[raidenssblog]

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Rules + what I write for

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[raidenssblog]

Hey again hehehe, if you can do it too, I'd like headcanons of Zuko from the new leaked movie, as an adult, as an omega + with him pregnant, what he would be like and stuff... I downloaded the Tumblr app again, I'll get the notification this time, my apologies 🥹 (take all the time you need, I love your writing 🫶

zuko as a preg!omega ive never written for this before so i had to read some stuff before hand + a short blurb at the end

He'd be incredibly stubborn about slowing down

Pregnancy would not magically make Zuko any less stubborn. If anything, it would probably make him worse. The moment a healer suggested reducing his workload, he'd immediately insist that he was perfectly capable of performing his duties as Fire Lord. It wouldn't matter if he was exhausted, sore, or visibly struggling to stay awake during meetings—he would continue pushing himself because he genuinely believes his responsibilities come first. His advisors would spend months trying to convince him to take it easy, only to discover that Zuko had secretly slipped away to inspect a harbor or attend a diplomatic meeting anyway. The frustrating part would be that he isn't trying to prove anything to anyone else; he's trying to prove it to himself. Deep down, he would fear appearing weak or incapable, so accepting help would feel far more difficult than simply enduring the discomfort.

He'd secretly worry about being a good parent

This would likely be one of the biggest emotional struggles of his pregnancy. Zuko knows firsthand how deeply a parent can affect a child's life, both positively and negatively. He would spend countless nights lying awake with his hand resting over his stomach, wondering if he would know how to give his child the love and support he never consistently received. Sometimes he'd catch himself remembering painful moments from his childhood and immediately become terrified that some part of him might unknowingly repeat those mistakes. He'd likely overthink every decision, from what kind of education the child should receive to what values he should teach them. The irony is that his constant worrying would actually be proof that he's already determined to be a far better parent than the one who raised him

He'd become surprisingly protective

Zuko has always been protective of the people he loves, but pregnancy would amplify that instinct dramatically. Every situation would suddenly feel more dangerous than it did before. He'd insist on stronger palace security, personally review protection plans, and constantly think several steps ahead whenever he traveled. While he normally throws himself into danger without hesitation, now he'd find himself pausing before taking risks because there was someone else depending on him. If anyone made even the slightest threat toward his family, the calm and diplomatic Fire Lord would disappear immediately. Beneath all his growth and maturity, the fierce protector has always been there, and pregnancy would bring that side of him to the surface more often.

He'd hate being fussed over—but secretly appreciate it

One of the funniest aspects of a pregnant Zuko would be his relationship with being cared for. Every time someone asked if he needed to sit down, drink water, or take a break, he'd probably respond with irritation. He would insist that he was capable of handling things himself and act as though everyone was treating him like he was fragile. However, the moment nobody checked on him, he'd notice. He might never openly admit it, but the small acts of care would mean a great deal to him. Growing up, affection was often conditional or inconsistent, so being surrounded by people who simply wanted him comfortable and healthy would quietly touch him. He'd complain the entire time while secretly feeling loved.

His emotional side would show more often

Adult Zuko is much better at handling his emotions than he was as a teenager, but he's still someone who tends to keep vulnerable feelings hidden. Pregnancy would make that considerably harder. His worries, excitement, fears, and hopes would all sit much closer to the surface. Some days he'd find himself unexpectedly emotional over small things, like receiving a handmade gift or hearing someone speak kindly about the future child. He might become embarrassed whenever his emotions slip out publicly, immediately trying to regain his composure. The people closest to him, however, would likely appreciate seeing this softer side. It would remind them that beneath the title of Fire Lord is someone who loves deeply and feels everything intensely.

He'd be fascinated by every little milestone

For all his attempts to remain composed, Zuko would absolutely become captivated by every stage of the pregnancy. The first time he felt movement, he'd probably freeze completely, staring down at his stomach in stunned disbelief. He'd spend several minutes simply sitting there, trying to process the fact that there was actually a tiny person growing inside him. Afterward, he'd immediately want to tell the people he trusts most. As the months passed, he'd become increasingly fascinated by each new development. He'd ask healers endless questions, read whatever information he could find, and quietly treasure every milestone. Despite all the stress and anxiety, moments like these would make everything feel real in the best possible way.

As the due date got closer, he'd become increasingly anxious and excited

The closer the birth came, the more restless Zuko would become. His natural tendency to overprepare would go into overdrive. He'd review plans repeatedly, make backup plans for those plans, and then create additional backups just in case. Palace staff would constantly reassure him that everything was ready, only for him to find something else that needed checking. Beneath all of that nervous energy would be genuine excitement. Every day would bring him closer to meeting his child, and that thought would fill him with anticipation. At the same time, he'd be terrified of anything going wrong. The combination of excitement and anxiety would leave him feeling emotionally exhausted and eager for the waiting to finally be over.

Once the baby arrived, he'd be completely devoted

The moment he held his child for the first time, something inside him would shift completely. All the fears, worries, and uncertainties would still exist, but they'd become secondary to the overwhelming love he feels. Zuko would quickly become the kind of parent who checks on the baby constantly, convinced that every little sound requires immediate investigation. Sleep would become a distant memory because he'd spend hours simply holding the child and watching them. Every smile would feel like a major achievement. Every milestone would be celebrated. Most importantly, he'd make a conscious effort to ensure his child never doubts they are loved. Having grown up longing for that certainty himself, he would be determined to provide it without hesitation. His child would never need to wonder where they stood with him, because Zuko would make sure they knew every single day

hearing the heartbeat for the first time

The first time you heard the baby's heartbeat, it wasn't supposed to be a particularly important appointment. The palace healers had assured both of you that everything was progressing normally, and Zuko had spent most of the morning grumbling about being pulled away from his duties for yet another check-up. Even sitting on the examination bed, he looked mildly irritated, arms crossed over the swell of his stomach as he complained under his breath about paperwork piling up on his desk. You stood beside him, listening with a smile that made him roll his eyes. "Don't look at me like that," he muttered. "I'm allowed to be annoyed." Before you could answer, the healer carefully positioned a listening device against his stomach. The room fell quiet. For a moment, nothing happened. Then suddenly, filling the silence, came the rapid, steady rhythm of a tiny heartbeat. Zuko's words died instantly. His entire body went still as he stared at the healer, then at you, his golden eyes wide with disbelief. The heartbeat continued, strong and unmistakable, echoing softly through the room. For perhaps the first time since learning he was pregnant, everything became real. This wasn't a distant future anymore. There was an actual little person in there, growing stronger every day. You reached for his hand without thinking, and Zuko gripped yours so tightly it almost hurt. When you looked at him, there were tears gathering in his eyes, though he seemed completely unaware of them. "That's... them?" he asked quietly, his voice suddenly much smaller than usual. The healer smiled and nodded, but Zuko barely seemed to hear. He couldn't take his eyes off the device. His thumb rubbed nervously against the back of your hand as the heartbeat filled the room again and again. The Fire Lord who faced down armies and world leaders without hesitation looked completely overwhelmed, and honestly, you had never loved him more. After the appointment ended, he remained unusually quiet all the way back to your chambers. It wasn't until the two of you were finally alone that he sat beside you on the bed and leaned into your side, resting a hand protectively over his stomach. "Did you hear how strong they sounded?" he asked softly. The vulnerability in his voice made your chest ache. You wrapped an arm around his shoulders and kissed his temple. "I did." Zuko looked down at his stomach for a long moment before a small smile appeared on his face, one so gentle and full of love that it hardly seemed like the same person who once carried the weight of the world on his shoulders. "I can't wait to meet them," he whispered, and for the first time, all the fear he'd been carrying seemed outweighed by excitement.

[raidenssblog]

doing so well

Pairing - Aizawa x male reader they all know him as eraserhead. a stoic pro hero, but behind closed doors he falls apart whenever you slightly take control NSFW BELOW CUT WARNINGS - might be OOC, bottom!aizawa x Top!male!reader, lowkey porn without plot, fluff and very end

The taste of salt on your lips when you kiss his cheek. He shudders beneath you, a fine tremor running through his lean frame, and the sound he makes is somewhere between a whimper and a sigh. His knees are hooked over your shoulders, his legs open and vulnerable, and when you roll your hips again—slow, deliberate, filling him to the hilt—his head presses back into the pillow and his throat works around a broken noise.

"Shouta." His name is a low rumble in your chest, and his eyes flutter at the sound. Dark and wet and fixed on yours like you're the only solid thing in a world that's spinning loose. You draw your hips back, almost all the way out, and he gasps—a desperate little sound that makes your cock throb inside him.

He's so tight. Hot and clenching around you with every slow push, and the way his body welcomes you, surrenders to you, makes your skin prickle with heat. You press forward again, watching his face. His lips are parted. His breath comes in shallow, uneven pulls. A bead of sweat trails from his temple into his hairline.

You lean down and kiss it away.

He makes a sound like he's been struck. Soft and wounded and so achingly tender that your rhythm stutters for half a beat. His hands, white-knuckled around the sheets, loosen. One of them rises, hesitant, trembling, and lands on your forearm. He doesn't push or pull. Just rests it there. Holding on.

"Please," he whispers. The word cracks in his throat. His eyes are glassy, and you see the sheen before it spills—a tear that escapes down the side of his face, lost in his stubble. "Please, just—"

You still. Buried deep inside him. Waiting.

"What do you need, sweetheart?" Your voice is quiet. Gentle. Your thumb finds his jaw and strokes along the line of it. "Tell me."

He shakes his head. A tiny, helpless motion. His fingers curl into your skin, not quite gripping. "Don't stop. Just—don't stop. Please. I need—I need you to—"

"I'm right here." You press a kiss to the corner of his mouth. Then another to his cheek, where the tear is still wet. "I'm not going anywhere."

