to the original artist @marimo_fr on Twitter :) <3

The Weight You Carry

zoro x gn!reader

the scars of onigashima remain, especially for zoro, whose body bears the cost of every brutal fight. he always claims he can handle it, always acts like the weight of the world is his alone to bear, but not tonight, not anymore.

a/n: I love the idea and the art, hope you'll like it

(ฅ́ ˘ฅ̀)♡

words count: 1.7k

tags: blood, no major spoilers

masterlist || ao3 || ko-fi

The Thousand Sunny drifts peacefully on the waves, a stark contrast to the devastation left behind in Wano. The battle is over. Kaido has fallen. Luffy’s dream has inched closer to reality. But for those who fought, those who pushed themselves to the brink of death, it doesn’t end so easily.

Zoro grips the edge of the sink, knuckles white against the porcelain. His breath is ragged, uneven, his body wracked with pain that refuses to subside. The blood in his mouth is warm, metallic, pooling between his fingers as it drips into the water below. He watches it swirl, crimson twisting through the clear liquid, disappearing down the drain. His arms shake under his own weight, muscles frayed from exhaustion, from wounds that haven’t had time to heal.

He should be resting. Chopper told him as much, ordered him to stay in bed, to let his body recover. But lying down only makes it worse. The moment he closes his eyes, he feels the weight of every battle, every scar, every near-death experience pressing down on him. He remembers Kaido’s club smashing into his ribs, King’s flames scorching his skin, his swords feeling heavier than ever as he pushed himself past his limits.

How many times has he done this? How many times has he taken on more than he should, because he had to?

“Zoro! Tell me when you’re done with the bathroom!”

Your voice filters through the door, casual, unaware.

Zoro exhales harshly, dragging a hand down his face. He doesn’t want you to see him like this. You’ve seen him fight, seen him bleed, but this? This is different. This is weakness, the kind he refuses to show. He braces himself, tries to push off the sink and stand tall, but his legs betray him. His vision blurs at the edges.

The door creaks open before he can stop you.

Your eyes widen instantly, the casual impatience from earlier vanishing in an instant.

“Zoro—”

He turns away sharply, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, as if that could erase the evidence “Tch. Don’t barge in.” His voice is rough, strained.

“Don’t—?” You shut the door behind you, stepping closer despite his obvious attempt to keep you at a distance “Are you kidding me? You’re—Zoro, you’re bleeding.”

“It’s nothing.”

Your hands are on him before he can protest, gripping his arm, trying to steady him. Up close, he looks even worse. Sweat clings to his skin, his breathing is shallow, and the way he leans against the sink tells you all you need to know, he’s barely standing.

You swallow hard “Chopper told you to rest.”

“I don’t need—” His sentence cuts off with a cough, a fresh splatter of red hitting the sink. He grimaces. Damn it.

You don’t hesitate. Your arms wrap around his waist, supporting him before he collapses “Come on,” you say firmly “You’re going back to bed.”

“I can walk.”

“You can barely stand.”

Zoro grits his teeth, frustration flashing in his eyes, but you don’t budge. He’s stubborn, but so are you.

“Zoro...” your voice softens, and that’s what gets to him. The fight drains from his shoulders, and he lets you guide him out of the bathroom. The walk back to his room is slow, each step heavy, but you don’t rush him. You don’t say anything when he leans into you more than he probably wants to admit.

When you finally reach his bed, he sits down with a heavy sigh. You kneel in front of him, grabbing a cloth from the bedside table “Let me clean you up.”

Zoro exhales but doesn’t argue this time. He watches as you work, dabbing away the blood with careful hands. Your touch is gentle, the complete opposite of the battlefield, of the violence he’s endured.

“I hate seeing you like this” you mutter.

He looks away “You knew what you signed up for.”

“That doesn’t mean I don’t worry.”

Silence hangs between you. You continue cleaning the blood from his face, your touch steady, reassuring. Zoro doesn’t stop you, doesn’t pull away. Maybe it’s the exhaustion, maybe it’s the fact that for once, he’s allowing himself to accept the care he always shrugs off.

When you’re done, you sit back, watching him carefully “Promise me you’ll rest?”

He grunts, which isn’t exactly a promise, but it’s good enough for now.

You sigh, reaching for his hand, squeezing it “You don’t have to carry everything alone, you know.”

Zoro glances at you, something unreadable flickering in his gaze. He doesn’t answer, but the way his fingers tighten around yours tells you enough.

For now, it’s enough.

Zoro leans back against the pillows, his body protesting even the smallest movement. His hand still rests in yours, the calloused warmth of his fingers curling slightly around your own. He hasn’t let go, and you don’t pull away.

“You should sleep” you murmur, watching his heavy-lidded eyes fight against exhaustion.

“Tch” He scoffs, but it lacks his usual sharpness “I’ll be fine.”

You frown “You’re not fine, Zoro. You nearly died.”

He grunts, dismissive as ever “Wouldn’t be the first time.”

His words send a pang through your chest. The worst part is that you know he’s right. This isn’t the first time he’s thrown himself into the jaws of death without hesitation. It won’t be the last. That’s just who Zoro is. He pushes past limits, beyond the brink of what a human body should be capable of, all for the sake of his captain, his crew, his dream.

You’ve always admired his resolve, his unwavering strength. But nights like this, when the cost of that strength weighs so heavily on him, it’s hard to swallow.

You sigh, shifting so you’re sitting on the edge of the bed “You scared me, you know.”

Zoro cracks one eye open, glancing at you “Didn’t mean to.”

“Doesn’t change the fact that you did.”

He exhales slowly, his fingers twitching against yours “I had to do it.”

“I know, I’m not saying that.”

And you do. You know he had no choice but to push himself beyond reason. You know that if he hadn’t, if he had hesitated for even a second, things might have ended differently. The battle against Kaido, against King, against all the overwhelming forces standing in their way, Zoro had taken them all on, knowing damn well the cost.

But just because you understand doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt to see him like this.

Zoro shifts slightly, his face tilting toward you “I’m still here.” His voice is quiet, almost as if he’s saying it for you, not himself.

You squeeze his hand “Yeah. You are.”

Silence stretches between you again, but it’s softer this time, less heavy. His breathing evens out little by little, the exhaustion finally winning against his stubbornness. His grip on your hand loosens slightly, though he doesn’t let go completely.

You adjust the blanket over him, brushing a few damp strands of green hair from his forehead “Get some rest, Zoro.”

He grumbles something under his breath, likely another protest, but his body betrays him as his eyelids grow heavier.

You don’t move, not yet. You sit there, watching the steady rise and fall of his chest, reassuring yourself that he’s here, that he’s safe.

Because for all of Zoro’s strength, for all his resilience and willpower, there are moments like these when you remember he’s still human. And even the strongest swordsman in the world needs someone to watch over him sometimes.

And as long as you’re here, you’ll make damn sure he never has to carry that weight alone.

The room is quiet except for the steady rhythm of Zoro’s breathing. He’s teetering on the edge of sleep, exhaustion finally pulling him under despite his stubbornness. His hand is still loosely curled around yours, warm and calloused, grounding.

You know you should probably let him rest. But something keeps you there, watching the slow rise and fall of his chest, the faint furrow of his brows even in sleep, like he’s still fighting, even now. Like he doesn’t know how to let go.

Carefully, you reach out, brushing stray strands of green from his forehead. His skin is warm, feverish, but he doesn’t stir. Your fingers trail down, tracing the line of his jaw, the scar over his eye, marks of every battle, every fight he’s taken on without hesitation.

Your heart aches.

Zoro shifts slightly under your touch, his head tilting just enough that his lips part on a quiet exhale. You freeze, watching him, but he doesn’t pull away. If anything, his hand tightens around yours.

Your gaze flickers to his mouth.

Slowly, cautiously, you lean in. You hover just above him, close enough to feel the warmth of his breath against your lips. You hesitate, searching for any sign that he’s too out of it, too far gone into exhaustion.

But then—

“Hah… you just gonna sit there all night?”

His voice is hoarse, barely more than a murmur, but it sends a jolt through you. Your eyes snap up to his, startled. Even half-lidded with fatigue, there’s something sharp in his gaze, something knowing. A lazy smirk tugs at the corner of his lips.

Caught.

“I thought you were asleep” you whisper.

He exhales, the ghost of a chuckle. “Not when you’re staring at me like that.” His voice is low, rough, but there’s no teasing in it, just warmth.

You swallow, your cheeks burning “Idiot.”

His smirk fades slightly, his expression softening as he studies you “Come here.”

You hesitate only for a second before leaning down again, pressing your lips lightly to his.

Zoro exhales against your mouth, his grip on your hand tightening. It’s not rushed, not desperate, just a slow, lingering press of lips, filled with everything unspoken between you. He tilts his head, deepening it just slightly, enough to let you feel the warmth of him, the weight of him.

When you finally pull back, his eyes flicker open again, hazy but focused on you.

“Better?” you murmur.

His thumb brushes against your knuckles “Yeah.”

You smile softly, pressing one last kiss to his forehead before settling in beside him, your fingers still laced together.

And for the first time since Onigashima, Zoro lets himself rest.

[catsoupki]

i think that when bakugou confessed to you in UA, there were two possibilities. that’s it. he either confessed by pure accident, that could’ve been resulted by so many different reasons but i think the most probable would be denki getting bakugou drunk without his knowledge and suddenly all this tipsiness got to him

syllables and fricatives slur out of his lips as he stretches like a cat across your lap— your best friend is flushed with alcohol while denki laughs his ass off, you’re put into a really awkward position. you try to lift him up, but a relaxed jumble of limbs is harder to manoeuvre, let alone the fact that they belong to a hero in training with 80 kg of mostly lean muscle mass.

“come on, katsu, come on, let’s go and get you in bed” grunts trace your breath along with pleads that go in one ear and out the other.

“nghh, no” some semblance of consciousness seems to have come as he drags you back down to the sofa, muffling your midriff with his body.

mina, eijirou and sero are all laughing at your pathetic attempts of dragging bakugou to bed but you have yet to give up.

“you need to sleep come onnn” you think that you’ll try one last time before surrendering him and yourself to this predicament until tomorrow morning.

bakugou is reluctant when you try to drag him upwards, instead he takes his hand and knocks on your chest like a door— “i like you, hey, listen,” for a brief second, you thought that your ears had fooled you and that his muffles weren’t really what you heard. but judging based on the rest of their reactions, it seems to be true, suddenly your palms are sweatier, your nape feels warm and you’re all too aware of the places at which he’s touching you now.

“mff.. i’ll go if you kiss me”

right now is the most awake you’ve been since midnight. chills shoot through your body at the image that was involuntarily concocted in your head, flushed, your body gives out and flops down from the couch into the floor with bakugou’s face burrowed into your neck. the warm, periodic soft breaths tell you he’s close to falling asleep.

“fine, fine, come on katsu”

then there’s the other way. by pure frustration or anger. your obliviousness has surely shattered his entire world when the hints mina told him that would definitely get you to know seemed to have failed in every sense of the word—

it was a tuesday, after lunch period, class 1A had been called to the grounds for a physical training session. sparrings had been going on for the past hour and everyone is beyond exhausted. bakugou is sitting next to you on the benches, heaving and downing a bottle of water like nothing. you two have just finished your round, turning the leaderboard to 11-9 with him in the lead.

when you look over you see the way his eyes dart around the current battle (between izuku and shouto), they’re glossed over— pulled in by the sheer weight of their movements. you know that in the depths of his mind, he’s analysing every step or twist of their bodies, exactly as if he’s right in the battle himself— this is what makes him so good: he’s working even when he’s resting.

chuckles leave your breath and they snap him out of his daze, “hah what you looking at, nerd?” he says without much bite, a grin that’s victorious and smug, “you!” despite just stating the obvious, you puff your cheeks out, proud that your remark had rendered bakugou temporarily speechless.