You move again. Slow. Deep. A roll of your hips that pushes a shattered groan from his chest. His head falls back, eyes squeezing shut, and you watch the way his throat moves when he swallows.

His hand slides up your arm to your shoulder, nails scraping lightly. Not demanding. Just present. Just asking you to stay right where you are.

You can feel him trembling beneath you. Every muscle in his lean body is strung tight, and you know it's not from exertion. It's from holding. Years of holding. And now he's letting go, one slow thrust at a time, and it's the most beautiful thing you've ever seen.

You shift your angle, and the sound he makes is punched out of him. His eyes fly open, dark and wide and unfocused. "There," he breathes. "Right—right there—"

You hit that spot again. Deeper. Slower. Let him feel every inch of you dragging against that perfect place inside him. His mouth falls open, but no sound comes out. Just a broken shape of air.

You lean over him, caging him in, and you watch his face as you build a rhythm that's unhurried and relentless. His eyes are locked on yours, and the tears are flowing freely now, silent tracks down his temples into his hair.

"Look at you." Your voice is a low, rough ache. "So beautiful like this, Sho. So perfect."

A sob hitches in his chest. His hand leaves your shoulder and cups your jaw. His thumb brushes across your cheekbone with a tenderness that doesn't match the way you're buried inside him, and somehow it makes it all the more intimate.

"Yours," he whispers. The word is barely audible. A confession. A surrender. "I'm—I'm yours."

The world narrows to the space between your bodies. The heat of him wrapped around you. The wet sound of skin meeting skin. The hitch of his breath every time you bottom out.

You kiss him. Deep and slow and full of everything you can't quite say. He melts into it, his fingers sliding into your hair, and he tastes like salt and need and something achingly fragile.

When you break the kiss, he chases your mouth for half a second before his head falls back again. He's close. You can feel it in the way his body tightens, in the frantic flutter of his pulse beneath your thumb where you rest it on his throat.

"Not yet."

He whines. A raw, desperate sound that goes straight to your groin. His hips try to buck, but you have him pinned, your weight pressing him into the mattress, and he can only take what you give him.

"Please," he breathes again. "Please, I can't—"

"You can." You slow down. Almost stop. He sobs, a broken noise that shudders through his whole body. You press a kiss to his forehead, his closed eyelid, the bridge of his nose. "Breathe for me, sweetheart. You're doing so well. So good for me."

He shakes his head, but his chest heaves with a deep, shaky breath. Then another. His body relaxes fractionally, the desperate tension easing just enough.

"There you go." You start moving again. A slow, deep stroke that makes him gasp. "That's my good boy."

The tear that slips from beneath his lashes catches the dim light. You catch it with your lips.

You build him up again. Each press of your hips is a promise. Each moan that falls from his lips is a prayer. His hand finds yours, fingers lacing together, and he squeezes like you're his anchor in a storm.

When he finally breaks, it's with a cry that's half your name and half a sob. His body clenches around you, hot and pulsing, and the sight of him coming undone—spilling between your bodies, his eyes rolled back, his mouth open in a silent scream—is enough to send you over the edge with him.

You bury yourself deep and let go. The wave of pleasure crashes through you, and you groan against his skin, your hips pressed flush against his, emptying yourself into him in long, pulsing waves.

For a long moment, there's nothing but the sound of your breathing. The thud of his heart beneath your ear. The slick heat of your bodies pressed together.

You shift your weight, slowly, carefully, and he whimpers at the loss when you pull out. His legs fall from your shoulders, and they're shaking. You press a kiss to each knee before you lower them to the mattress.

He's a wreck. Tear-streaked and flushed and utterly boneless, his dark eyes glassy and unfocused. You brush the damp hair from his forehead and he leans into your touch like a starving man.

"You did so good, Shouta." Your voice is rough. Gentle. "So perfect. So beautiful."

His lip trembles. A fresh tear slips free, and he makes no move to hide it. He just looks at you, raw and open and shattered in the best way.

You gather him into your arms. He comes easily, curling against your chest, his face pressed into the curve of your neck. His breath is warm and uneven against your skin.

You hold him. Your hand traces lazy patterns on his back, soothing the last tremors from his muscles. The room is quiet, the tangled sheets a testament to what you've shared.

He's asleep before you've stopped tracing those patterns. His breathing evens out, slow and deep, and his hand is still curled loosely around your arm.

You press a kiss to the top of his head and close your eyes, pulling him close you focus on his slowed breathing before allowing yourself to drift to sleep

-

for @babybirdjhonny ❤ a 2 year 2 month and 2 hour request whoops

[raidenssblog]

Big booty Latina 😜😜😜😜

We all love em

[raidenssblog]

the gentle future

Pairing - Bakugo x male reader after the war you and katsuki finally settle down together happy ending the sad version found here

By the time Katsuki woke up, the war was over.

At first, he didn’t realize that. Consciousness came back in broken pieces, pain splitting through his chest, the sharp antiseptic smell of a hospital room, the constant beeping of monitors somewhere close by. Everything felt heavy. His eyelids. His limbs. Even breathing felt exhausting.

For several seconds he simply stared at the unfamiliar white ceiling above him, mind sluggish and empty, until memory crashed into him hard enough to make his pulse spike violently.

The battlefield, Shigaraki, explosions, you.

Katsuki jerked upright immediately with a choked gasp, only for agony to tear through his body so badly he nearly blacked out again. His hands grabbed instinctively at the bandages wrapped tightly around his chest while the heart monitor beside him erupted into frantic noise. “Oi—!” His voice came out rough and weak from smoke damage, but panic sharpened it instantly. “Where is he?!”

The hospital room door slid open almost immediately. A nurse rushed in first, followed closely by Recovery Girl, who looked about two seconds away from smacking him back unconscious herself. “Young man, sit back down this instant!” she snapped while checking his monitors. Katsuki ignored her completely.

“Where is he?” he repeated, more desperately this time. “Is he alive?” The brief silence before her answer nearly killed him. Then Recovery Girl sighed tiredly, expression softening just slightly. “He’s alive.”

Katsuki felt every muscle in his body go weak with relief so overwhelming it hurt. His head dropped forward instantly while a shaky breath escaped him. Alive. You were alive. The tension crushing his chest loosened so suddenly he thought he might actually cry from it. “He sustained serious injuries,” Recovery Girl continued carefully, “but he made it through surgery.”

Before she could finish another sentence, the door opened again, And there you were, god, you looked awful.

Your arm sat tightly secured in a sling while thick bandages wrapped around your ribs and neck, bruises dark against your skin beneath the harsh hospital lighting. One side of your face still carried fading cuts from the battlefield, and you walked with a noticeable limp as you stepped into the room. But you were standing. Breathing. Alive. Katsuki stared at you like he couldn’t fully believe you were real. For a second neither of you spoke. Then your eyes met his properly and your exhausted expression softened into the smallest smile.

“Well,” you murmured hoarsely, “you look like shit.”

Katsuki nearly broke down right there.

Instead, he barked out a rough laugh that sounded dangerously close to a sob and immediately tried to get out of bed again. “Get over here, dumbass.”

Recovery Girl smacked the back of his head with surprising force. “Absolutely not.”

You snorted quietly before limping toward him anyway. Katsuki watched every movement like he was terrified you’d disappear if he blinked too long. The second you reached the bed, he grabbed your wrist tightly. Not enough to hurt — just enough to reassure himself you were solid and warm beneath his fingers. Real. His red eyes searched your face frantically, checking every bruise and bandage with barely concealed panic. “You scared the hell outta me,” he muttered quietly.

You smiled softly despite your exhaustion. “Funny. You died first.”

“That barely counts.”

“You literally had no heartbeat.”

“Yeah, well.” Katsuki’s grip tightened slightly around your wrist. “Still here.”

The look on his face after he said it nearly shattered you. Because beneath the irritation and exhaustion was something unbearably vulnerable — pure relief so intense it looked painful. You reached up carefully with your good hand and brushed your fingers against his cheek. Katsuki leaned into the touch instantly without thinking. “We’re both here,” you whispered.

And for the first time since the war ended, Katsuki truly believed things might someday be okay again.

Recovery took months. Longer for Katsuki than he liked admitting. His body had been pushed beyond destruction during the war, and while the surgeries kept him alive, they couldn’t magically undo the damage. Physical therapy became a nightmare almost immediately, especially regarding his right arm. Some days it trembled so badly he couldn’t properly control his explosions at all.

Other days he got frustrated enough to snap at every doctor attempting to help him. More than once he stormed out of rehabilitation sessions entirely, furious at himself for struggling with things that once came naturally.

And every single time, you followed him.

One afternoon, nearly four months into recovery, Katsuki sat alone outside the rehabilitation center glaring furiously at the ground while flexing his trembling hand. Sweat dampened the back of his neck despite the cold weather. You limped out after him a few moments later carrying two canned coffees from the vending machine nearby. “You know,” you started casually while sitting beside him, “threatening the physical therapist probably isn’t helping your recovery.”

“She said my mobility plateaued.” Katsuki scowled harder. “That’s bullshit.”

“She also said you skipped half your exercises this week.”

“She talks too much.”

You snorted softly before handing him one of the coffees. Katsuki took it automatically, though his irritated expression didn’t fade. For a moment neither of you spoke. Then you gently nudged his shoulder with yours. “Hey,” you murmured. “Look at me.”

He did reluctantly.

“You survived the end of the world,” you said simply. “I think you can survive physical therapy.” Katsuki scoffed, but the anger in him visibly weakened. “It’s different.”

“I know.”

His jaw clenched. “What if this is it?” he asked quietly after a long silence. “What if I never get back to how I was before?” The vulnerability in his voice surprised even him. Katsuki hated admitting weakness out loud, but somehow it felt different with you. Safer. “What if I can’t become the hero I wanted anymore?”

You looked at him for several seconds before reaching over carefully and taking his shaking hand in yours. “Then you become a different kind of hero,” you answered softly. “One that survived.”

Something in Katsuki’s expression cracked slightly at that. He looked away quickly, ears burning red while his fingers tightened around yours. “You’re annoyingly good at speeches sometimes.”

“Yeah, yeah.” You grinned. “Buy me dinner later.”

“You’re impossible.”

“And yet you’re obsessed with me.”

“That’s not—” Katsuki stopped himself midsentence when he noticed your smug expression widening immediately. “Shut up.”

You laughed for the first time in what felt like forever. Real laughter. Bright and warm and alive. Katsuki stared at you for a second too long afterward, something soft settling into his chest so naturally it scared him a little. Because after everything — after the blood and grief and destruction — you were still here beside him smiling like the world hadn’t completely fallen apart.

And somehow, slowly, things started healing after that.

You attended nearly every rehabilitation appointment together. Katsuki still complained constantly, still barked insults whenever exercises frustrated him, but now there was always a hand squeezing his shoulder afterward or your voice teasing him until he calmed down again. You helped stabilize his arm during training exercises. Sat with him through painful nights when nerve damage made sleeping impossible.

Forced him to rest when he pushed himself too hard. In return, Katsuki practically hovered over you during your own recovery, glaring at anyone who stressed you out and carrying things for you before you could even ask. Half the hospital staff started referring to you both as an old married couple long before either of you admitted your feelings out loud.

The confession itself happened almost accidentally.

It was raining heavily that evening, thunder rumbling softly outside your shared dorm balcony while the city lights blurred gold against the wet glass. Graduation was only a month away now, and despite everything, both of you had somehow made it there. Katsuki sat cross-legged on the floor beside the couch, struggling irritably with notes for a hero licensing exam while you lay stretched out nearby half-asleep. “This question is stupid,” he muttered.

“You’ve said that about all of them.”

“Because they are.”

You smiled tiredly without opening your eyes. “Sure, Kats.”

Silence settled comfortably afterward, interrupted only by rainfall against the windows. Then Katsuki suddenly spoke again, quieter this time. “I thought you died.”

Your eyes opened immediately.

He didn’t look at you while speaking, gaze fixed stubbornly on his papers. “Back there,” he continued roughly. “When I woke up after the war… I thought I lost you.” His grip tightened slightly around the edge of the notebook. “I don’t think I’ve ever been that scared before.”

Your chest ached painfully at the honesty in his voice. Slowly, you sat upright and moved closer until your shoulder brushed his. Katsuki finally looked at you then, red eyes softer than usual beneath the dim apartment lighting. “You didn’t lose me,” you whispered.

“I know.” He swallowed hard. “Still scared me anyway.”

For a second neither of you moved. Then you reached up carefully and touched his cheek, thumb brushing lightly across old scars. Katsuki leaned into your hand instinctively, eyes fluttering shut for half a heartbeat. “You know,” you murmured with a tiny smile, “you’re kinda cute when you’re emotionally vulnerable.”

Katsuki barked out a startled laugh. “Shut the hell up.”

But he kissed you immediately afterward.

Messy. Sudden. Completely unplanned.

And absolutely perfect.

The years after graduation passed quicker than either of you expected. Life settled into something softer with time. Missions, patrols, late-night takeout after exhausting shifts, movie nights where Katsuki pretended not to care while secretly holding you impossibly close beneath blankets on the couch.

The apartment you eventually shared became filled with evidence of your life together, his gauntlets tossed carelessly beside your shoes near the front door, framed hero photos hanging crookedly along the walls, your hoodie permanently stolen by Katsuki despite his constant denial. Somehow domestic life fit him naturally once he stopped fighting it.

You learned quickly that Katsuki loved quietly. Fiercely. He showed affection through actions more than words most days. Fixing your gear before you noticed damage. Memorizing your favorite meals without realizing it. Grumbling insults while wrapping blankets around your shoulders after difficult missions.

But sometimes, late at night when the city outside fell silent and exhaustion lowered all his walls, he’d hold you close enough to feel your heartbeat against his chest and whisper things so soft you barely believed they came from him at all.

“I’m glad you stayed,” he admitted once while half-asleep beside you. You smiled into his shoulder. “Wasn’t planning on going anywhere.” “Good.” His arms tightened around you immediately. “Would’ve blown up the afterlife to get you back.”

“That’s concerningly romantic.”

“Tch.”

Three years after the war, Katsuki proposed in the least smooth way imaginable.

It happened in your apartment kitchen at nearly midnight while both of you looked half-dead from patrol. You were standing barefoot in one of his old shirts eating instant ramen straight from the pot while Katsuki searched aggressively through cabinets for painkillers after a rough mission. “You used the last bandage wraps,” he complained.

“You exploded through a building.”

“They rebuilt it ugly anyway.”

You snorted into your ramen. Katsuki finally found what he wanted before turning toward you — and then abruptly froze. You blinked at him. “What?” He stared for another long second before blurting, “Marry me.”

Silence.

Then: “...Was that a question or a threat?” Katsuki’s face immediately flushed red. “You know what I meant!” You started laughing so hard you nearly dropped the ramen pot. “Katsuki Bakugo,” you wheezed between breaths, “did you just propose while I’m holding noodles?”

“Answer the damn question!”

You grinned so wide your cheeks hurt. “Yeah,” you said immediately. “Obviously yes.”

Katsuki looked relieved so instantly it almost melted you completely. He crossed the kitchen in two steps and grabbed your face before kissing you hard enough to steal the rest of your laughter straight from your lungs. “Good,” he muttered against your mouth afterward. “Would’ve looked real stupid if you said no.”

“You’d still be pretty though.”

“Tch.” But he smiled anyway.

The wedding happened the following spring. Small, private and perfect.

Your friends cried more than either of you expected. Eijiro openly sobbed during the vows while pretending he “just had something in his eye,” and even Shoto looked suspiciously emotional watching Katsuki straighten your tie with trembling hands before the ceremony started.

Katsuki himself looked devastatingly beautiful standing at the altar beneath warm afternoon sunlight, dressed in black formalwear with his hair only partially behaving for once. But the second he saw you walking toward him, every bit of nervous tension disappeared completely. His entire expression softened into something unbearably fond.

“You clean up nice,” you whispered after reaching him.

“You look worse,” he shot back automatically, though his eyes shone with so much love it made your chest ache.

Your vows destroyed him.

Not because they were dramatic or poetic, but because they were honest. You spoke about surviving. About growing beside one another after the worst day of your lives. About choosing each other every single day afterward anyway. And when it became Katsuki’s turn, he stared at you silently for several seconds before speaking in a voice rougher than usual.

“I used to think strength meant never needing anyone,” he admitted quietly. “Then you happened.” A tiny laugh escaped him while tears threatened visibly in his eyes. “You stayed beside me when I was angry, injured, terrified… even when I didn’t know how to ask for help.” His hands squeezed yours tightly.

“You make everything feel survivable.” His voice cracked slightly on the last word. “So… yeah. I’m gonna spend the rest of my life loving you. That’s basically the whole speech.” You kissed him before the officiant even finished talking afterward.

Married life suited Katsuki even more than dating had.

He still yelled constantly. Still swore during interviews. Still scared civilians occasionally with his resting expression alone. But at home? At home he became soft in ways almost nobody else got to witness. He cooked breakfast while half-awake with his hair sticking everywhere. Wrapped himself around you in bed like a human furnace during winter mornings. Kissed your forehead absentmindedly while reading reports on the couch. Some nights the two of you would sit quietly on the apartment balcony watching city lights flicker beneath the stars, your legs tangled together while Katsuki rested his head against yours in comfortable silence.

One evening several years later, after an exhausting week of patrols, you both ended up sprawled across the living room floor surrounded by old photo albums from your academy days. Katsuki looked horrified by most of them. “Delete this one immediately.”

“You looked adorable.” is scoffed and rolled his eyes “I looked sleep deprived.”

“You always look sleep deprived.”

“Tch.”

You laughed softly before leaning against his shoulder. Katsuki automatically wrapped an arm around your waist without even glancing away from the photographs. Eventually your attention drifted toward an old hospital picture tucked loosely between pages — one taken shortly after the war. Both of you looked terrible. Covered in bandages. Exhausted beyond belief. Yet somehow smiling anyway.

Katsuki noticed your silence and glanced over. His expression softened instantly. “Kinda hard to believe we survived all that,” you murmured quietly.

“Yeah.” His thumb brushed gently against your side. “But we did.”

You looked up at him then, at the softened edges time had carved into someone once so sharp with anger and fear. He still carried scars from the war. Both of you did. But they no longer felt heavy the way they once had. They were simply proof that you survived long enough to reach this moment together.

“I love you,” you said suddenly.

Katsuki snorted softly like the words still embarrassed him after all these years. Then he leaned down and pressed a slow kiss against your forehead. “Yeah,” he murmured. “Love you too.”

And for the first time in a very long time, the future felt gentle.

For @snazwaz 🫶🏼

[parientou]

Happy birthday to him!! 💫✨️

[raidenssblog]

ashfall

Pairing - Bakugo x male reader Even though he was saved, not everyone could live past the war. unfortunately for Katsuki, the was you.

Happy version here yall 🫶🏼🫶🏼

The battlefield had gone strangely quiet by the time Katsuki regained consciousness. Not silent, never silent, but quieter in the terrible way disasters became quiet after the worst had already happened. Distant sirens wailed somewhere beyond the smoke-choked skyline, rubble shifted under hurried boots, medics barked exhausted instructions to one another, but everything sounded far away, muffled beneath the violent ringing in his ears.

Pain hit him next. Blinding, unbearable pain exploding through his chest every time he breathed. It felt wrong, stitched together badly, held together by something fragile and temporary. Katsuki’s eyes opened slowly to a sky stained black with ash, his lungs fighting for air as confusion dragged through his fogged mind.