“tsk, you have no idea what you do to me, do you..” yes, although the grounds currently are shooting around with kicks that land with vigour, blasts that explode in people’s faces, somehow, you heard the whisper that was not meant for you.

“what do you mean kats?” tilting your head, you continue downing water whilst looking at him expectantly. suddenly, his face flashes red and the knuckles that wrap around his flask turn snow white.

“nothin’, forget it,” he brushes you off, engrossed in the match once again.

“aww kats, what are you hiding from me?”

“i said nothing, god damn it!” so adamant.

“you sure? it sounds like something.” you insist, teasing in your tone as you accompany bakugou to the bottle refill station.

“oh my days y/n how oblivious are you? even shouto figured it out last month, i’ve liked you since first year, you happy now?” he looks at you, and you really, really look at him. he’s flaring, frustrated, somewhat.

“i— what?”

[d-targaryenshoe]

Drunk On Love - Benedict Bridgerton

Summary: Love is beautiful yet when one is drunk it can rather be a little confusing and breathtaking.

Word count: 1210

Benedict Bridgerton prided himself on many things, his artistic talent, wit, and ability to hold his drink.

Yet tonight, the second Bridgerton son was wobbling on his feet, his shirt unbuttoned halfway down his chest, a cravat dangling loosely from his neck like a sad ribbon on an overindulged present.

The Bridgerton house was alive with music and laughter.

Eloise had declared it a night for frivolity, dragging everyone into the drawing room after dinner to play a raucous game of charades.

Wine flowed like the Thames, and for once, Anthony and Kate didn’t step in to regulate the chaos.

“Benedict,” Colin chortled, pointing as his elder brother attempted to lean casually on a settee and nearly toppled over, “I think you’ve lost the ability to differentiate between horizontal and vertical.”

“I’m perfectly... perpendic... perpendicular!” Benedict slurred, wagging a finger in Colin’s direction.

“Indeed,” Eloise said dryly. She raised her voice, addressing the room. “I give it five minutes before he collapses entirely. Any takers?”

“Oh, stop betting on him,” sighed Daphne. “Where’s y/n? Benedict always behaves better when she's around.”

Benedict blinked hazily around the room.

His siblings’ teasing words blended into the merry chaos, but one name struck a chord, y/n.

Who was y/n?

And why did that name feel like a golden thread pulling at his soul?

He turned his head too quickly, the room spinning in response.

His gaze landed on a figure near the pianoforte—one so radiant it was as though the heavens had gifted them the very stars.

“Who... who is that?” Benedict whispered, stumbling toward Colin and yanking on his sleeve.

“Who?” Colin asked, bewildered.

“That divine creature,” Benedict gestured dramatically, “by the pianoforte. Look at her, Colin. Just look! She's perfect.”

Colin stared at him for a moment, then burst into uncontrollable laughter.

“Oh, this is too good. Benedict, that’s your wife”

“My what?” Benedict spluttered, recoiling as though he’d been doused in cold water.

“Your wife, you fool. Y/n. The person you married three years ago.” Colin’s grin was practically audible. “You have children with her, by the way.”

“Children?!” Benedict gasped, clutching his chest.

His mind raced. Surely, he would remember such monumental details.

A wife? Children? His heart thundered as he stared at you, as you were now laughing with Hyacinth and Gregory.

Every movement you made felt hypnotic, like watching sunlight dance on water.

“I don’t believe you,” Benedict declared, his voice rising above the chatter.

“Shall we fetch the marriage certificate?” Anthony drawled from his seat by the fire.

He smirked, swirling a glass of brandy. “Or the children?”

Before anyone could stop him, Benedict crossed the room with all the determination of a soldier marching to battle.

He nearly tripped over Daphne’s gown in his haste, earning a glare, but he pressed on.

As he approached, you turned to him, your face lighting up with warmth.

“Benedict,” you said, a fond smile gracing your lips. “You look like you’ve had quite a bit of—”

“Are you my spouse?” Benedict interrupted his voice a mix of awe and disbelief.

You blinked, glancing around the room as though to confirm this wasn’t a joke orchestrated by his siblings. “I am. Last time I checked, anyway.”

“And we have... children?” Benedict pressed, his hands flailing for emphasis.

“Two of them,” you replied slowly, your brow furrowing. “Are you feeling all right?”

Benedict staggered back a step, clutching at his heart as though Cupid himself had struck him anew.

“I don’t believe it. How could I have forgotten marrying someone so... so—” He gestured helplessly at you, his words failing him. “You’re perfect. Stunning. A masterpiece! Surely, I would remember creating something so beautiful with you.”

From the corner, Colin let out a loud snort of laughter, while Hyacinth whispered something to Gregory, both of them dissolving into giggles.

You, however, softened, recognizing the sincerity behind Benedict’s intoxicated declarations.

“Benedict,” you said gently, placing a hand on his arm. “You didn’t forget. You’ve just had a bit too much wine tonight.”

“I could never drink enough to forget you,” Benedict declared, his eyes wide with conviction.

“But I must have been a fool not to spend every waking moment worshiping you. Tell me, y/n—how did someone like me manage to convince someone like you to marry me?”

Your laughter was soft, your affection for him evident in every glance. "You painted me a portrait. You said it was the only way to capture what words could not. And then you kissed me.”

“I kissed you?” Benedict repeated, his voice trembling. “I kissed you and lived to tell the tale? Remarkable.”

The room erupted into chaos as the siblings could no longer contain their laughter.

Daphne leaned against a chair for support, Anthony pinched the bridge of his nose in mock exasperation, and Eloise whispered something scandalous to Francesca, who chuckled into her wine glass.

“You’re all horrible!” Benedict shouted, turning to glare at his family. “How dare you mock a man rediscovering the love of his life?”

“You’re rediscovering her because you’re drunk,” Eloise pointed out, her tone laced with amusement.

“Drunk or not, my love is real,” Benedict retorted dramatically, turning back to you. “Y/n, my muse, my heart—can you forgive me for not loving you loudly enough?”

“You love me plenty loudly, Benedict,” you replied with a smile, your eyes twinkling with mirth. “Especially when you’re drunk.”

At that moment, the door to the drawing room opened, and a pair of small children toddled in, guided by their nurse.

The eldest, a dark-haired boy of about three, immediately ran to you, clutching your leg.

The younger, a baby with Benedict’s dimpled cheeks, squealed happily from the nurse’s arms.

Benedict froze, staring at the children as though they were mythical creatures.

“Are these... mine?” he whispered, his voice barely audible.

“Yes,” you said, picking up the boy and balancing him on your hip. “This is Thomas and that little one is Edith.”

Benedict dropped to his knees, staring at his children in awe. “Thomas. Edith. My heirs. My legacy.”

“They’re not royalty, Benedict,” Anthony deadpanned.

Benedict ignored him, his eyes welling with tears. “They’re perfect. Just like their parents.”

You rolled your eyes fondly. “All right, darling. Let’s get you some water.”

The next morning, Benedict woke with a pounding headache and a vague sense of humiliation.

As he shuffled into the breakfast room, his siblings greeted him with a chorus of applause and cheers.

“Well done, Benedict,” Colin teased. “You fell in love with your wife all over again.”

“Most romantic thing I’ve ever seen,” Daphne added, her tone dripping with sarcasm.

Benedict groaned, sinking into his chair. “Please, tell me I didn’t embarrass myself too badly.”

You entered the room, setting a cup of tea before him. “You were charming, as always.”

“Was I?” Benedict asked, peering up at you.

“You were,” you said, leaning down to kiss his cheek. “Though I think you owe me another portrait. You did promise one last night.”

Benedict smiled sheepishly, his love for you as steady and enduring as the sunlight streaming through the window.

“Anything for you,” he murmured, vowing to remind you every day just how deeply he adored you—drunk or not.

[cupidsworstcrime]

Older!Jason Todd x f!reader

CONTENT : light stalking , breaking and entering for sfw reasons , age gap (im a freak like that soz) but its not the focus , mutual pining (he doesnt know its mutual) , mild hurt comfort , dual POV , cudding , kissing , first date (that was TOTALLY a date) WORD COUNT : 8,715

Jason never thought of himself as old. Thirty-four wasn't a grave sentence—not for someone who’d died already.

But then you showed up.

Bright-eyed, soft-voiced, and barely a breath over twenty. Just a flicker of life in the city’s constant dark. And suddenly, he felt like some grim, brooding relic. A man with blood on his hands and too many ghosts in his head, watching a girl who should’ve been invisible to someone like him.

But you weren't.

You moved through your little apartment like the world couldn’t touch you. Laughing at old movies, dancing in threadbare socks, mouthing lyrics to songs you thought no one could hear. You’d hum into the night, while Jason crouched on the rooftop like a feral thing, helmet in hand, trying to remember how to breathe.

You didn’t belong in his world.

You belonged in bookstores, under heavy blankets, beside coffee cups and hands that hadn’t broken bones.

He felt like a fucking creep every time he lingered too long. Thirty-four and loitering outside a twenty-something’s window like some twisted shadow. He told himself it was patrol. That he was just making sure your street stayed clean. That he was just being careful.

But it wasn’t true.

He knew your schedule. Knew when you got home, when your lights turned off, what color your robe was, what pages you re-read at night because your lips moved along with the words.

You’d glance at the window sometimes. Like you felt him watching.

And he’d retreat a step back into the dark.

He could go down there. Could speak. Could give you a name—Jason. Just Jason. Not Red Hood, not the vigilante with blood under his nails and a death certificate in his past.

But what the hell would he say?

“Hey, I’m twice the trauma and almost ten years older. Thought I’d make your life harder.”

No. Better to stay in the shadows. Better to keep the distance.

Still… that gap between you two? It didn’t stop him from watching.

And one night, it might not stop him from coming down.

He noticed the change first in your routine.

The lights didn’t flick on at their usual time. No humming through the kitchen. No movement behind the curtain. Just stillness.

Jason crouched on the rooftop longer than usual, a sour knot twisting in his gut. Something felt off.

He waited.

When you finally appeared, wrapped in a blanket and shuffling like your limbs weighed double, he knew.

Sick.

You sneezed, coughed, dragged yourself across the apartment like every step was a battle. Collapsed onto the couch and didn’t move for hours.

He told himself to leave it alone.

He didn’t.

That night, when the city dipped into quiet, when even the criminals tucked themselves into corners, Jason broke his rule.

He picked the lock. Silent. Surgical. Years of training reducing the entry to a whisper of metal. It wasn’t an easy lock, he supposed, he was just skilled. 

Inside, it smelled like you—books, honeyed tea, and the faintest trace of vanilla. Your little apartment was still warm from the space heater purring in the corner. You were out cold in your bed, one arm tossed over your forehead like you was trying to block out the world.

Jason hovered in the doorway for a moment longer than he should’ve, heart thudding like he'd committed something worse than breaking and entering. You looked so *small*. Your cheeks flushed, a sweat-damp curl stuck to your forehead.

He moved quietly. Precise.

A trip to the kitchen yielded a bottle of cold water. Your medicine cabinet was sparse, but he supplemented it with the stash he’d brought—cold meds, tissues, vitamin C gummies (because you looked like the kind of person who’d actually take those).

He arranged everything on your nightstand like it belonged there. Water. Medicine. Crackers. A small post-it note with scribbled handwriting—his, sharp and angled.

"Take these when you wake up. Drink water. Rest."

No name. No signature.

He lingered, just a moment longer. Eyes tracing the slope of your brow, the tiny furrow like you was still half-fighting your fever even in sleep.

Then he was gone.

Back to the cold rooftop. Back to the dark.

But when you woke up the next morning to find everything you needed already there, you sat up slow, blinking around the room like you weren't sure what had happened.

And then… you smiled.

He saw it through the curtain. Just a flicker.

Jason leaned back against the chimney, heart twisting.

Maybe he was a creep. Maybe he was too old, too damaged, too far gone.

But you smiled.

And for now, that was enough.

Your head was a mess—hot, heavy, stuffed full of cotton. Every breath scratched your throat like sandpaper. Your skin felt too tight, and your body ached in places you didn’t even know could ache.

You woke up expecting the same misery as the day before. But when you blinked blearily at the nightstand, something was different.

Water. Cold. Unopened.

A small pack of crackers. Your favorite kind—you hadn’t bought those in weeks.

A box of meds you definitely didn’t own.

And a note.

The handwriting was all angles and pressure, like the pen had nearly torn the paper.

"Take these when you wake up. Drink water. Rest."

Your fingers trembled a little as you set the note down. Not from the fever—but from the understanding that settled low and heavy in your chest.

You weren't stupid.

You’d seen him before—just barely. Out of the corner of your eye, when the streetlights caught the glint of something on the roof. A red shadow that always lingered a little too long. Movement where there shouldn't have been any. Eyes on your back when you stood too close to the window.

You’d felt him. Not in fear—never that. He didn’t radiate menace.

He radiated watchfulness.

It wasn’t hard to piece together. Gotham had plenty of creeps, but not many who left cold meds and crackers for sick girls in the dead of night.

Only one kind of man broke into your apartment, didn’t take a damn thing, and made sure you had water.

Red Hood.

Of course it was him. Who else would haunt your rooftop like a ghost with a vendetta and still care if your was hydrated?

You let yourself sink back against the pillows, eyes fluttering shut again, the note clutched in your hand.

Some people would’ve panicked. Called the cops. Changed the locks.

But not you.

Because deep down, you didn’t feel unsafe.

You felt… seen.

And maybe that was foolish. Maybe it was the fever talking. But as you drifted off again, the edge of a smile tugged at your lips.

Let him watch.

You didn’t mind.

Not one bit.

You felt better now. The fog of fever had lifted, your throat was no longer raw, and the aching weight in your limbs had faded to a dull memory. The meds were still on your nightstand, the water replaced daily. Quiet gifts. Like clockwork.

The vitamin C gummies were your favorite part—chewy, tart little bursts of citrus comfort. You popped one into your mouth while stirring sauce on the stove, humming to yourself as garlic filled the apartment.

You weren't cooking for one tonight.

Technically, you were. But not really.

The lasagna was layered with too much cheese, too much care. The garlic bread was golden and crisp, your best batch yet. You set two plates on the table—one for you, one untouched. Just in case.

As the oven clicked off, you wiped your hands on a towel and walked to the balcony. The air was cool, brushing against your skin like a secret. You stepped out barefoot, leaned on the railing, and tilted your head slightly upward.

You couldn’t see him—not directly. But you felt him. Like always.

Watching. Waiting. Close.

“You’re free to come eat,” you said softly. Not a whisper, not a shout—just a calm, sure statement. As if this was routine. As if you’d always spoken to the shadows.

Then you turned and stepped back inside, leaving the balcony door cracked open behind you.

The scent of lasagna drifted into the night.

You sat at the table and began eating without looking toward the door, no expectations, no pressure. Just… openness. If he wanted to come in, he would. If not, well. There would be leftovers.

Still, something in your heart beat a little faster. Not from nerves—but from certainty.

He was up there.

And tonight, for the first time, you’d made it clear:

He didn’t have to stay in the shadows.

Not anymore.

Fifteen minutes. 

He stood there, still as stone, just outside the door. Every nerve in his body screamed at him to turn around, to climb back out the way he came, back to the rooftops, back to where it was safe. Back to the shadows.

But he couldn’t. Your words—You’re free to come eat—still hummed in his ears. Still wrapped around his chest like a hand, squeezing just enough to keep him tethered.

You’d invited him. As though he were someone worth inviting.

He left his helmet on a chair on your balcony. His fingers flexed around the edge of his mask he wore under it as he stood on the threshold, watching you. You were there, sitting at the table, already eating. No hesitation. No fear. Not an ounce of doubt in your demeanor. You didn’t even look toward the door when he stepped inside.

He’d never seen you this way. You wasn’t afraid of him. Not even a little. And it unsettled him.

He crossed the room, the weight of his boots muffled against the floor, his movements slow, calculated. When he sat down, he did so without a sound. The plate of lasagna was already set in front of him—his portion, just like yours. It was strange, like it had been waiting for him. 

The air between you both felt thick, charged with something unspoken. Jason glanced down at the food, his fork hovering in the air, but the knot in his chest was still tight. He could feel the mask—his mask—pressing down on him, keeping him locked in a version of himself he wasn’t sure was real anymore. 

It was a barrier. A wall. The only thing that kept him from becoming Jason Todd again. The only thing that kept you from seeing him for what he really was.

Your voice, soft and unbothered, broke the silence.

“Do you want to take it off?”

Jason froze, eyes flicking toward your. You weren't looking at him now—just eating your own meal, as though asking him to remove his mask was the most normal thing in the world. As though it didn’t matter who he was, what he’d done.

For a second, he thought he might choke on his breath.

You were giving him a choice.

His hand trembled slightly as he reached for the edge of his mask, the cool fabric brushing against his fingers like an old friend. 

Do it.

The thought came like a whisper, like a command.

He didn’t want to, but the desire was too strong. The weight of your invitation, the simplicity of it, the trust you’d already extended to him without asking for anything in return—it ate at him. 

Slowly, cautiously, he pulled the mask off.

It came off with a soft tug, revealing his face—scarred, rough, tired. Not the face of the hero you might have imagined. Not the face of the Red Hood. 

Just Jason. 

His breath hitched in his throat as he sat there, exposed in a way he hadn’t been in years.

You looked at him, finally. 

And for the first time in a long time, he wasn’t sure what to expect.

But you didn’t flinch. Didn’t look away.

you smiled. Just a little. Almost imperceptible, but it was there. The same way you had smiled earlier, when he’d seen your with the note.

“Thank you for coming,” you said quietly, your voice carrying just enough warmth to make the moment feel like something real.

Jason felt his heart skip. He didn’t deserve that smile. Not from someone like your. Not from anyone.

But still, he couldn’t look away.

And for the first time in years, sitting across from your, maskless and vulnerable, he didn’t feel like he had to hide.

“Names Jason.” He said, his voice low, unsure. 

You introduce yourself and he whispers your name to himself. It felt so right in his mouth. 

Jason sat there, staring at you as you smiled, your eyes soft and kind. But in his mind, it felt like a war was raging. The warmth in your gaze... it hurt in a way that nothing else did. It made him question everything.

Your smile wasn’t a mask. It was real. And he wasn’t sure how to respond to that. 

He wanted to say something, anything, but his throat was tight. His fingers ached from holding onto the mask. It wasn’t just a physical thing anymore. The mask had been his shield for so long—his only way to keep from being seen. It had kept the real him hidden. Jason Todd, the boy who died and came back a wrong man, barely human. The one who was broken, bitter, and far too dark to be trusted with something as pure as you.

Your cooking was perfect—god, it was perfect. He took a bite of the lasagna, and the taste hit him like a punch to the gut. It was so damn good, it almost felt like a reminder of what he didn’t deserve. Too good for him.

He chewed slowly, trying not to let the silence grow too heavy, but it pressed down on him like a weight. He couldn’t even enjoy the food—not when the thought of you seeing him for who he really was gnawed at his insides.

Your cooking? It was like a glimpse of the normal world—one that he’d never been part of, one that you probably didn’t even realize was out of his reach. The kind of world where people shared meals without masks, without blood, without secrets that could ruin them.

But this—your smile, the warmth you’d given him—it made him feel small. It made him feel like he was standing on the edge of something too good for him. Too pure. Too... bright. And he was so fucking scared that if you saw the real him—saw how dark and twisted he was beneath it all—you’d pull away. Run.

He ran a hand over his face, the scruff there rough beneath his palm, a small, self-deprecating chuckle escaping his lips. 

“Guess I don’t clean up too well,” he muttered, voice rougher than he intended.

But your gaze never faltered. You didn’t look away. 

Jason felt the weight of his years creeping back in. Thirty-four* He wasn’t old, not really, but when you were looking at someone probably barely past twenty-three, it felt like a damn chasm between you two. He’d been through more in his life than you could ever imagine. More pain, more blood, more things he’d done. And he wasn’t sure he could live with the thought of you realizing that he was a *man* who couldn’t stop being broken, no matter how many years he tried to bury it.

It wasn’t just the years. It was everything he’d done. Everything he’d become. The anger, the violence, the things he could never take back. And what if you realized? What if you started seeing the monster under the skin?

He reached for another bite of food, chewing slowly, trying to focus on the moment, trying to ignore the knot in his gut that refused to ease.

God, he loved your cooking. 

It was to die for... 

Well... again.

He swallowed hard, and for the first time, let himself meet your eyes. He expected to see pity or uncertainty. Instead, you were just... there. Like you hadn’t noticed the demons he carried with him, or maybe you just didn’t care. Either way, you hadn’t flinched. 

And maybe that was the scariest thing of all.

You weren't scared of him. 

But Jason?

He was terrified of what would happen if you ever truly saw him.

You shouldn’t be looking at him. You knew that. 

It was obvious, even to you. The way your eyes would drift from his face to his lips, then up to those dark, brooding eyes that were too intense, too haunting. You was just trying to eat. Just trying to act like this was normal—because, god, it wasn't normal. Having the Red Hood sit across from you at your little kitchen table, no mask, no façade, just *Jason*, *his face*, and you were staring at him like some lovesick teenager.

And you couldn’t help it. 

You felt like a fool.

You could barely take a bite of the lasagna without glancing back up at him, and every time you did, you were met with those eyes—eyes that had seen too much, that carried the weight of a past you’d never know. They were deep, almost... tragic in a way that you couldn't quite explain. But there was something else there, too. A tenderness, a rawness that you couldn’t shake. 

You couldn’t remember the last time you’d felt like this, this… pulled to someone. It was like a magnetic force, one you had no control over. He was too gorgeous. Too much. It almost made your heart stop every time you caught a glimpse of him. His jawline was sharp, like he’d been carved from stone. The stubble on his face gave him an edge, made him look rougher in a way that sent a shiver through you.

And the way he ate, so casually, like he didn’t even realize how damn... hot he looked? The muscles in his arms flexing under the fabric of his jacket, the small way he took each bite, as if he wasn’t quite sure how to act around you either.

You shouldn’t be looking at him. 

But your gaze kept drifting down to his lips. They were so full, so—

You forced yourself to look away, eyes burning with the heat of your own blush. You could feel it creeping up your neck, and god, you just wanted to bury your head in the table and pretend this moment wasn’t happening.

But you did look. Again. Just for a second too long. 

His lips. His eyes. The dark, magnetic pull of both.

You felt like you was losing yourself in the silence, the tension thick between you both like a storm waiting to break. You weren't even sure if he knew. Maybe he did, and just didn’t care. Or maybe he was as lost in this strange, awkward connection as you were.

Every time your eyes met, your stomach flipped. The way he watched you—it wasn’t cold. Not anymore. It was like he was... hesitant? Confused? No, vulnerable. But there was a sharpness, too. A rawness in his gaze that sent a wave of heat through your veins.

You forced yourself to focus on your food. On chewing. On anything but the way his jawline clenched when he swallowed. On the way his voice—so rough, so deep—cut through the quiet, making your heart race for reasons you weren't even sure you understood.

You swallowed hard, trying not to let him see how badly he was affecting you. 

But it was impossible.

The longer you looked at him, the harder it was to ignore the way your heart hammered in your chest. The way every inch of your body was suddenly aware of his presence. You could barely concentrate on your food. Could barely keep yourself from reaching out and touching him.

God, you were so stupid. 

But you couldn’t stop. 

Not now.

The silence lingered after the last bite of lasagna. You were trying to pretend you wasn’t hyper-aware of every movement he made—every time his fingers brushed against the plate or his eyes flickered toward you for a fraction of a second. But you were so aware. Too aware. 

The way he looked at you when he wasn’t speaking, the weight of his presence in your little kitchen—it was suffocating, but in the best way. Like a secret you weren't sure you were ready to uncover, but god, you couldn’t look away.