His body refused to move properly, muscles heavy and sluggish beneath layers of dried blood and dust. Then his eyes shifted sideways. Beside him sat the still form of Best Jeanist, slumped awkwardly against shattered concrete.

The fibers wound through Katsuki’s chest remained firm, keeping his heart beating through pure stubbornness even after their owner no longer could. Jeanist’s head was bowed slightly, blood dried dark against his costume, unmoving in a way that required no explanation. Katsuki stared blankly for a second too long, disconnected from what he was looking at, until memory slammed back into him so violently it nearly stopped his breathing altogether. You.

His body reacted before his mind fully caught up. He jerked upward with a strangled gasp, fresh agony ripping through his chest so sharply it blurred his vision. “Where is he?” The words scraped raw from his throat immediately, rough with smoke inhalation and panic.

A nearby medic flinched visibly at the question. Another hero standing close by looked down at the ground instead of answering. Katsuki’s stomach dropped so violently it made him nauseous. “Oi.” His voice sharpened, desperation bleeding through every syllable. “Where the hell is he?” Nobody met his eyes. Nobody moved.

And that silence, that awful and crushing silence, made terror crawl beneath his skin faster than any villain attack ever had. “No,” he whispered automatically, shaking his head once like he could physically reject whatever reality was forming around him.

“No, he was with me. He was right there.” His gaze darted frantically across the ruined battlefield, searching through smoke, debris, injured bodies, rescue crews — anything. Searching for your costume. Your voice. Your stupid grin after surviving another impossible fight. “WHERE IS HE?!” he roared finally, voice cracking apart so violently it hardly sounded like him anymore.

Nobody answered him directly. They didn’t need to. Because the moment Katsuki turned his head slightly to the right, he saw you. Not moving. Not rushing toward him yelling about how reckless he’d been.

Just… still. Someone had laid you carefully away from the center of the destruction, your body partially covered by a torn emergency blanket that fluttered softly in the cold wind. For one impossible second, Katsuki simply stared. His brain refused to process the image in front of him.

You looked asleep. That was what made it unbearable. Your face wasn’t twisted in pain or frozen in fear — just calm, ash smeared across your skin and dried blood staining the collar of your costume. Too calm. Too peaceful. Wrongly peaceful.

Katsuki stopped hearing everything around him after that. The sirens disappeared. The medics disappeared. Even the pain in his chest dulled beneath the crushing horror flooding through his body. His breathing turned shallow, uneven. “No…” The word left him so quietly it barely existed.

He forced himself upright despite the way his body screamed in protest, stumbling forward on shaking legs that threatened to collapse beneath him. Somebody reached toward him — maybe to help, maybe to stop him — but he shoved them off instinctively without even looking. Every step closer made the details clearer. The blood dried along your hands. The tears carved through your costume. The complete, impossible stillness of your chest. Katsuki’s vision blurred violently. “No,” he repeated, louder this time, voice trembling apart. “No, no, no…”

He dropped beside you hard enough to bruise, knees slamming into broken concrete without him feeling it. His hands found your shoulders immediately, desperate and trembling as he shook you gently at first. “Oi.” His voice cracked instantly.

“Wake up.” Nothing. Your body shifted beneath his hands with awful dead weight before settling motionless again. Katsuki froze. Something inside him cracked sharply at that feeling alone. Usually you’d complain when he manhandled you like this.

Usually you’d shove his hands away, mutter insults under your breath, laugh at how aggressive he was even while worried sick. But there was nothing now. No reaction. No annoyed glare. Nothing. Panic exploded through him. He grabbed your face in both hands, breath hitching violently when his fingertips touched your skin. Cold. You were cold. Not cooling, cold.

The realization tore a broken sound from deep inside his chest, halfway between a gasp and a sob. “No…” Tears blurred his vision instantly. “No, no, no, don’t…” He pulled you against him desperately, cradling your body into his lap like proximity alone could reverse what had happened.

Your head slumped against his shoulder lifelessly. No adjustment. No sleepy grumble. No warmth pressing back against him. Just absence. Crushing, unbearable absence. Katsuki buried one shaking hand against the back of your neck like he was searching desperately for some hidden pulse he’d somehow missed.

His forehead pressed against yours, frantic breathing falling apart into ragged gasps. “Please,” he whispered. “Please wake up.” The words dissolved into sobs almost immediately. “You idiot… you fucking idiot… why didn’t you wake me up? Why didn’t you call me?” His voice grew sharper with panic before breaking entirely. “I was right there…” The grief in those words sounded almost childlike. Devastated. Helpless. “I was right there.”

Time lost meaning after that. The battlefield continued moving around him, survivors being evacuated, heroes collapsing from exhaustion, bodies carried carefully away beneath blankets, but Katsuki remained rooted to the rubble with you held tightly in his arms like letting go would kill him too.

His fingers kept moving unconsciously against you, brushing ash from your cheek, smoothing back blood-stiffened hair, wiping dirt from your jaw in soft automatic motions completely unlike him.

Every touch only reinforced the reality he couldn’t survive accepting. Your skin stayed cold beneath his hands. Your body stayed heavy against his chest. You didn’t breathe. Didn’t move. Didn’t laugh at him for falling apart. And hearing that, hearing nothing where your breathing should’ve been, hurt more than seeing you ever could.

Katsuki found himself listening desperately between his own broken sobs, waiting for some tiny sound he knew wasn’t coming. A breath. A heartbeat. Your voice mumbling his name sleepily against his shoulder like you did after missions. Nothing.

The silence hollowed him out from the inside. Finally, he lowered his face against your neck and shattered completely. Raw sobs ripped violently through him, harsh enough to reopen pain through his chest, but he didn’t care.

“You promised,” he choked out between broken breaths. “You said… you said we’d go home together.” His grip tightened desperately around you, like he could anchor you back into existence through sheer refusal alone. “I can’t do this without you,” he admitted finally, the confession barely louder than a whisper against your skin. “I don’t know how to…” His voice dissolved completely after that. And the worst part, the part that would haunt Katsuki long after the war ended, was that the only thing answering him was the cold wind moving through the ruins… because you weren’t there to answer anymore.

[pusheenwritesthings]

Katsuki stares at the door handle. He can't bring himself to touch it.

tw: implied death

He knows you're not behind this wall anymore, and you never will be.

He knows he can't cook for you again and watch you scarf the food he made down in literal seconds.

He knows he can't playfight with you or tickle you until you're on your knees, literally begging for mercy.

He knows he can't see you again.

He knows you're gone.

But he just likes to pretend you're not.

Katsuki takes a deep breath, makes sure there's no one around, then opens the door.

Your dorm was just how you left it. Messy. You left in a hurry but never came back to clean it.

In his mind, he scolds you for being such a slob.

He grabs a shirt out of your dirty laundry hamper and hugs it, taking in your scent again.

Then he grabs your pillow, and slips the shirt over it, using it as a pillowcase.

Bakugo lies down, spooning the pillow just like how he used to spoon with you.

He knows your parents are coming to clean out your dorm tomorrow

So for now, he just wanted to stay here and pretend things were as they were before, and let time pass.

"Goodnight, Y/N." He mutters, burying his nose into the pillow.

SOBBING.

this is so bad bc it's my first real angst blurb oneshot thingy but idc

it made me cry

-meow

[raidenssblog]

Hey, so I just read the scarecrow fics you did and would like another one with the trope with him and the psychiatrist with the no fear disease (lowkey don’t know the name) but with him trying to scare her with different fears or phobias

Or more two face or Jason fics please

Thanks 😁

once before

Pairing - Jason Todd x fem reader finding out your boyfriend died was one thing, but finding him alive?

You used to think loving Jason Todd felt like standing too close to the edge of a rooftop, thrilling, terrifying, and one wrong step away from disaster. Even before you knew he was Robin, there had always been something restless about him, something sharp beneath the charm and sarcasm.

You met him when you were eighteen, exhausted from balancing university classes with late-night shifts at the convenience store down the street from Crime Alley, and he walked in looking like trouble wrapped in bruises. He had a split lip the first time you saw him, hands shoved into the pockets of a battered leather jacket while he argued with the cashier over whether instant ramen counted as “real food.”

You remembered laughing under your breath at the sheer confidence he had despite clearly looking like he had just crawled out of a fight. He heard you too. Of course he did.

“You got somethin’ to say?” he asked, blue eyes narrowing playfully as he leaned against the counter. You shrugged without looking up from stocking shelves. “Just wondering if the other guy survived.” That grin he gave you afterward stayed burned into your memory forever, crooked, amused, a little dangerous.

“Barely,” he replied. “I’m devastating in hand-to-hand combat.” From then on he kept coming back, always during your shifts, always carrying some new bruise he tried to brush off with jokes. He talked too much once he liked someone, bouncing from complaining about Gotham’s weather to ranting about books he swore were underrated.

He was so alive when he talked like that, expressive hands moving wildly while he argued about literature or movies or music like the fate of the world depended on you agreeing with him. You fell for him slowly at first, then all at once.

When he finally told you he was Robin, it happened because he nearly collapsed bleeding onto your apartment floor after patrol one night. You had opened your window to furious knocking only to find him halfway hanging off the fire escape, clutching his side and muttering, “Okay, before you panic—” right before passing out against you.

You spent the next hour frantically trying to clean blood off his suit while yelling at him for being reckless, and the entire time he looked up at you with this stupidly fond expression despite the pain. “You’re weirdly hot when you’re threatening murder,” he mumbled weakly while you pressed gauze against the stab wound.

“Jason, I swear to God, if you die in my apartment—” “That’d be inconvenient for both of us.” You should have been horrified. Instead, somewhere between stitching cuts and listening to him complain dramatically about antiseptic, you realized you loved him. Really loved him. Loving Jason was never peaceful, but it was intense in a way that consumed everything else.