Your hands trembled slightly as you pushedd your chair back, ready to gather the dirty dishes. “I’ll get these,” you said, already standing and moving toward the sink.

But before you could even turn the faucet on, his hand shot out, gripping your wrist lightly but firmly enough that you froze.

“Sit down,” he said, his voice low, almost commanding. His eyes were steady, unwavering.

You blinked, surprised. “I’m fine, really. It’s just dishes—”

But before you could argue further, he was already gently guiding you back to your chair. He didn’t say another word, just made sure you were seated before turning to the sink with a casual grace that shouldn’t have made your heart skip like it did.

And then, as if it were the most natural thing in the world, he started washing the dishes. His movements were smooth, efficient—almost too perfect. It was so normal, so mundane, but it was the last thing you had expected from the Red Hood. The man who'd spent so many nights hidden in the shadows, watching you from rooftops. The one who killed without hesitation, without care.

But here he was, standing at your sink, scrubbing plates like it was nothing.

Your mouth went dry as you watched him, your mind a complete blur. It was absurd. It felt like a dream, like the kind of thing that didn’t belong in your life. He shouldn't be here. He was the Red Hood. He was dangerous, complicated, dark. He wasn't the kind of person who did dishes at someone’s kitchen sink.

But here he was, doing exactly that, and you were frozen—completely, utterly, painfully aware of every detail. The way the water ran over his strong hands, the muscles flexing beneath the fabric of his jacket, the steam rising around him like some kind of strange halo. 

And yet, there was something so... intimate about it. You felt like you shouldn’t be watching him do this. Like it was too personal. Too soft. Too real.

You stared at him, completely dumbstruck.

“Why?” you asked, almost absently. Your voice came out hoarse, like you hadn’t spoken in days. You realized, too late, that you hadn’t meant to ask aloud.

Jason didn’t look at you at first. He just kept scrubbing the plate in his hand, his expression unreadable. But you saw the faint tension in his jaw as he placed the plate on the drying rack. 

“I don’t want you doing it,” he said quietly, voice rougher than usual, like the words had scraped out of him. 

You blinked. “I can handle it.”

“I know you can,” he said, and you heard something soft in his voice—something buried beneath the layers of his usual hardness. “But you don’t have to.”

Your heart skipped. You should’ve said something—anything—but all you could do was sit there, watching him finish the last dish, the silence between you stretching long, thick with unspoken things.

“Thanks,” you said before you could stop yourself, your words coming out a little too quickly, a little too soft.

Fuck.

Jason’s mind was racing as he stood there, his fingers still warm from where they had gently wrapped around your wrist, guiding you back to the chair. He hadn’t meant to touch you that way, but it had been instinct—you standing up, making a move toward the sink, and something in him snapped.

Sit down.

The words had left his mouth before he could stop them, before he realized what he was doing. And then—fuck—he had actually touched you. He'd held your wrist, not too tightly, not too soft, just enough to lead you back to your chair, to keep you from doing something you didn’t need to do. 

But the softness of your skin? The way your pulse had fluttered beneath his fingertips, like you could feel him there, feel him holding your like that? 

It was enough to send a shock straight through him, like an electric jolt that left him paralyzed. His heart was hammering in his chest, and it felt like a damn boulder had lodged itself in his throat.

He had to focus. He had to just... get through this. 

But the image of your skin, so soft, so warm, kept swirling in his head like a fog he couldn’t shake. He’d touched people before—hell, he’d killed without blinking. But this? This was different. Every inch of him was screaming to pull away, but all he wanted to do was reach out again.

What the fuck is wrong with me?

Jason’s hands shook slightly as he turned back to the sink, trying to push the feeling away. He ran the hot water over the dishes with more force than necessary, the steam rising in thick curls as he scrubbed the plate, each motion frantic and almost too hard.

His thoughts were a mess. You were sitting there, watching him. Watching him wash dishes like he was some fucking regular guy. The Red Hood wasn’t supposed to be here, wasn’t supposed to be doing this, wasn’t supposed to be feeling like this. He was supposed to be untouchable. He was supposed to be the monster—the one who made people fear him, the one who thrived in darkness.

And yet, here he was, struggling to even look at you without feeling like his skin was too tight.

God, your so fucking soft.

Your wrist. Your skin. The way your breath had caught when he touched you. He couldn’t stop thinking about it. You weren’t afraid. You weren't running away from him. You didn’t flinch when he touched your, didn’t pull away like the monster he was. 

The thought of touching you again nearly drove him insane. The way your body had felt so delicate, so... fragile in his grasp. He wanted to reach out again, just to feel you close. To feel you. But he didn’t. 

He couldn’t. 

Jason’s grip on the plate tightened as he forced himself to focus on the task at hand. Wash the dishes. Get through this. Don’t think about how soft you felt, don’t think about how fucking badly he wanted to touch you again.

But fuck, it was impossible. 

You were so fucking soft, like a breath of air in a world full of shattered glass. He couldn’t get it out of his head—the way your skin had felt under his fingers, the pulse of your heartbeat beneath his palm, the way your eyes had flickered with something too subtle to name, but too powerful to ignore.

He wasn’t used to this. He wasn’t used to feeling like he needed to protect someone this much, to feel so... raw, so human around someone. 

When he finally set the last plate down to dry, he wiped his hands on the towel with a rough motion, still trying to steady his breathing. His pulse hadn’t calmed at all. His chest still felt tight. He couldn’t think straight. 

The last thing he wanted was to break. 

But god, it felt like he was already shattering, piece by piece.

Jason had been trying to get through the dishes, to get through something, anything, without completely losing himself. But now? He was done. The plates were clean, the last bit of soap had been washed away, and the kitchen was quiet again—almost too quiet.

He could feel it. The weight of your gaze on him, the way your eyes lingered like you were waiting for something. It was too much. Every moment that passed felt like it was pushing him closer to the edge, closer to doing something he knew he'd regret. The tension between you had been building since the first time he’d laid eyes on you, but now it was suffocating, like he couldn’t breathe around it.

He couldn’t stay here. Not like this. Not with the way his heart was hammering in his chest. He needed to leave before he did something stupid. Something irreversible.

Jason reached for his mask on the counter, the weight of it in his hand like a lifeline. A shield. He could just slip it on, walk out the door, and disappear into the night—go back to the shadows where he belonged. Where it was safe. Where he wasn’t tempted to do something foolish.

But as he pulled the mask toward his face, your voice stopped him dead in his tracks.

“Wait.”

He froze, his fingers still gripping the mask. His heart jumped into his throat. 

You weren't just saying it casually. No, there was something in your tone, something that made him hesitate, made his pulse spike as if you’d somehow seen through the walls he’d built around himself.

“Stay,” you said again, softer this time. Your voice almost a whisper, but there was no mistaking the seriousness in it.

Jason’s hand clenched around the mask, his knuckles turning white as he fought with himself. He had to leave. He needed to leave. The longer he stayed, the more likely he was to cross a line that couldn’t be uncrossed. The more he was around you, the more he felt himself slipping. You were like a pull, a gravity he couldn’t escape, and he was so damn afraid of what would happen if he didn’t step back. 

But you’d asked him to stay.

It should have been easy to say no. It should have been simple to just walk out and leave you in peace. You had no idea what kind of danger you were in just by being near him. You had no idea how dark he really was, how much of a threat he was.

But somehow, those words—stay—had sliced through every excuse, every reason he’d built up to walk away. He wasn’t supposed to be here. He wasn’t supposed to want this. He wasn’t supposed to want you.

“Why?” The word came out before he could stop it, a sharp rasp in his voice that didn’t sound like him at all.

Your gaze was steady, unwavering, and for the first time since he’d walked into your apartment, Jason felt his own resolve start to crumble under the weight of your presence.

“I just... I like having you here,” you said, as if it were the simplest thing in the world. As if the idea of him being here, with you, wasn’t anything to be afraid of.

Stay.

Fuck.

Jason ran a hand over his face, feeling the exhaustion crash into him like a wave. His instincts were screaming at him to leave, to walk out the door, to escape before he became something you would regret. 

But he couldn’t. 

He couldn’t walk away from that look in your eyes. The soft, almost fragile trust you were offering him—like you hadn’t yet realized what kind of monster you was letting into your life.

He lowered his mask, letting it slip from his fingers to the counter. The cool air of the apartment seemed to hit him all at once, and he finally allowed himself to breathe. But it wasn’t a relief. It wasn’t enough to calm the raging storm inside him.

“Alright,” he said, the word barely leaving his lips. His voice cracked with the weight of something deeper, something he couldn’t quite define, but couldn’t escape either.

Jason turned to face you, his eyes locking with yours. And for the first time in ages, he didn’t know what to say. He didn’t know what to do. 

But he wasn’t leaving. Not yet. And that scared the hell out of him.

you didn’t know what to do with yourself.

You were sitting on opposite ends of the couch, an ocean of space between you that felt like it might swallow your whole. It was like you two were trying to keep the distance, like something invisible was keeping them apart, even though—deep down—you could feel the weight of everything they weren’t saying.

you glanced over at him, your stomach doing a little flip when your eyes met his. Jason had his arms crossed, leaning back against the cushions, looking at the TV with that same intensity he always had. His presence was like a shadow in the room, filling up the space even though they were both sitting there quietly, just existing in the same place. He looked... out of place. Like this wasn’t where he was meant to be, but somehow, he was here.

And god, you felt like you’d made him uncomfortable. 

He hadn’t said much since you’d asked him to stay, and even though he wasn’t moving, the silence between you felt... heavy. He was distant, in his own world, like he was just trying to get through this moment without it breaking him. 

you swallowed hard, your fingers gripping the edge of the couch cushion as you tried to figure out what to say. You didn’t want him to leave, but you didn’t want to keep him here if he was only tolerating your presence. You couldn’t handle the thought of being that person, the one who forced someone to stay when they didn’t want to.

you opened your mouth, ready to tell him it was okay to leave if he needed to, but—

Then he laughed.

It wasn’t anything big. It wasn’t a full, hearty laugh that would’ve broken the tension. It was just an amused exhale, a small sound that escaped him as he watched something on the screen. It wasn’t even really a laugh, just a sound, barely audible.

But it stopped your cold.

your breath caught in your throat, your heart skipping a beat. His eyes were still on the TV, but you caught that brief flash of amusement in his expression, the softening of his features that made him look... human. Real. Alive.

It took everything in your not to stare at him for too long. His laugh—that sound, that quiet, fleeting moment of vulnerability—had sent a shock through your chest. You wanted to comment on it, to ask him what had been so funny, to do something that would bridge the gap between you. But you didn’t. Instead, you just sat there, your words dying on your tongue.

It was absurd, but you felt like you had to savor that laugh. That small, beautiful moment where Jason seemed like more than just the Red Hood. He wasn’t the danger you knew he could be. He wasn’t the killer who lurked in the shadows. In that second, he was... just Jason, and it made your heart ache in a way you didn’t understand.

you took a slow breath, trying to push past the sudden surge of warmth that had flooded your chest. Get it together, you told yourself, but it was so hard. So damn hard.

He was gorgeous. Even in that small, unguarded moment, even though it was just a quiet exhale, his features were so *fucking* striking. His jawline, sharp and defined. The way his eyes narrowed slightly with that flicker of amusement. The way his lips pulled ever so slightly into a smile, a ghost of something more. And even though the laugh hadn’t been real, hadn’t been anything much at all, it made him look human in a way you wasn’t prepared for.

you blinked, trying to pull yourself out of your daze, trying not to let the heat in your cheeks betray you. 

But it was already too late.

There was no pretending. You’d seen him. Really seen him. And you couldn’t ignore the way he made your feel, the way every little moment, every glance, every sound from him made your heart race.

you wasn’t sure if you wanted to laugh or cry at how fucking ridiculous it all felt. You didn’t know how to deal with him, with this. 

But all you knew for sure was that you didn’t want him to leave. Not yet.

The silence between you had stretched on long enough. You could feel it—could almost taste it in the air. Every passing second that ticked by was another moment of awkwardness, another piece of tension that was building up in your chest. You was just waiting for something to break it, but no one was making the first move. 

you didn’t know how to fix it, but you knew you had to try. 

Taking a deep breath, you shifted in your seat, trying to make yourself comfortable, but the way your heart was thudding in your chest made it impossible. You had to do something, anything, to break the ice. 

“Hey,” you said, your voice a little too quiet, a little too unsure. You mentally cursed yourself for sounding so awkward. But then, before you could second-guess it, you continued, “I just... I wanted to thank you for the other night. When I was sick.”

Jason didn’t look at your right away, and for a moment, you thought maybe he hadn’t even heard your. You felt your face heat up, the uncertainty creeping back in. Maybe this was a stupid idea. Maybe it was too late to do anything to fix the tension.

But then, finally, he glanced over at your, his expression unreadable, as usual. His lips parted slightly, like he was considering what to say, but no words came. Still, the smallest tilt of his head told your he was listening, and that was enough to keep your going.

“I mean... I know you didn’t have to do that,” you continued, your hands twisting in your lap, the words tumbling out quicker now that you had started. “I didn’t ask you to come in, but you did. You... You made sure I had everything I needed, and I—I really appreciate it. It helped more than you know.”

You were rambling now, but you couldn’t stop yourself. You wasn’t used to being so vulnerable, so open with someone who was, quite literally, a walking storm of danger. You weren’t used to feeling safe around him, to feeling like he had your back. But the reality was, he did.

Jason’s gaze softened for the briefest second, his brow furrowing slightly as if he wasn’t sure what to do with your gratitude. But then, almost as if he were embarrassed by it, he shrugged, his voice low and rough when he finally spoke.

“It was nothing,” he said, the words clipped but somehow... sincere. “You didn’t need to thank me.”

But you knew he was lying. You could see it in the way his eyes flickered away for just a moment, like he was trying to hide something. Like he didn’t want to admit that maybe, just maybe, he wanted to help your. Maybe he needed to do it. You didn’t know why. Maybe it was just the way he was built—damaged, complicated, always in the dark.

But there was a kindness there. You couldn’t deny it.

“I’m serious,” you said softly, offering him a small, genuine smile. “I don’t take that kind of thing lightly. So... thank you.”

For a moment, it felt like the air between you lightened. Like there was a shift, even if it was small, even if it was barely noticeable. He didn’t say anything else, but there was something in the way he relaxed just a little, in the way his shoulders didn’t seem so tense, that made you think he understood.

And that made you feel a little better. Like maybe—just maybe—they were getting somewhere.

He didn’t know exactly when it happened. He didn’t know how it happened. One minute, you were sitting on opposite sides of the couch, like you had been for the last hour, and the next thing he knew, you were curled up against his ribs, your head resting on his chest, your hair spilling across his arm. 

It wasn’t like he’d invited your in that way. It wasn’t like he’d moved toward your. Well... Maybe he did when he draped his arm over the back of couch, and got comfortable spreading his thighs...

No, it just... happened.

One second, you were on your side of the couch, awkwardly fidgeting with your phone, and the next, you were leaning into him, your warmth seeping through the thin fabric of his shirt. Your breath, soft and steady, warmed his skin, and your head was right there, close enough that he could feel the gentle rise and fall of your chest. 

Jason wasn’t sure what to make of it. Wasn’t sure how to react. But he was too frozen to do anything about it, too scared to move. 

He’d tried to ignore your. He’d tried to focus on the TV—god, he was pretty sure it was still on—but the show was nothing more than a blur now, an annoying background noise that didn’t even matter. He couldn’t stop listening to you, couldn’t stop feeling you against him. 

Your breathing was slow, almost calming. The rhythm of it was soothing, like the world had slowed down just to match the pace of your heart. Every little sound you made—the softest sighs when you shifted slightly, the almost imperceptible hum of contentment—was driving him insane. 

your hair. Your hair was so soft. His fingers brushed through it absentmindedly, at first, just to have something to do, but it quickly became a comfort. The strands slipped through his fingers like silk, and he couldn’t stop touching your, couldn’t stop running his hand through the mess of it, the action somehow grounding him when everything else felt so off.

He couldn’t think straight. His mind was a jumbled mess, full of a thousand conflicting thoughts. There was a war inside his chest—part of him wanting to pull away, wanting to keep his distance, to avoid the vulnerability. Another part of him wanted to stay like this forever, to have your close, to just let it happen and not question it.

you was so warm. Your body was pressed against him in a way that made him ache—physically ache—wanting to hold your closer but too scared to go further. 

He could feel every inch of your body against his, and it was driving him fucking mad.

He tried to focus on the show again, but the words on the screen were just background noise. Nothing mattered but the way you fit against him, how the softness of your made him feel like he was alive, like maybe he wasn’t just this broken shell of a person. 

He found himself absently playing with your hair again, his fingers stroking it gently, absentmindedly. He couldn’t stop. It was like his hands were betraying him, like they had a mind of their own, moving without his consent, as if he needed to touch you, as if your presence was the only thing keeping him grounded.

The TV was still on. The show was still playing. But Jason had long stopped paying attention. Every sound you made, every shift in your body, every breath you took, was louder than the show. 

And god, he couldn’t stop thinking about how soft you were. Your body felt like it belonged pressed against his—like it had always been meant to be that way. 

He should pull away. He should stop. This wasn’t right. He was a fucking mess. A killer. Someone who didn’t belong in your world. 

But still, he didn’t move. 

He couldn’t.

He was barely paying attention to the movie anymore. At this point, it was just background noise, something to distract them both from the heavy tension hanging in the air. But even the faint flicker of light from the screen couldn’t drown out the sound of your breathing, soft and steady against his side.

Your head was still resting on his chest, and he was still playing with your hair, his fingers moving through the strands in a way that felt almost... natural. Too natural. He wasn’t supposed to let this happen. Not like this. 

But he couldn’t help it. Your warmth was too much, too inviting. Your presence was like an anchor, pulling him into a moment of peace he didn’t deserve. The part of him that had built walls so high—so fucking high—was crumbling, and he didn’t know how to stop it.

He hadn’t even realized you was looking up at him until you spoke.

"Jason?" your voice was soft, almost tentative, like you wasn’t sure if it was okay to break the silence. Your eyes met his, wide and curious, and for a moment, he just stared back, unable to focus on anything but the way the light from the TV made your eyes shimmer.

your lips parted, and he could barely hear the question you was asking—something about the movie, maybe, but the words didn’t register in his mind. All he could see were those lips, soft and slightly parted, and his gaze zeroed in on them, almost magnetically. 

Fuck. 

He swallowed hard, fighting the surge of heat that rushed through him. This wasn’t supposed to happen. You wasn’t supposed to make him feel this way. It was reckless. It was dangerous. But in that moment, all he could think about was how close you were, how your body was pressed against his, how much he wanted to kiss your.

He didn’t think. He just reacted.

Before his brain could catch up, before he could stop himself, instinct took over. His hand moved from your hair, sliding to the back of your neck, pulling your gently toward him. His lips met yours in a soft, slow kiss, testing the waters as though he was afraid you might pull away. 

It wasn’t rough. It wasn’t a demanding kiss. It was... tender. And it felt too good, too right, to stop. His lips brushed against yours, savoring the moment, the warmth, the way you felt so right there, so close, so real.

His mind was screaming at him to stop. To pull away. This was dangerous. You didn’t know the monster you were letting into your life. 

But it didn’t matter. Not in that moment. All that mattered was the way you felt under his touch, the way your lips responded to his, soft and warm and inviting.

For a split second, everything else faded away—the dark past, the masks, the danger. There was only the feeling of your lips against his and the heartbeat pounding in his chest.

He pulled back slowly, just enough to break the kiss, but his fingers stayed at the back of your neck, as if he couldn’t bear to let go. His eyes stayed locked on yours, searching for any sign of what you was feeling. Was you going to pull away? Was you going to hate him for it?

But all he saw in your eyes was something he hadn’t expected—something soft, something that made his heart twist. 

And then it hit him, harder than a punch to the gut: He wanted this. He wanted you.

Shit. What had he just done?

The silence between you was thick, but not uncomfortable—just charged, like the air before a storm.

Your hand was still on his face, and he hadn’t pulled away. His skin was warm beneath your fingertips, and his eyes—God, his eyes—held a storm of emotion that nearly undid you. You saw it there, flickering behind the icy blue—or maybe they were grey: desire, fear, restraint, longing. He wanted you. You knew it as clearly as you knew your own name.

And you wanted him, too.

So you moved. Slowly, gently. Your fingers slid from his cheek to the back of his neck, pulling him back down into another kiss.

It was softer this time, but no less intense. The kind of kiss that said I know what I’m doing—even if your heart was hammering against your ribs so loudly you could hardly hear your own thoughts.

He responded, mouth moving against yours, his hands catching at your waist like he wasn’t sure he was allowed. But when you shifted closer, deeper into him, he guided your gently until you was straddling his lap, thighs bracketing his hips, your hands braced on his shoulders.

It should’ve been overwhelming—was overwhelming—but not in a bad way. Every brush of his lips, every quiet breath between them, was a grounding force.

His hands splayed wide across your back, steadying you. And then, his lips pulled just barely from yours, his voice a ragged whisper against your mouth.

“Tell me no,” he said. “Tell me to stop.”

Your heart twisted. Not from fear. From the way his voice broke on the words. From the way you could feel how much he meant it. He was begging for permission and praying for rejection at the same time.

But you didn’t say no.

You didn’t say anything at all.

Instead, you leaned in, brushing your lips across the sharp line of his jaw—once, twice—soft and reverent, like you could kiss away the guilt etched into his bones. Your nose nudged against the stubble there, your breath warm against his skin. You felt his jaw tense beneath your lips, the sharp inhale he tried to swallow.

No words. Just that quiet kiss, your answer unspoken but loud enough for the both of them.

You wasn’t scared of him. You chose this.

You chose him.

It had been almost a year since you let him in that night.

A full goddamn year since you’d stepped out onto that rickety balcony and casually invited a man like him to dinner, like it was the most normal thing in the world. Like he hadn’t been lurking in the shadows like some lovesick idiot for months. Like he was just some guy.

But you’d known. You’d always known.

And still, you let him in.

Now here they were. A better apartment—safer neighborhood, decent locks, real windows, not those warped, painted-shut fire hazards. He’d helped you break the lease when the place started showing mold and the landlord stopped returning calls. You hadn’t even asked. He’d just done it.

You didn’t question it either. You just smiled at him and let him carry your boxes like it was a given.

And God, he was hopeless. Pathetically, utterly gone.

He never said it. Not out loud. The words had been sitting on his tongue for months, bitter and sweet and heavy. He wasn’t sure what he was afraid of—maybe ruining it. Maybe the way it would make it real. But tonight, something in his chest just ached with it.

Tonight, he's staying over, and—God—you are fucking gorgeous when you sleep.

You were lying in bed, sheets tangled around you both like ivy. Your bare back rose and fell with every breath, your spine delicate under his palm. He traced the line of it slowly, reverently. Like worship. Like penance. Every inch of you felt like home.

The bedroom was dim and warm, the city beyond the window quiet for once. You was tucked against him, lashes brushing your cheeks, lips parted in sleep.

Or so he thought.

He leaned down, pressed his mouth softly to your shoulder, and whispered it into the space between them. Barely a breath.

“I love you.”

There. Out in the world now. No take-backs. No masks to hide behind.

And then you moved.

You shifted your head slightly, just enough to peek back at him, your eyes half-lidded and heavy with sleep—but very much awake. You looked at him like you’d known, like you’d been waiting.

A slow smile tugged at your lips.

“I love you too,” you murmured, your voice drowsy and soft as silk, like it was the easiest thing in the world to say. Like it had always been true.

Jason exhaled, all the air leaving his lungs at once. Like your words had knocked the wind out of him. Like maybe—for the first time in a long, long time—he could finally breathe.