He kissed like he meant it every single time, like he could pour every emotion he had into one touch. He would climb through your window at impossible hours just to lie beside you and talk until sunrise, exhausted from patrol but unwilling to leave yet. Some nights he rested his head in your lap while you played with his hair, and for those brief moments he stopped looking like Robin and just looked like Jason, a boy carrying too much pain too young.

He told you things nobody else seemed to know. About how angry he felt all the time. About how badly he wanted to matter. About how terrified he was of becoming someone cruel. “Bruce thinks I’m too emotional,” he admitted once while the two of you sat on your apartment roof with your legs dangling over the edge.

Gotham glittered beneath you like broken glass. “Like I care too much.” You frowned immediately. “That’s not a bad thing.” Jason laughed quietly, but there was sadness in it. “In this city? Feels like it is.”

The closer you became, the more you realized Jason carried loneliness like a second skin. He hid it well beneath confidence and sarcasm, but it was there in the way he held onto you after nightmares, in the way his voice softened whenever you reassured him you weren’t going anywhere.

There were nights he woke up breathing hard, eyes unfocused with panic, and refused to explain what he dreamed about. Other nights he came to you furious after arguments with Bruce, pacing your apartment while ranting about criminals escaping consequences over and over again.

“They hurt people and nothing changes,” he snapped once, dragging both hands through his hair while frustration radiated off him. “We stop them, they escape, then somebody else gets killed. What’s the point?” You remembered walking over carefully, placing your hands against his chest until he finally looked at you instead of the floor.

“The point,” you whispered, “is that you still care enough to try.” He stared at you for a long moment before wrapping his arms around your waist and burying his face in your shoulder like he was exhausted down to the bone. “You make me feel human again,” he admitted quietly.

And maybe that was why losing him destroyed you the way it did. Because Jason had become stitched into every part of your life so completely that imagining a future without him felt impossible.

The day he died haunted you in cruel detail because nothing about it seemed important at the time. You remembered him standing in your kitchen stealing pieces of toast from your plate while you complained halfheartedly. You remembered the sunlight catching in his dark hair. Remembered him grinning when you shoved his shoulder.

“You’re a thief,” you accused. “Technically I’m many things.” “None of them good.” “Ouch.” He clutched his chest dramatically before leaning down to kiss you quickly, warm hands settling against your waist like it was instinct. “I’ll come back later,” he promised casually while moving toward the fire escape window.

“Movie night, remember?” You rolled your eyes. “Don’t get stabbed before then.” “No promises, sweetheart.” Those were the last words he ever said to you before the world split open. Hours later Dick showed up outside your apartment looking pale enough to make your stomach drop instantly. The second you saw his expression, you knew.

You knew before he even spoke. “No,” you whispered immediately, backing away from him. “No, you’re lying.” Dick grabbed your shoulders when your knees nearly gave out, his own eyes red-rimmed and exhausted. “I’m sorry.” The grief that followed was violent.

It clawed through you like something alive. You remembered screaming until your throat burned raw, remembered sobbing so hard you nearly threw up while Bruce stood silent beside the coffin looking just as shattered. Gotham suddenly felt unbearable after Jason died. Every alley reminded you of him.

Every motorcycle engine made your heart jump before reality crushed it again. You stopped sleeping properly. Stopped laughing the same way. People told you grief softened with time, but yours didn’t, it simply settled deeper into your bones until carrying it became normal. Sometimes you still caught yourself reaching for your phone to text him before remembering there would never be a reply again.

Years passed like that. Empty. You tried dating other people eventually, but every relationship collapsed because nobody was Jason. Nobody looked at you with that fierce kind of devotion that made you feel like the center of his universe.

Nobody argued with you about books at three in the morning or kissed you like he was terrified of losing the chance. And then Gotham started whispering about the Red Hood. Violent. Brutal. A vigilante who used methods Batman clearly despised.

At first you ignored the rumors, but something about them unsettled you in ways you couldn’t explain. Then came blurry photographs online — a tall figure in a red helmet standing over criminals with impossible familiarity in his posture. You told yourself you were imagining things. That grief was making you crazy.

Until the night you saw him. Rain poured heavily over Gotham, soaking through your coat while you walked home late from work, and across the street a motorcycle idled beneath a flickering streetlamp. The rider removed his helmet slowly, almost hesitantly, and suddenly the entire world stopped moving. Jason. Older now. Sharper somehow, like death had carved pieces out of him and replaced them with rage.

A white streak cut through dark hair. Scars lined skin that used to be smooth. But his eyes , God, his eyes were still the same impossible blue. Your heart stopped so hard it physically hurt. For a second you genuinely thought you were hallucinating. “Jason?” His name came out barely louder than a breath. He looked at you like he couldn’t decide whether seeing you was the best or worst thing that had ever happened to him.

“Hey,” he said softly, voice rougher than you remembered. You crossed the street before thinking, hands shaking violently as you grabbed the front of his jacket just to make sure he was real. “You died,” you whispered, tears already blurring your vision. “I buried you.” Pain flashed across his face immediately, raw and ugly. “I know.” “No, you don’t.” Years of grief exploded out of you all at once.

“You don’t know what that did to me! You don’t know what it felt like standing beside your coffin wondering if our last conversation mattered enough!” Your voice cracked hard enough to hurt. “I loved you so much, Jason.” Something inside him seemed to break at that. He looked away sharply, jaw clenching like he physically couldn’t bear hearing it. “I tried not to come back to you,” he admitted quietly after a long silence.

Rain dripped from his hair as he stared at the pavement instead of you. “I thought if you saw me like this… it’d ruin whatever version of me you still remembered.” Your chest ached looking at him because beneath the armor and anger, he still sounded like the same broken boy who once fell asleep in your lap after patrol.

“Jason,” you whispered shakily, reaching for his face. He leaned into your touch instantly without meaning to, eyes closing for half a second like he missed it more than words could explain. “I came back wrong,” he confessed, voice barely audible. “I’m angry all the time now. I can’t stop it.” Tears spilled down your cheeks at the pain in his expression. “You came back hurt,” you corrected softly.

“That’s different.” And then Jason kissed you like he was drowning. Like years of death and grief and rage collapsed into one desperate moment beneath Gotham rain. His hands shook against your waist while yours tangled in his jacket, and every ounce of heartbreak between you poured into the kiss.

When he finally pulled away, forehead resting against yours, he looked terrified. “You shouldn’t still love me after this,” he whispered. You cupped his face carefully, thumbs brushing scars that had not existed before he died. “Maybe I should hate you,” you admitted through tears. “But I never learned how.”

[raidenssblog]

Can I get a NANAMI x assistant reader please 🥺🥺🥺 make a fluff or a smut whatever I just need to read about my fictional husband

Thxxxx, Anon

home time

Pairing - Nanami x fem reader Going home with Nanami after a long day in the office

The office lights were dim by the time you finally leaned back in your chair, rubbing at your tired eyes while stacks of reports threatened to collapse beside you. Most of the building had emptied hours ago, leaving the quiet hum of fluorescent lights and the distant sound of rain tapping against the windows. You barely noticed the elevator opening down the hall until a familiar pair of polished shoes stopped beside your desk.

“You’re still here?” Kento Nanami asked, voice low and smooth with that usual calm exhaustion he carried after missions. You looked up just in time to see him loosen his tie slightly, blond hair damp from the rain outside, and suddenly being tired didn’t seem nearly as unbearable anymore.

“I could ask you the same thing,” you muttered, trying not to stare too hard as he set a paper bag and a warm canned coffee beside your hand. Nanami gave a quiet hum, the closest thing he ever got to sounding pleased. “You skipped dinner again,” he said simply, as though it were the most obvious thing in the world that he would notice. He always noticed.

The late hours, the headaches, when you were overworking yourself even before you admitted it aloud. You opened the bag to find your favorite convenience store meal still warm, and your chest tightened a little at the realization that he’d remembered again. “You don’t have to take care of me all the time,” you mumbled softly. Nanami’s expression barely shifted, but his eyes gentled in that subtle way only you ever seemed to catch. “I know,” he replied, pulling up a chair beside you anyway. “I want to.”

The rain outside only grew heavier as the hours passed, and eventually the paperwork became abandoned entirely in favor of sitting shoulder-to-shoulder with him on the office couch. Nanami had shrugged off his suit jacket, sleeves rolled neatly to his forearms while you rested half-asleep against him.

One of his hands absentmindedly rubbed slow circles into your back, steady and grounding enough that you nearly melted into him completely. “You’re warm,” you murmured into his shoulder. “That’s because you’re stealing all my body heat,” he answered dryly, though the way his arm tightened around your waist betrayed him instantly.

You laughed quietly, and for a moment the stress, the curses, the endless exhaustion of your jobs disappeared until it was just the two of you hidden away from the world.

When you tilted your head up to look at him, Nanami’s gaze dropped almost immediately to your lips before flicking back to your eyes. The small pause that followed made your heartbeat stumble. “You’re staring,” you whispered teasingly.

“You’re distracting,” he replied without missing a beat, and the rare hint of amusement in his voice sent warmth rushing straight to your face. His hand came up to brush your hair away from your forehead, fingers lingering just slightly longer than necessary. Nanami wasn’t dramatic with affection, never loud, never excessive, but every touch from him felt deliberate, careful, like you were something precious he handled with both hands.

“You should come home with me tonight,” he said after a while, voice quieter now. “It’s too late for you to be traveling alone in this weather.” The suggestion itself sounded practical, but the faint softness in his expression gave him away entirely. You smiled sleepily at him, and Nanami sighed the moment you curled closer against his chest like you already belonged there. Truthfully, maybe you did.

The rain hadn’t let up by the time you and Kento Nanami reached his apartment. The city lights blurred through the car windows in soft gold streaks, and exhaustion settled heavy in your bones, but somehow being beside him made everything feel quieter.

Safer.