He pulled you closer, hand flattening against your spine, grounding himself in the steady rhythm of your heartbeat.

you loved him. You loved him.

God help him, but maybe—just maybe—that meant he was going to be okay.

---------------

Ahhhhhhhh im so normal about him nsjxodsowkelsls gonna make my Self Indulgent Bonus a separate post this time haha

[thebibutterflyao3]

Canon Facts about Regulus Black

**With sources**

Biographical Info: Regulus Arcturus Black, 1961-1979, male, wizard. (OOTP, Ch. 24). Deceased and childless (HBP, Ch. 3).

Personality: Regulus had a sign on his bedroom door, “Do not enter without the express permission of Regulus Arcturus Black,” kept his door locked, and decorated his room with Slytherin’s house colours. The Black family crest was painted over his bed with the motto, “Toujours Pur” beneath it (DH, Ch. 10). He is described as “a fan” “proud, happy to serve” Voldemort, “proper” with the “dignity of his pure blood,” “haughty,” “brave,” “kind” to Kreacher, “trying to protect” his family, (DH, Ch. 10) “stupid idiot” for becoming a Death Eater, a “much better son,” “soft enough to believe” his parents, and “panicked” (OOTP, Ch. 24).

Was Regulus Black a pureblood? Yes, he was the youngest son of Walburga & Orion Black, younger brother to Sirius Black. The Black family were purebloods (OOTP, Ch 24).

Did Regulus attend Hogwarts? Yes, Slughorn says he was sorted into Slytherin (HBP, Ch. 6) and he played quidditch as Slytherin’s Seeker (DH, Ch. 6).

Was Regulus a pureblood supremacist? Yes. He was raised with the belief that pureblood wizards were superior to all others. Sirius says his parents had “pure-blood mania” and Regulus was “soft enough to believe them” (OOTP, Ch 24).

Did Regulus support Voldemort? Yes. According to Kreacher, Regulus talked about Voldemort’s plan to “bring wizards out of hiding to rule the muggles and the muggle-borns” and joined the Death Eaters at 16 years old (DH, Ch. 10). Hermione found old newspaper clippings about Voldemort pinned to Regulus’s wall (DH, Ch. 6).

What was asked of Regulus as a Death Eater? The only task we know Regulus did as a Death Eater was to volunteer Kreacher when Voldemort said he needed an elf, one year after he joined, believing it was “an honour for him and for Kreacher,” but insisting Kreacher “come home” afterwards (DH, Ch. 10).

What changed? Kreacher told Regulus what Voldemort forced him to do in the cave and how Voldemort left him behind to die in the water, which really upsets Regulus (DH, Ch. 10).

Did Regulus care about house-elves? Yes. Kreacher said “Master Regulus always liked Kreacher,” was “very, very concerned” when he came back poisoned, and drank the potion himself in the cave rather than give it to Kreacher a second time (DH, Ch. 10). In addition, part of Kreacher’s battle cry at the Battle of Hogwarts is “fight the Dark Lord, in the name of brave Regulus!” (DH, Ch. 36).

How did he defect? Sirius found out after his brother’s death that Regulus “panicked” and attempted to quit the Death Eaters when he discovered what he was expected to do, but couldn’t because “it’s a lifetime of service or death” (OOTP, Ch. 24). This implies Regulus didn’t know it was a lifetime commitment or that he would be expected to hurt people. We don’t know exactly at what point this panic happened, but Remus said that Regulus was killed a few days after his defection (HBP, Ch 6).

When Kreacher returned from his trip with Voldemort, Regulus ordered him to stay in hiding, then left. He returned “strange, not as he usually was, disturbed in his mind” (DH, Ch. 10). Shortly afterwards, he tells Kreacher to take him back to the cave. Regulus orders Kreacher to swap the necklaces, destroy the original, leave without him, and never tell his family what he’s done. He then drinks the potion himself and experiencing the psychological torture, before he is dragged into the lake by the inferi (DH, Ch. 10). His note to Voldemort shows that he is prepared to die in this endeavour in hopes someone else can finish what he started.

Why did he defect? In his letter to Voldemort, Regulus states his purpose is to make Voldemort vulnerable to death, so that when he “meets his match,” he will be mortal and able to be killed (HBP, Ch. 28). Kreacher’s abuse at Voldemort’s hands seems to be a trigger, but we do not know exactly what happened or how much time transpired between Kreacher’s return from the cave and Regulus’s appearing “disturbed in the mind” sometime later (DH, Ch. 10). Based on the fact that Regulus’s letter mentions the “horcrux” by name and he knows what it does, his claim that “it was I who discovered your secret” implies he researched horcruxes by himself and his reaction was horror at what he learned (HBP, Ch. 28).

[byllsbytch]

Cumming home to you <3

Nicholas Alexander Chavez

Ok, it’s pretty shitty, I’ve written this in 30mins, n im too lazy to write smut. (Besides I’m shit at it on a good day.)

here ya go cuties.

Genre: Fluff

Summary: Nicholas Alexander Chavez comes home late to his gf after a long day of filming, after many attempts of trying to get freaky they decide - fuck, we’re both too tired.

Warnings: Girl none?

I’d sat on the couch watching a cooking show, it was the most entertaining channel on at the time and seeing as the night was drawing to a close, I needed something easy to watch. It was my first week in our new apartment and Nick certainly was working his ass off for it. I numerously checked the time on the microwave in the kitchen and watched as the minutes passed.

I pulled the blanket up higher to my chin, slowly fluttering my eyes trying to keep them open. A tough inner battle. Being alone in the house it wasn’t hard to keep them open, when alone I’m always restless, however I was overtired. A wave of sleepiness hit me harder causing me to slump to the side of the couch. The words from the television became unintelligible and I began to drift away.

It felt like it had been two minutes before I woke to see Nicholas had finally gotten home and stood over me, pecking my cheek and playing with my hair.

“Come on princess off to bed.” He whispered. I struggled to open my eyes and glanced at the time again.

“2am! Nicholas! Are you ok baby?”

He smiled at my concern.

“I’m fine babe, just let me get you to bed.”

I mumbled before nick swooped me up in his arms and carried me to bed. I stretched and sprawled out in the centre of the bed before groaning in satisfaction.

“I’m sorry baby, I’m so tired.”

“You’re fine my darling girl. I’ll just go for a shower and I’ll be right back. I’m sorry for coming home late and waking you.”

He walked into the bathroom the next room over and turned the water on.

-

The steam began to snake its way into the bedroom. After a few minutes I managed to pull my dead weight up off the bed and dragged my body to the bathroom doorway staring at Nick’s physique behind the shower glass.

I slowly began to pull off my shirt and kick off my pants. I heard the water turn off and Nicholas got out drying himself then wrapping the towel around his waist. He finally noticed me standing in the doorway in my old, ratty underwear. He bit his lip before coming close to me.

“What are you doing babe? You ok?”

I smirked at him, placing my hand onto his abdomen. He looked down to my hand and smiled closing the gap even more.

“I was going to get into the shower.”

“Oh damn it!” He joked, “Come on baby, let’s just go to bed it’s late.” He lent over and kissed me on the forehead.

I looked up at him and gave him puppy eyes a slight frown.

He looked away. “Oh come on! I feel bad that I woke you up.”

I placed my hand on his cheek before pulling him into a kiss.

He leant in with no hesitation and tangled his fingers into my hair. We both closed our eyes in each other’s embrace as Nicholas began to make his way from my lips down my neck. I took my hands behind my back before undoing my bra. He kept all his attention to my collar bone leaving sloppy kisses. He pulled away sensing the warmth from my breast and stepped back to glance at them. My forearms rested in his, he stared in complete adoration and love.

“You’re so gorgeous and perfect.”

He placed his hands onto my chest before going back into the kiss. I moved my hands down to his towel and gently tugged, teasing him.

“Mhmm” He hummed, nodding in the kiss.

I pulled it off before he lifted me up and carried me back to the bed.

He placed me down delicately before crawling over me.

He was out of breath and visibly excited.

“How was work handsome?” I asked keeping my hand on his face his stocky frame above me.

He stopped puzzled, already panting from the little action.

“Yeah it was alright baby. Long and boring but it’s ok because we’re about to wrap up filming soon. Tell you what got me through it, you. I couldn’t help but think about you all day. I’m so happy it’s over so we can be in this moment right now.”

I felt a grin grow wider across my face.

“Especially the snap that you sent earlier, that REALLY helped me wind down.” He chuckled, winking.

My eyes widened as I gasped, slapping him playfully on the chest, “Nick! Oh my god!” I couldn’t help but laugh and he soon joined in with me placing his forehead against mine.

“You know what this is nice. How about we just do this.”

“Oh thank god!” I said, “I’m so fucking knackered.”

I rolled onto my side and felt Nick press himself up against me, wrapping his arms around me and resting his head into the crook of my neck.

He smirked at my reaction. “Oh ok! You came onto me remember!”

I smiled at him, “Well it’s hard not to.”

“You wanna know what’s hard?”

I turned my head back to look at him grinning before rolling my eyes.

We had some more pillow talk while he continued to spoon me.

“We’re definitely on in the morning, you know that?”

“Oh yes!” He triumphantly pumped his fist.

[the-summ0ning]

Sleep Token HC: being in a relationship with vessel

Hello, I hope you like my final HC for Ves. Fluff elements with highly NSFW ideas. 🤠 I’m always open to HC requests as well 🤭

Vessel, vessel, vessel—where do we begin?

Vessel the bf that is so deeply profoundly in love with you

If he could he’d rip his heart out of his chest for you and just hand it to you, he would.

His love languages would be words of affirmation and physical touch

He often battles with icky thoughts of himself, and you’re his ever radiant light in his bleakest days, so he would go out of his way to make sure it was known

Notes everywhere around your house, even a month and half into tour, you keep finding them

Praises in your medicine cabinet, crumbled pieces of paper at the bottom of your bags bc he know you won’t find them right away. Little Sonnets on your desk or on the fridge just so you know how much you are loved by him

Once you stopped finding them around the house or in your things, he’d start sending flowers or treats with love notes attached. Just because gestures especially if the night before you told him what a long week it was and knew you were struggling

You have so many of these notes, post its, scraps of paper you’ve compiled them in a scrapbook/binder and it’s on your bookshelf now

Texts for when you wake up reminding you to take your meds/vitamins, and to keep up with your water intake—voice memos too

Honestly he’d send you voice memos all the time like it was your own little podcast

Having black paint smeared on you because he couldn’t keep his hands to himself

Or would want you to apply his body paint before a show. Squirming underneath your fingers as you apply it because of your featherlight touches, listening to his quiet hisses when you’d go too low and gentle

“We’re not going to make it out of this dressing room if you keep doing that, love.”

Vessel would love to be big spoon, having you tucked underneath him or your back against his chest. Tracing patterns on your arms, hips, and thighs

He always loomed around you, everyone knowing if you were there, he was somewhere lurking around 95% of the time. He was a quietly protective man.

Coming up when you were talking with friends at an event, a comforting squeeze to the nape of your neck and a drink to quietly check on you

Wearing one of his extra robes backstage. It was so big and light, perfect for the hot and humid venues, a great blanket tbh where you could use the hood to cover your face

There’s a folder in his phone dedicated with pictures of you in many spaces of the venues they played just sleeping with his robe over you

Also the amount of videos of you two just frolicking around backstage, helping him with dance moves whilst in his robe that dragged on the floor, nearly tripping on it, when you wore it because it was so long on you

You liked to go into the crowd during the shows, enjoying the atmosphere of fans. Vessel would get a kick out of that, and you two would make it like a game almost

Instantly being able to spot you in the crowd through the lights and smoke. Always looking in your direction to lowkey serenade you and do little inconspicuous moves directed for you. In return, you’d run your hands through up and down your body swaying your hips to his voice. His own little siren in the sea of people

He loved watching you jam tf out with the fans so careless in your own world dancing with everyone or receiving bracelets from the fellow concertgoers (he would panic slightly watching you try to go into the mosh pit every time tho, one time he actually had to send a member of the crew to discreetly retrieve you.)

I imagine vessel being codependent af, and the simplest of tasks you were always requested to tag along

groceries, pharmacy trips, picking up takeout—he needed his emotional support person. Bribing and rewarding you with little treats to lure you with him thinking you’d say no how could you he’d hit you with the puppy dog eyes I just know he’s master at that

Staying up or waking up to listen to his late night rambles/dreams/conspiracies tucked under his arm while sharing a joint or bottle of spirits

Or sitting beside him as he wrote song lyrics, quietly running them by you for your opinion. You just blinking slowly in awe with what his mind created unable to provide the input he wanted

I thinks it’s a mutual consensus among us: Vessel loves to bite. He can’t help his carnal primal urge to. He does it with his friends, you… Everyone had a mark from him at this point

I don’t imagine him being into quickies (unless he was absolutely throbbing and thirsting for you) this man would take his time. Setting the pace all during the day teasing you

He loved nuzzling his face in the crook of your neck, pressing kisses below your ear and whispering the filthiest things to get you flustered

“You look so good right now, I could take you right here.”

“I can’t wait to get you home and be deep inside you later, doll.” He would murmur, his hand squeezing your hip pulling you back into him feeling his already hardening length pressing in the soft flesh of your ass

Then when it finally happened, he goes at a nearly agonizing pace—he wanted to worship you. He didn’t like to fuck, he liked to make love.

intense and passionate, hips slowly rolling into you up til you were full of him. And he kept hitting that spot that made your eyes see stars and lulled to the back of your head.

He was not shy about how he felt, always moaning and praising you, but wasn’t too loud. Vocal fry as he quietly moaned about how good you made him feel

“You’re squeezing me so well,” rasping out, trying to look at where your bodies connected, resisting the urge to close his eyes

“Fuck, you look so pretty under me.”

He’s 100% a morning sex person

Not even letting either of you have a chance to get out of bed, one hand slipping down your front rubbing you softly while the other gripped your throat to turn your face so he could slowly kiss you—devouring your mouth with his—all in a blissed out half sleep stupor

Hehe, I woke up from my nap and chose violence horniness, sorry. Anyways thanks for the support and all the love on these 🫶🏻✨

[vrsin]

~The Embrace Beyond The Veil of Time~

Linked Universe x Reader

Story by @vrsin

Linked Universe by @linkeduniverse

Guess who got the drive to write again? ✧(｡•̀ᴗ-)✧

Hope you all enjoy!

~~~

✧ Prologue ✧

“I'm tired…”

“I know I know. Just hold on a bit longer! The village is just up ahead!”

The thunder continued to roar, anger behind every flash of light. The clouds rumbled as if gods were battling behind the dark abyss.

You continue to battle the howling wind, your body occasionally being flung back; pushing yourself forward to continue on the trail. The trees at an unnatural angle, some appearing to be on the brink of snapping. You occasionally look back to your partner, to make sure he was still following your light.

His clothes were beyond wet, appearing as if he fell into the ocean itself, his hair clinging to his face, his cape frantically moving in the wind. His hood pressed against his face obscuring your view of him.

“Maybe if I climb that tr-”

“NO! Enough tree climbing! God! You stay outside any longer you'll get sick! Out of all of them I think you're the most reckless with your basic health!”

“Come on! I'm not that bad! You told me one of them would wrestle goats!”

You quickly twirled around to look back at him, even if you couldn't see his whole face you could clearly see his mischievous smirk. It's always that same smirk.

“Wrestle?! No! All he would do is herd them back in their pens, occasionally he would have to grab a straggler or two by the horns but- HEY! get down from that tree!”

“Damn… thought that would work.”

He jumped back down from a tree that looked ready to fall over with the extra weight placed onto it. He clung to his hood trying to grasp any warmth, though even in this horrid condition he still held that bright smile.

“Oh ha ha. Come on, I see the village lights.”

“Can't blame me for trying! I'm.. I'm just so tired…”

You glance back at him, you can clearly see the fatigue. He's practically dragging his feet. Still holding on to that shimmering smile, clearly trying to not make you worry. You always worry anyway.

“ … I know, but that's why you deserve a bed! Not a branch.”

“... Hey um…”

He sounded tired, both physically and mentally. Something is wrong, glancing back at him, his smile fell. He's no longer pretending.

“You ok? Are you feeling sick?!”

His head perked up at the yell of worry, frantically waving his hands in front of himself, still following your light.

“No no! I'm okay, just… Thank you. For looking out for me, even if I don't do it for myself.”

You pause for a moment getting a good look at him, why is he suddenly thanking you? Why do they all do this at some point? Why do they feel obligated to thank you? You care for him, for them. Is it so hard to understand?

Why do they always thank you?

“... Of course. I care for you, you deserve nothing but the best.”

“... You always say that…”

“Because it's true, and it will always be true. No matter when or where.”

“You'll… you'll always stay by my side… right?”

“Of course! Don't even question that! I've been here from the beginning and I will always be here!”

“Then…

Are you still waiting?”

The forest is silent.

The storm has stopped.

The air is freezing.

When did it get so cold?

“What…?”

“Are you still waiting…”

You look back at him, he's standing in a dark abyss. You frantically turn over to look at the village. It's gone, consumed by this darkness. You hear soft ripples of water, you look down seeing your reflection.

The water shifts under the weight of silent footsteps walking towards you. You turn to him, his clothes are darker, his skin is gray, His eyes, blood red.

“Is he still making you wait?”

You stay silent. You've seen this place before, seen him before. But… that was lifetimes ago. Why is he here…

Where…

Where's Link?

“He's not coming.”

You stay silent, staring at each move he makes as he gets closer. He's lying.

A sly smirk grows on his face

“Oh, lying am I? Then…where is he?”

You shift, glancing around.

You don't see him.

Where… where is he?

“Gone. He's forgotten.”

“No… he wouldn't.”

His smile grows unnaturally large. His polished fangs at full view. He begins a deep bellowing laugh.

You look around, scared.

You're alone…

You're alone.

YOU'RE ALONE!

His laughter echoes throughout this cursed place. His bloody eyes unblinking as he laughs.

Then, a roar.

A deep all-consuming roar that beats the sound of the storm you were just in. He's no longer laughing, just staring.

The water moves from slow ripples into crashing waves. You frantically look around.

That's when you see it.

The scales shredding through the water.

It's circling you, waiting.

You glance up at him, but he does nothing. His smile is long gone, his arms crossed.

“He's not coming.”

The water bursts at his feet, the black scaled monster a complete blur as it makes its way towards you.

Opening its jaw, taking you in.

It swallows.

~~~

Next

Fan Art : 1

Tags: @pinkittwice @luimagines @twilightpoison @cafecourage @phlying-squirrel @smartiepants217 @eyeless-kun @stardropz-oo  @athanasia-day @silver-the-pendejo @krys0210 @justanotherweeb666 @lunadepan120699 @specter-solaire @honest0215 @internet-stuff @lunarobyn22

[peachdues]

Enjoy a peek at Giyuu learning how not to act like a virgin when with the person he loves in TGW Part II

“Well, if you want her first time to be special –”

“It’s not her first time.” Giyuu said bluntly before feeling his ears heat slightly as Tengen raised his eyebrows in surprise. “We – before the final battle –”

“Tengen’s mouth curved into a wicked smile. “Ah, so you just couldn’t wait, huh?”

“Well, obviously it’s hard for women to reach completion their first time, even when you properly prepare them –”

“Prepare?” Giyuu interjected, looking quizically at the Sound Pillar.

“Well, y’know, the stuff ya do before you actually put it in.” Tengen clarified, but he paled at the vacant look in the former Water Pillar’s eyes.

“Y-youd did prepare her, didn’t you?” Tengen demanded, sitting up straighter as his eyes narrowed.

Giyuu only stared back at him with that same, blank look, though Tengen could see the blush creep down his ears and to his neck.

The former Sound Pillar pinched the bridge of his nose between his fingers, eye screwed tightly shut. “Are you telling me,” he grit out. “That you just shoved it in without even stretching her out a bit first? Or at least making sure she was properly lubricated down there?”

Giyuu felt slightly affronted at his friend’s tone. “What do you mean by ‘prepare?’”

Tengen groaned. “Giyuu. Did you use your fingers or your tongue before you put your cock in her?”

He was silent as he thought for a moment. “Was I supposed to?”

Tengen stared in disbelief at the stoic ravenette, before dragging a hand over his face. “Y’know, you shouldn’t be intimate with someone until you know what you’re doing.” He grumbled. “Even Shinazugawa came to me for help before he got with his girl.”

Giyuu cocked his head in confusion. “It’s not like we planned it in advance – it just happened.”

The Sound Pillar’s eye widened in horror. “Giyuu,” he hissed, bracing his hand on his hip. “I’ve seen you change before – you’re not small.” He groaned, loudly at the confusion on his comrade’s face. “Unbelievable – that poor girl.”

“It’s not as though I was rough –” The Water Pillar countered, his tone indignant, but Tengen held up a hand to silence him.

“It doesn’t matter how many times my wives and I get together – I always make sure to prepare them beforehand. Thoroughly.”

Tomioka remained quiet, so Tengen asked, “Do you want to be intimate with her again?”

Giyuu nodded as enthusiastically as someone like Giyuu could, and Tengen sighed. He lowered himself to sit on the large boulder and crossed his legs. “You might as well get comfortable, Tomioka, because you’ve got a lot to learn about female pleasure – and that’s assuming Y/N even lets you back into her bed.”

[oceantornadoo]

his favorite patient (simon riley x f!reader)

part 5 of the two lieutenants series...toothrotting fluff

--

"where is she?"

ghost thundered into the base hospital, all teeth and claws. the hospital staff scattered in his wake, avoiding eye contact. finally, a doctor approached, looking down at her clipboard nervously. "who are you looking for, sir?" he tried not to antagonize medical staff, but someone needed to get it together. "the lieutenant." he spit out. "right this way, sir."

the doctor pushed through the door to your hospital room, the sterile breeze drifting through ghost's mask. the doctor moved out of the way so he finally could view you.

you, who had taken two bullets to your left arm and yet still managed to complete the mission. had dragged gaz out with you, who was recovering in the room next to you. you were asleep, brows furrowed even in your sleep. he drowned out the words of the doctor, opting instead to move closer to your bed. "she's alrigh'?" ghost mumured, almost to himself. "she'll need some PT to regain range of motion, but she'll be okay, sir. she's just taking some much needed rest." he nodded his thanks, and the doctor made her way out, smiling to herself as she closed the door.

ghost took off his balaclava, setting it on the table behind him. he took a seat on your bed, dwarfing the small bed with his frame. he smoothed out the furrow between your brows, his gloves long forgotten back on base, abandoned the moment he heard you were in the hospital. "s'pposed to be end game, yeah? can't get shot on me now." his thumb traced the slope of your nose, trailing to your lips, down to your jaw. "my brave dove." his thumb traveled to your collarbone, brushing back and forth. he lost sense of time, entranced in the feel of your skin, the softness against his battle worn skin. almost half an hour had passed until...