Nanami unlocked the apartment door with one hand while the other rested lightly against your lower back, guiding you inside. The familiar scent of coffee and clean linen wrapped around you immediately, warm compared to the cold storm outside. “Go sit down,” he said, already loosening his tie again as he moved toward the kitchen. “You look half asleep on your feet.”

You mumbled a weak protest anyway, following him into the kitchen despite his instructions. Nanami only glanced at you over his shoulder before giving the smallest sigh of resignation, one that clearly said he expected this. “Stubborn,” he muttered.

You watched him quietly as he prepared something simple for the both of you, warm rice, leftover curry he reheated on the stove, tea steeping beside him. There was something unfairly attractive about seeing him like this, sleeves rolled up, hair slightly messy from the rain, moving around his kitchen with calm precision. Domestic, soft. When he finally handed you a bowl, your fingers brushed his, and Nanami’s gaze lingered on you for just a second too long before he sat beside you at the table.

The apartment was peaceful in a way the world outside never seemed to be. You ate slowly together, knees brushing under the table while rain tapped softly against the windows.

Nanami listened as you spoke about your day, quiet as always but attentive to every word leaving your mouth. Sometimes he’d hum in response, sometimes he’d offer a dry comment that made you laugh harder than it probably should have.

By the end of the meal, you found yourself watching him more than eating, your chin resting against your hand. Nanami noticed immediately, of course he did. “What?” he asked, taking a sip of tea. “Nothing,” you said with a smile that gave you away instantly. His eyes narrowed slightly, though there was fondness hidden underneath it. “You’re staring again.”

“Can you blame me?” you teased softly. “You look good like this.”

Nanami paused mid-motion, setting his cup down with a quiet clink. The look he gave you then was calmer than most people would notice, but you caught the shift instantly—the slight darkening in his gaze, the way his attention settled entirely onto you. “Dangerous thing to say this late at night,” he murmured. Heat crept into your face immediately, and Nanami seemed far too pleased by your reaction for someone who normally acted so composed.

You barely had time to respond before he reached over, fingers tilting your chin gently upward. His touch was warm, careful, but there was something heavier beneath it now, something that made your pulse flutter nervously in your throat. “You’ve been looking at me like that all evening,” he said quietly. “Did you expect me not to do anything about it?”

The kiss started slow. Nanami always kissed you like he was savoring you, patient and thorough enough to make your head spin. His hand slid from your chin to your waist, pulling you closer until your chair scraped softly against the floor.

The taste of tea still lingered on his lips, and the low sound he made when you kissed him back harder sent warmth rushing straight through you. “Nanami…” you breathed against his mouth, and he exhaled softly, forehead resting briefly against yours before kissing you again, deeper this time.

One of his hands slipped to the small of your back while the other tangled gently in your hair, careful not to pull too hard. Even now he treated you with such controlled tenderness that it almost drove you insane. “You’re trouble,” he murmured between kisses, voice rougher than before. You laughed breathlessly. “You’re the one kissing me in your kitchen.”

“I can stop.”

But the way his lips immediately brushed yours again afterward made it very clear he had absolutely no intention of stopping at all.

[raidenssblog]

masks

Pairing - Bruce Wayne x male reader one mission gone wrong reveals the man beneath the mask was the one you've been falling for all along.

The first time you met Batman in person, well, Bruce Wayne, you thought he was insufferable. Not because he was arrogant in the loud, flashy way most billionaires were, but because he watched everything with those unreadable blue eyes like he was trying to solve a puzzle no one else realized existed.

Your companies had been forced into a partnership after a string of attacks on Gotham shipping yards affected both Wayne Enterprises and your own corporation, and every meeting became a battle of sharp remarks hidden beneath perfectly practiced smiles. “You know,” Bruce had said lazily during one board meeting, adjusting the cuff of his sleeve, “most people try not to threaten their business partners in the first hour.”

You leaned back in your chair, unimpressed. “Most people don’t stare at me like they’re waiting for me to confess to murder.” Lucius nearly choked trying not to laugh while Bruce’s mouth twitched into the smallest smile imaginable. From that point on, the rivalry became something strangely addictive.

At night, though, Gotham knew neither of you as CEOs. The city knew you as something far more dangerous. You operated alone, hidden behind a mask and a reputation whispered through alleyways—a vigilante ruthless enough to dismantle entire trafficking rings in a single evening, but careful enough never to kill.

You had encountered Batman dozens of times over the years, though never clearly enough to know who was beneath the cowl. Sometimes you fought side by side without speaking, movements syncing with eerie perfection as if your bodies already understood each other. Other nights ended in arguments atop dripping rooftops while rain soaked through your armor.

“You can’t keep doing this alone,” Batman growled one night after you took a knife to the ribs protecting a terrified teenager. You pressed a hand against the wound and scoffed. “Funny coming from you.” Even through the distorted voice, you could hear his irritation. “You’re reckless.” “And you’re controlling.” “Someone has to keep Gotham standing.” “Maybe someone should help you carry it then.” The silence that followed felt heavier than the storm clouds above you.

Neither of you realized how closely your two lives had begun circling each other until the gala. It was supposed to be another miserable fundraiser filled with fake smiles and cameras, but Bruce found himself watching you more than the crowd.

You stood near the balcony doors, drink untouched in your hand while city lights painted silver across your suit. When he approached, you gave him an exhausted look. “If one more politician asks me for a donation tonight, I may become Gotham’s next supervillain.” Bruce huffed out a quiet laugh.

“That bad?” “One of them called me ‘approachable.’ I’m still recovering.” That earned a genuine smile from him this time—small, fleeting, but real. For a moment the masks slipped away entirely, leaving just two tired men carrying impossible amounts of responsibility. The conversation drifted easier after that. Business became personal. Personal became late-night phone calls. Then dinners. Then lingering looks that neither of you knew what to do with.

Meanwhile, the partnership between your vigilante personas grew just as tangled. Gotham had become worse lately, gangs uniting under a new leader neither of you could identify. You and Batman spent nearly every patrol crossing paths, frustration slowly turning into trust. One night after a brutal warehouse fight left both of you bruised and bleeding, Batman caught your wrist before you could disappear into the darkness. “Wait.” The word came softer than usual. You froze. “What?” For a second he said nothing, black cape shifting in the cold wind. Then quietly: “You don’t have to vanish every time.” Your chest tightened unexpectedly beneath your armor. “Careful,” you murmured. “Starting to sound like you care.” Even through the cowl, you saw the way his jaw tensed. “Maybe I do.”

The truth unraveled in the worst way possible.

You had been ambushed investigating the gang leader alone, cornered inside an abandoned subway tunnel with a fractured arm and barely functioning comms. By the time Batman arrived, you were already on your knees fighting off three armed men at once. The fight became chaos—gunfire echoing through the tunnels, fists slamming into concrete, blood dripping onto the tracks. Batman tore through them like something monstrous, panic driving every movement. “Get down!” he barked, tackling you aside just before a bullet shattered against the wall behind you. Your mask cracked during the impact. So did his.

Everything stopped.

Bruce stared at you in shock, breathing hard, cowl half torn away. You could only blink back at him, equally stunned. “...Bruce?” you whispered hoarsely. His expression somehow mirrored every emotion at once—relief, horror, disbelief. “You?” The realization hit like a train. Every late-night argument. Every almost-confession.

Every impossible connection between the man you worked with and the vigilante you trusted most. Suddenly it all made terrible, perfect sense. You actually laughed despite the pain, dragging a hand down your face. “You have got to be kidding me.” Bruce just kept staring before letting out a breathless sound that was almost a laugh himself. “All this time…” “You called me reckless in two different identities.” “You were reckless in both.”

Back at the Batcave, the tension became unbearable in a completely different way. Alfred patched up your injuries while silently pretending not to notice the way Bruce hovered anxiously nearby. “You’re pacing, Master Bruce,” Alfred remarked dryly. “I’m standing still.” “Your foot has tapped seventeen times in the last minute.” You snorted despite yourself, earning a glare from Bruce that held no real heat. Once Alfred finally left, silence settled between you.

Then Bruce stepped closer, eyes fixed on the bruises scattered across your face. “I thought I lost you tonight.” The confession came so quietly it barely sounded like him at all. Your heartbeat stumbled. “You didn’t.” “I could have.” He swallowed hard, emotion cracking through the carefully built walls around him. “Do you understand how terrifying that was?” You stared at him for a long moment before answering honestly. “Yeah. Because I thought the same thing when I saw you take that bullet for me.”

Something shifted then.

Bruce reached for you slowly, almost cautiously, like he expected you to disappear. When his hand finally cupped your jaw, it felt strangely inevitable. Years of hidden identities, tension, trust, and unspoken feelings collapsed all at once as he kissed you—desperate and exhausted and painfully real. The kind of kiss that came from two people who had spent too long convincing themselves they had to survive alone.

When you finally pulled apart, foreheads resting together, Bruce let out a quiet breath against your skin. “This is going to make board meetings unbearable.” You laughed softly. “You’re assuming we’ll stop arguing.” A rare, genuine smile crossed his face then, one only a handful of people in the world would ever get to see. “Fair point.”

[raidenssblog]

Cuddle bug

Pairing - Megumi x reader just megumi wanting cuddles

Megumi was not clingy by nature. If anything, he preferred his space, liked quiet rooms and comfortable silence, liked simply existing beside you without needing to fill every second with words. That was why it always caught you off guard when he got affectionate in the softest, neediest ways imaginable.

Tonight was one of those nights. Rain tapped steadily against the apartment windows while you sat cross-legged on the couch scrolling through your phone, completely unaware of the way Megumi had been staring at you from the other end for nearly five minutes. His dark hair was slightly damp from the shower, oversized hoodie sleeves covering half his hands as he finally sighed dramatically enough to make you glance up.

“You’re ignoring me,” he muttered, voice flat despite the faint pout pulling at his lips. You blinked at him in disbelief. “Megumi, I’ve been sitting beside you the whole time.” He stared for another second before quietly holding his arms out toward you. “Come here.” The demand was so unexpectedly soft that you actually laughed, earning an annoyed look from him immediately. “Don’t laugh.”

“You’re being cute,” you teased, setting your phone aside before crawling toward him across the couch cushions. The second you got close enough, Megumi wrapped both arms around your waist and pulled you directly into his chest like he had been deprived of affection for weeks instead of hours. His face buried itself into the crook of your neck with a tired exhale while your hands instinctively slid into his hair. “Better?” you whispered. “Mhm,” he answered instantly, voice muffled against your skin. “Way better.”

The thing about Megumi was that once he got comfortable, he became unbelievably affectionate in private. No one outside your apartment would ever believe it. They would never imagine the same stoic boy who barely reacted to anything was capable of whining quietly when you tried to get up for water.

“Don’t go,” he grumbled the moment you shifted beneath him, tightening his grip around your waist like a human restraint. You laughed softly, trying to pry one of his arms off. “Megumi, I’m thirsty.” “You can survive another ten minutes.” “That’s dramatic.” “You like dramatic,” he replied without missing a beat, finally lifting his head just enough for you to see the sleepy look in his eyes.

His expression softened further when you brushed his bangs away from his face, fingertips grazing his forehead gently. Megumi leaned into the touch immediately before catching himself and pretending he hadn’t. “You’re comfortable,” he admitted after a moment of silence, almost embarrassed by the confession. “And warm.”

Your heart nearly melted on the spot. “So this is really just about stealing my body heat?” He shrugged slightly, pulling the blanket tighter around both of you. “Maybe. But I also missed you today.” That one caught you completely off guard because Megumi rarely said things so directly.

You stared at him for a second before your entire expression softened. “You missed me?” His ears turned faintly pink almost instantly. “Don’t make it a thing.” “Megumi,” you laughed quietly, cupping his face between your hands, “that’s literally the sweetest thing you’ve ever said to me.” He groaned in embarrassment and dropped his face back into your shoulder. “I’m taking it back.”

Eventually the rain outside grew heavier, the room dim except for the warm glow of the television neither of you were really paying attention to anymore. Megumi had somehow maneuvered the two of you until you were practically laying on top of him, your head resting against his chest while his fingers lazily traced shapes against your back underneath your hoodie.

His movements were slow and absentminded, like he didn’t even realize he was doing it, but every touch made your chest ache with affection. “You know,” you murmured sleepily, “if anyone saw you like this they’d never believe you’re intimidating.” Megumi cracked one eye open lazily. “Good thing nobody’s seeing it then.” “So only I get cuddly Megumi?” “Obviously.” The answer came so quickly and seriously that you couldn’t help smiling against his chest.

He noticed immediately, fingers pausing against your back. “What?” “Nothing,” you whispered. “I just love you.” Megumi went completely still for half a second before his expression softened into something unbearably tender, all sharp edges disappearing at once. His hand moved up to cradle the back of your head gently as he pressed a lingering kiss to your forehead.

“Love you too,” he said quietly, voice rough with exhaustion and honesty. Then, after a brief pause, he tightened his arms around you again and added in the smallest mumble imaginable, “Now stop talking and cuddle me properly.”

[raidenssblog]

miles from anywhere

Pairing - Arthur morgan x fem reader finally you and Arthur have become comfortable with your new built relationship Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6 Part 7 Part 8 >Part 9<

The months passed in ways that felt both slow and impossibly fast, the kind of time that slipped through your fingers before you realized how much had changed. Camp life continued the way it always had—jobs, arguments, laughter around the fire, Dutch chasing dreams that grew shakier by the day, but through all of it, you and Arthur remained constant beside each other.

Somewhere along the way, loving Arthur Morgan had stopped feeling uncertain. It wasn’t hidden in lingering glances anymore or quiet almost-confessions spoken beside campfires late at night.

It existed openly now in every small thing the two of you did. In the way Arthur automatically reached for your hand whenever you rode side by side. In how he slept easier with you curled against his chest inside the tent. In the softness that had slowly settled into his voice whenever he said your name. The gang noticed it constantly, of course. Not that Arthur gave much of a damn anymore.

One evening, after returning from a job that had left everyone tired and dusty, the camp gathered around the fire while Pearson handed out bowls of stew. The mood was lighter than it had been in weeks, helped by the fact that nobody had been shot for once.

You sat beside Arthur on the log near the edge of the firelight, your knee pressed against his while he lazily draped an arm behind you. Across the flames, John watched the two of you with poorly concealed amusement before finally smirking. “You know,” he drawled, “I remember when Arthur said bringin’ you back to camp was temporary.”

Arthur didn’t even look up from his coffee. “I remember not askin’ for your opinion.” John grinned wider while the others laughed. “Just sayin’. Funny how temporary turned into you lookin’ at her like she hung the moon.” Arthur finally glanced sideways at him with a deeply unimpressed expression. “You always this annoying, or’s today special?”

“See?” John laughed, pointing toward Arthur dramatically. “Man’s gone soft.” “Careful,” Sadie added with a grin. “He’ll cry if you keep pickin’ on him.” Arthur groaned while you laughed beside him, leaning lightly against his shoulder. “You’re all insufferable,” he muttered. “And yet,” Charles said calmly from nearby, “you seem happier than you’ve been in years.”

That quieted Arthur for a moment. His expression shifted subtly, the teasing smile fading as he glanced down at you beside him. You felt his fingers brush gently against your arm before he finally huffed a soft laugh beneath his breath. “Yeah,” he admitted quietly. “Guess I am.”

Later that night, long after the others had gone to sleep, you and Arthur sat together outside the tent beneath a sky overflowing with stars. The fire had burned low to glowing embers, and the world beyond camp was calm and still.

Arthur leaned back against one of the wagon wheels with you resting comfortably against his chest, his arms wrapped loosely around you while his chin rested lightly atop your head.

Neither of you spoke for a while. You could hear the steady beat of his heart beneath your ear, slow and calm in a way it rarely used to be. Eventually Arthur let out a quiet sigh, his fingers absentmindedly tracing small patterns against your arm. “Been thinkin’ lately,” he murmured. You smiled slightly. “That usually means trouble.” Arthur huffed softly against your hair. “Probably.” His voice grew quieter after a moment. “Just… funny how life works sometimes.”

You tilted your head slightly to look up at him. “Funny how?” Arthur’s eyes drifted toward the dark woods surrounding camp, thoughtful and distant for a moment. “That train job,” he said slowly. “Whole thing was a disaster. People died. Everything went wrong.” His gaze lowered to you again, softer now. “But if it hadn’t happened… I never would’ve met you.” Your chest tightened painfully at the quiet sincerity in his voice.

Arthur wasn’t a man who romanticized life. He saw the world clearly, sometimes too clearly, but when he looked at you now there was warmth in his eyes that hadn’t existed when you first met him. “You saved my life,” you whispered. Arthur shook his head slightly. “Nah.” His hand moved gently beneath your chin until you were looking fully at him. “You saved mine too.”

The silence that followed felt heavy with emotion, but not sad. Full. Complete. Arthur stared at you for a long moment like he was memorizing every detail of your face beneath the starlight before finally speaking again, quieter than before. “Spent a long time thinkin’ maybe I wasn’t meant for somethin’ good,” he admitted. “Thought maybe people like me only got so much before the world took it back.” You reached up slowly, your fingers brushing along the rough line of his jaw. “Arthur…” He shook his head gently, stopping you.

“But then you showed up.” His voice cracked slightly around the words, and for a second you saw every wall he’d ever built around himself laid completely bare in front of you. “And somehow you looked at me like I was worth lovin’ anyway.” Tears stung unexpectedly behind your eyes as Arthur leaned forward, resting his forehead softly against yours. “I love you,” he whispered, the words rough and quiet and completely honest.

“More than I ever thought I could love anything.” Your breath caught painfully in your chest before you smiled through the tears threatening to fall. “I love you too.” Arthur closed his eyes for a second like hearing the words still overwhelmed him no matter how many times you said them. Then he kissed you slowly beneath the stars, his hands warm against your face while the world around you faded into silence.

For the first time in a long time, Arthur Morgan felt at peace.

Not because the world had become kinder. Not because life had suddenly stopped being dangerous or uncertain. But because somehow, against all odds, the man who thought he was beyond saving had found someone who loved every broken piece of him anyway.

And in the end, the train wreck that should have ruined both your lives became the reason they finally found something worth holding onto.

[raidenssblog]

buried

pairing - Bruce wyane x reader After the loss of Jason you and Bruce have to deal with the empty space he leaves behind.

The manor had never felt this empty before. Not after patrols gone wrong, not after near-death injuries, not even after the countless nights where fear sat heavy in every room like fog. This was different. This was suffocating. Jason’s laugh no longer echoed through the halls, his boots no longer tracked dirt across Alfred’s freshly cleaned floors, and the constant sound of him arguing with Bruce over reckless decisions had vanished so completely it made your ears ring.

You sat at the dining table long after everyone else had disappeared for the night, staring blankly at the untouched cup of tea in front of you while rain battered against the manor windows. Bruce stood near the fireplace like a ghost of himself, shoulders tense beneath his black button-up, eyes hollow and distant. Neither of you had spoken much since returning from the funeral. There were no words big enough for this kind of grief. No comfort strong enough to survive it.

You finally looked up when Bruce silently moved toward the staircase, exhaustion dragging behind every step he took. “You haven’t slept in three days,” you said quietly, your voice rough from crying. He stopped but didn’t turn around. For a moment, the only sound between you was thunder rolling outside. “Neither have you,” he answered, his voice flat and tired in a way that made your chest ache.

You hated hearing him like this. Bruce Wayne was supposed to be immovable, steady, controlled, untouchable, but Jason’s death had cracked him wide open. You could see it in the way his hands shook when he thought no one was looking, in how he stared too long at the empty seat in the cave, in how he flinched every time the phone rang like some part of him still believed Jason might somehow call home.