"simon?" you croaked out, throat parched. "yeah, baby? feel ok?" he was so enamored with you, all doe eyes staring back at him. ghost was gone, the bloody work done, and simon was here to stay. you nodded slowly, still recovering from the events of the past days. "thirsty." he was up immediately, looking for water. he found a water cup a nurse had dropped off earlier, so deep in his trance he hadn't seen her come in and out. "go'on." he offered you the straw and you sipped, trying to go slow. he watched your throat move up and down with every sip. "better?" you hummed your appreciation. "you don't have any recruits to bother?" he gave you a sideways grin, one of his rarities. "you're more important."

you're more important. simon was here, sitting vigil at your bedside. he shirked his duties just for you. "why are you here, si?" he clicked his teeth, breaking eye contact for the first time he'd been in the room. simon stared at the clock, stared out the window. "ya don't get it, do ya?" he turned back to stare at you. you shook your head, brows furrowing again. his thumb jumped out and smoothed it before even realizing. "i haven't taken you out on that date yet, but y'r it for me. i'm y'r lieutenant, yeah?" you reached your uninjured hand towards him and he leaned in, letting you cup his face. "its all or nothing for you, isn't it?" he nodded. "hav' to be in our line of work." you gave him a small smile. "what is this, a proposal, riley?" you brushed his thumb over his lips. "let me know when your left hand is healed for a ring, baby." you laughed and it was the sweetest sound in the world to him. "my answer is yes. and a maybe to the proposal. you're on a trial period." he nodded again, nuzzling into your hand. "jus' let me take care of you, yeah?" you nodded, falling back into your hospital bed. "now i can sleep." he kissed your forehead, and all was right in the world again.

--

ugh i want a boyfriend

[cosmiccrushes]

Drowning Lessons

Lucanis x Rook || 2.2k words

notes: this is in honor of the number of times I accidentally walked Rook off a cliff

also on ao3 :)

“Rook!” Her name ripped from his throat as his blade ripped through the chest of the Venatori in front of him. Lucanis caught the barest line of sight to her, just enough to watch another Venatori cultist land a boot to her stomach, pushing her off the ledge to the ocean below. 

Lucanis deftly raises his sword, blocking an attack. 

“Davrin! Rook!” 

The Grey Warden answers in confusion, sword poised to strike. “What about her?” 

“She went over the edge! Closest to you!” Lucanis brings his blade down through one Venatori just to have them replaced by another. An endless see of rats swarming over them.  

“And?” Davrin shouts back. 

Mierda. “The ocean! She can't swim!”

Davrin doesn't miss a step against the shield-bearing Venatori charging him. “You're kidding me?” 

Lucanis dispatches two more agents. “No!” And he was going to give her- and Viago- an earful about it after he fished her out. “Cover me!” He orders Davrin.

Davrin huffs out between swings of his sword. “I'm. A. Bit. Busy.” 

But Lucanis is already sidestepping two more cultists descending on him, launching himself in a blur of shadowy feathers off the ledge Rook fell from. 

He hits the water's edge, cutting smoothly and silently under before gliding gracefully to the surface, ever the assassin. It wasn't hard to locate Rook where she thrashed inefficiently against the current, her head bobbing under waves. She coughed on choking mouthfuls of seawater.

Lucanis broke into swift strokes in her direction, calling her name. He made it a mere three strokes away before she lost the battle with gravity and was dragged down.

Fear seized his heart, Spite growled in fury. Dive, the demon hissed. Lucanis didn't need to be told once. He dove in Rook’s direction. Propelling himself forward until her mane of curls floated before him. Her eyes were wide, panicked and she released a precious breath of air in surprise when she saw him. She clawed at her own chest as if she could find air to grasp onto and shove into her lungs. 

Lucanis wrapped an arm around her waist, pulling her upwards with him. He felt the moment she gasped out a breath and went too lank in his arms.

Faster…not going to make it, Spite threatened. 

Lucanis pushed against the oppressive current until at last he broke through to air. Rook's hair floated in the water around them, her lips a disastrous shade of blue, her eyes closed. 

“Rook! Stay with me!” He swam to the shore, dragging her onto the sand, where she lay- all the lifelessness of his worst nightmares. 

She isn't breathing, Lucanis thinks frantically, trying to recall what he'd learned about resuscitations. He was used to stealing life, not restoring it. Do something! Spite demands.  

One calming breath for himself before he presses his lips to Rook's. Chest compressions between pleas- and threats- for her to breathe. 

The fates grant mercy when Rook finally coughs up water, turning onto her side to vomit up more. Lucanis pats her back. She wipes a hand across her mouth. Pushes wet, clinging coils of hair out of her face, before giving him a watery smile. 

“Thanks.” 

Lucanis hangs his head, a dry, haunted laugh dropping from his lips.

Mierda. 

A sound like a scoff from Spite. Perhaps he and the demon were finally in agreement about something. 

*** 

“You have to learn to swim, Rook.” 

Rook rolls her eyes. “It's not that big of a deal.” 

“Not that big of a deal?” Lucanis repeats in exasperation. “Rook, you nearly drowned! All because you failed to block one kick to the face.” 

“First of all,” she places her hands on her hips. “It was a kick to the stomach. That's a way bigger target to hit-” Now it's Lucanis’ turn to roll his eyes. “And second of all, I hate the water.” 

Lucanis fights back a second eye roll at her petulant tone. “Wouldn't you hate for it to be your death, then?” He'll attempt to coax her with the promise of dishonor and shame if that's what it takes. He's not going through that again. Hasn't stopped thinking about how the weight of her too-still body had felt against his.

Rook narrows her eyes in thought. “I guess that would be pretty unfortunate to have written at my grave.” 

Lucanis nods mutely. 

“But there's no time! I don't have time to learn how to swim when our allies need constant support and, oh yeah, my ancient elven gods are still trying to blight the world.” Lucanis can hear her frustration and fear, like a current bending her goals and priorities. 

“There is always time,” Lucanis says softly, “For keeping you alive.” 

The cynical armor she dons for protection falls away as she looks at him, her tone turning solemn. “Thank you for jumping in after me, Lucanis. I know I would've died if you hadn't.” 

“Never on my watch.” He vows. 

Rook smiles. “I was careless today, distracted. We can't afford that. It's just-” She rubs a hand against the back of her neck. “Seeing those Shadow Dragons, strung up and left there… It’s wrong. I chose to go to Treviso. I chose my city. And the Shadows paid the price.” Her teeth sink into her bottom lip. 

“We all make choices and we all get distracted sometimes. Especially when people we care about are hurting.” Lucanis says gently, knowing her mind is whirling with thoughts of Neve. 

She sighs. “Yes, and that distraction nearly cost me my life today. Death by drowning.” Her head shakes with her irritation. “Not even run through with a blade like a proper failed assassin.” She ponders a moment more. “Okay, Lucanis. I'll learn to swim.” 

Lucanis smiles in relief.

“If,” Her typical mischievous flare returns. “You agree to be the one who teaches me.” 

A wet, distinctly unclothed Rook flashes through his mind. He inclines his head in acquiescence. “It would be my pleasure.”

***

Lucanis waits for Rook by a canal near his family home. He and Illario used to come here as boys in the summertime. He must be smiling at the memory when Rook strolls up. 

“What are you grinning about?” 

“Just thinking of fond childhood memories.” 

“Hmm,” Rook muses. “What are those like?”

Lucanis wants to ask her more questions, desperate to soak up every ounce of information he can about her, but she's already moving past him, looking warily down the stony steps that descend into the water. Dampness clings to the stones. 

“So we just…walk into the water?” 

Lucanis grins, starting to unbutton his layers of protective clothing. “Yes. And then we swim. The steps go down into the water a couple feet before dropping off. It's quite deep,” he warns. 

She worries at her bottom lip, apparently coming to a silent agreement with herself as she nods once and begins disposing of her gear. Lucanis tries not to stare, but, well, as she sheds down to her light undergarments, it can’t be helped. It has never been lost on him that she is beautiful. He'd registered that as soon as he'd met her. But seeing her like this…no armor, no swords or gleaming daggers. Looking vulnerable and more intimate than Lucanis knew whether he could deal with. 

She drops a last dagger on top of the pile of her clothes, glancing up to catch him watching her. He doesn't look away and is pleased when her eyes sweep over his bare chest and her cheeks blush a rosy hue.

She clears her throat, heading down the steps. “Promise you won't let me drown?” 

“We have a contract. One much better served if you're alive.” He aims for a playful tone.

“You and your contracts,” she mutters. “I'll be taking one out on you if I don't make it out of this canal alive.” 

Lucanis laughs. “You might have to fight Viago for that particular deal.” 

She laughs too, looking back at him. Her smile is wide and wild. “I think you're probably right!” She seems gleeful at the prospect of fighting her house leader for a contract. 

“Okay so, what do I do?” She cautiously dips a toe in the water before easing her foot onto the frist submerged step. 

Lucanis steps around her and makes a rather showy move of diving head first into the water. Spite loves the theatrics too. When Lucanis surfaces, shaking wet hair out of his eyes, Rook is glaring at him with her arms crossed. 

“I am not doing that.” 

“Mierda, no! Sit down on the step, let's ease you in.”

She does as instructed, scooting down the steps until she's chest deep in water. She tilts her head back as though she can escape the gently lapping waves. 

“You know you're going to have to get your hair wet to do this properly?” 

“I'm not worried about my hair. I'm worried about my mouth.” She finally registers his teasing tone. “Oh shut up!”

She reaches out a palm to shove his shoulder where he treads water in front of her and he strikes. Grasping her wrist against his skin and pulling her off the final step. She yelps, clings onto his shoulders. His hand at her waist presses her to him. The water is cold, but her skin is warm from the sun.

She catches her breath, beats a fist against his chest. “Lucanis! You absolute demon! How could you! I could've been killed!”

He leans his head back and laughs, the sound echoing off the stone walls. He feels the lightest he's felt since leaving the Ossuary.

Rook pauses her tirade as she seems to realize what's happening. She gives him a final shove, sending him away from her as she takes a step back, rising so the tops of her shoulders peek above the water line. 

“You said it was deep!” She points an accusatory finger at him. “You liar!”

“I thought it would be better to discover it's not as bad as you feared.” 

She huffs. “I hate that you're right.” 

He wades closer to her. “First thing, we teach you how to float.”

***

“Rook, you have to stop fighting the water,” Lucanis coaxes, his hand under her back offering support. Everytime he tries to move it away so she can float on her own, panic grips her. Her lower half drops like a stone and she is left flailing. 

“I'm trying. It's rather hard to relax around something trying to kill you.” 

“I am here. Nothing will kill you.” 

She sighs. “Okay. I'm really going to try. Close my eyes and concentrate. You can't let go.”

Lucanis agrees. Her eyes flutter closed. Her hair halos around them. He traces the planes of her face, committing them to memory. She looks so peaceful. Lucanis feels a frightening certainty that he would kill any god asked of him to protect this. 

He feels her go weightless above his palm. The rise and fall of her breath comes steady and sure. He pulls his palm down into the water, just enough to completely break contact with her back. It sets off a chain reaction. Her eyes burst open, her arms spasming out to the sides. The force of her surprise knocks him away and her body folds under. He's after her in the same breath, hauling her back up. She splutters and coughs out water before launching herself at him. He expects a blow. He goes rigid with shock when her arms wrap around his neck and she buries her face against him. 

He's seen her face down countless demons and Venatori. Never has she sounded more scared than she does now. 

“You said you wouldn't let go! You promised! You have to keep your promises!” She sounds dangerously close to tears. 

Lucanis cradles her against him. One hand around her lower back lifting her up out of the water, the other at the base of her neck, tangled in her hair. 

“I'm sorry, mi amor. I'm sorry.” He soothes, not registering what he's just called her. 

Slowly her shuddering subsides and she loosens her grip enough to draw back and look at him. “Mi amor?” She asks quietly. 

He considers lying, claiming she misheard. In the end he says, “Si.” 

She studies him for a moment. Reaches up a tentative hand to cup his cheek. His own breath is far from steady and sure. 

“Then we keep our promises.” He feels like she might mean more than just their swimming lessons. That she might be thinking of the larger threat looming over them and their promises to face it together, to make it through.

”Crows keep their contracts.” Looking into the depths of her eyes, he thinks she might be one contract he never wants to complete. The thought terrifies him. A feeling like he’s trapped in the Ossuary, the walls cracking around him ready to bury him in a watery grave. 

He can fight gods for her. But himself? The demon locked within? How could he possibly protect her from that?

“I think that's enough swimming lessons for today.” 

She rolls her eyes “More like drowning lessons.”

Ah yes, drowning indeed.