Slowly, you stood and walked toward him, wrapping your arms around his waist from behind before he could pull away into another night of isolation. At first he stayed rigid, refusing to bend, refusing to break. Then suddenly his entire body caved beneath the weight of it all. His hands gripped yours so tightly it almost hurt as he bowed his head, shoulders trembling violently. “I was supposed to protect him,” he whispered, and hearing Bruce cry felt like watching the world collapse.

Your own tears came instantly after that. “We both loved him,” you choked out, pressing your face against his back. “None of this changes that.” But grief was cruel because love suddenly felt useless in the face of death. Bruce turned in your arms then, and the expression on his face nearly shattered you completely.

He looked destroyed. Dark circles stained beneath bloodshot eyes, his jaw unshaven, pain carved so deeply into his features it looked permanent. “I pushed him too hard,” he said bitterly. “I trained him, put him in danger, let him become—” “Our son,” you interrupted firmly, grabbing his face gently despite the tears streaming down yours. “He was our son before Robin. Before any of this.” Bruce’s breathing faltered sharply at the words.

Neither of you said them aloud often, but it was true. Jason had become family long before masks and missions ever entered the picture. You remembered movie nights in the manor living room, Jason teasing you endlessly while stealing food from your plate, the way he’d grin whenever he managed to annoy Bruce enough to get lectured. Those memories hurt now. Every single one felt like a knife twisting deeper into your chest.

That night neither of you slept. Instead, you sat together on the floor of Jason’s bedroom surrounded by pieces of him neither of you could bear to move. His leather jacket hung over the chair near his desk, books scattered carelessly across the floor exactly how he’d left them, music tapes piled beside the old radio he insisted sounded “better vintage.”

Bruce sat beside the bed holding one of Jason’s helmets in both hands like it was something sacred, something fragile enough to crumble if held too tightly. You leaned your head against his shoulder in silence while tears slipped endlessly down both your faces.

There was no fixing this. No mission to undo the damage. For once, even Bruce Wayne couldn’t fight death. But in that room, surrounded by the remains of the boy you both loved more than life itself, you realized the only reason either of you were still standing was because the other refused to let go. Even shattered apart, you were holding each other together.

-

have a good night everyone <3

[raidenssblog]

four days gone

Pairing - Carl x reader Jealous over Carl’s friendship with Enid, you begin pulling away from him until a dangerous trip outside Alexandria leaves you lost for days

The first few days in Alexandria felt unreal to you. Clean sheets, warm showers, actual walls that kept the dead out — after everything your group had survived, it almost didn’t feel real. But despite finally being somewhere safe, there was still a heavy feeling sitting in your chest every time you saw Carl with Enid. The two of them were always together somehow, talking quietly while sitting on porches, wandering through the streets together, sharing those little private smiles that made jealousy twist painfully in your stomach.

You hated feeling that way, especially because Carl had always been closest to you. Through the prison, the road, hunger, fear, and every nightmare in between, the two of you had always found each other again. But now Alexandria had changed things, and you couldn’t stop convincing yourself that maybe Carl was slipping away from you.

One evening, you spotted him sitting on the steps outside one of the houses while Enid laughed at something he whispered to her, and before either of them could notice you staring, you turned around and walked off. Later that night, Carl found you sitting alone on a rooftop, knees pulled against your chest as you stared silently toward the walls surrounding Alexandria. “You’ve been acting weird lately,” he said softly as he sat beside you.

His voice carried genuine concern, which somehow only made your feelings worse. You shrugged without looking at him. “I’m fine.” Carl immediately frowned. “No, you’re not.” When you stayed quiet, he sighed quietly. “Did I do something?” You swallowed hard before finally muttering, “No. You just seem busy with other people now.” Carl looked confused at first before realization slowly crossed his face.

“You mean Enid?” Your silence answered for you. Carl stared at you for a moment before letting out a small breath of disbelief. “Wait… are you jealous?” “I’m not jealous,” you snapped too fast, finally turning to face him. “You two are just always together.” Carl’s expression softened immediately. “She’s my friend.” You looked away again. “Right.” Before he could continue, you stood up and climbed down from the roof, leaving Carl sitting there alone and frustrated.

Over the next week, things only got worse. You started avoiding Carl whenever possible, volunteering for supply runs just to stay out of Alexandria longer and spending most evenings alone.

Every time Carl tried talking to you, you brushed him off before he could get more than a few words out. It hurt more than you expected too, because part of you could tell Carl genuinely didn’t understand why you were pushing him away, but every time you saw Enid near him, your chest tightened all over again.

One morning, after barely sleeping the entire night, you slipped outside Alexandria’s walls without telling anyone where you were going. You just needed space. Away from Carl, away from Enid, away from the horrible jealousy and confusion twisting around inside your head.

At first the woods were quiet, leaves crunching beneath your boots as you wandered aimlessly, too distracted by your thoughts to pay attention to where you were headed. Then suddenly a walker burst out from behind a tree and grabbed your arm with a rotten snarl. You screamed in shock, barely managing to stab it through the skull before another emerged from the trees.

Then another.

Panic hit instantly. You ran without thinking, branches scratching against your skin as walkers groaned somewhere behind you. Your breathing became uneven, your heart pounding violently in your chest as you pushed deeper into unfamiliar woods just trying to survive. By the time the sounds of the walkers finally disappeared, you realized with growing horror that you had no idea where you were anymore.

The next few days were miserable. You survived off scraps you found in abandoned cars and tiny amounts of rainwater collected in broken containers. At night you hid inside empty buildings with your knife clutched tightly in your hands, barely sleeping because every little noise made your heart jump.

But the worst part wasn’t the fear, it was thinking about Alexandria and Carl. Every night your mind drifted back to him. The way he smiled at you, the way he always looked for you first after runs, the way his voice softened whenever he talked to you.

You wondered if he was angry you left. You wondered if he even noticed you were gone. Back in Alexandria, Carl was losing his mind. The second people realized you were missing, he volunteered for every search run, refusing to stop looking even after multiple failed attempts. One night, after returning exhausted and covered in dirt, Carl argued with Rick in the middle of the living room.

“I should be out there right now,” he snapped angrily. “She’s alone.” Rick tried reasoning with him, but Carl only became more frustrated. “I knew something was wrong with her and I didn’t do anything about it.” His voice cracked slightly at the end, making the room fall silent.

Later that night, Enid quietly found Carl sitting on the porch staring toward Alexandria’s gates. “You love her, don’t you?” she asked softly. Carl looked down for a moment before giving a small nod.

“Yeah,” he admitted quietly. “I do.” Enid smiled a little sadly before nudging his shoulder. “Then tell her when she gets back.” Carl swallowed hard and whispered, “If she gets back.”

By the fourth day, exhaustion was dragging your entire body down. Your legs ached, your throat burned from dehydration, and you were beginning to lose hope of ever finding your way back. Then suddenly, through the trees, you spotted the tall walls of Alexandria in the distance. Relief hit so hard it almost made you collapse.

The second the gates opened and you stumbled inside, voices erupted around you in shock and relief. People rushed toward you asking questions, but before you could respond, Carl came sprinting across the street toward you. The second he reached you, he grabbed you tightly enough to nearly knock the air from your lungs. “Jesus Christ,” he breathed shakily against your shoulder.

“Don’t ever scare me like that again.” You froze in surprise at how tightly he held onto you, like he thought if he let go you might disappear again. When he finally pulled back, you saw tears gathered in his eyes, his face pale with exhaustion and fear. “You were gone for four days,” he said, voice cracking. “I thought you died.”

Guilt crashed into you immediately. “I’m sorry,” you whispered weakly. Carl let out a frustrated laugh and wiped at his eyes angrily. “I was losing my mind looking for you.” Slowly everyone else backed away, sensing the moment belonged to the two of you alone.

You stared down at the ground nervously before finally speaking again. “I didn’t mean to leave like that. I was just upset.” Carl already knew. “Because of Enid?” You nodded once. “I thought maybe you liked her more than me.” Carl looked genuinely stunned before shaking his head. “Are you serious?” He stepped closer immediately.

“I’ve been trying to figure out how to tell you I like you for months.” Your breath caught painfully in your chest. “What?” Carl laughed softly, nervous now himself. “You really didn’t know?” He rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly before quietly admitting, “It’s always been you.” Tears instantly filled your eyes again, exhaustion and relief crashing into you all at once. Carl’s expression softened completely as he gently brushed dirt and tears from your cheek.

“Hey,” he whispered carefully. “You’re okay now.” You let out a shaky breath before finally admitting the truth. “I like you too. I think I always have.” The tension between you both finally disappeared as Carl smiled at you in pure relief, the kind of smile that made your heart ache. He rested his forehead gently against yours and whispered, “I thought I lost you.” Your hands grabbed onto his jacket tightly as you whispered back, “You’re not getting rid of me that easily.”

Carl laughed quietly before asking in a nervous voice, “Can I kiss you now?” You smiled through your tears and nodded once before he kissed you softly, carefully, like you were something precious he never wanted to lose again.

[raidenssblog]

You know what I want plsssssss 😭😭😭😭

when do i not know what you need

between riddles

Pairing - The riddle x fem reader just relaxing as Edward rambles about his ideas to you

-

The rain tapped softly against the apartment windows, Gotham painted in blurry neon through the glass while the small record player in the corner crackled with quiet jazz. The apartment itself was cluttered in the most Edward way possible—papers covered in formulas and riddles scattered across the coffee table, green question marks scribbled across sticky notes, and at least three different cups of cold coffee abandoned around the room. Yet despite the chaos, it felt strangely warm tonight. Comfortable. You sat curled up on the couch beside him, legs tucked beneath yourself while Edward paced barefoot across the living room in an oversized sweater, entirely consumed by one of his spiraling theories about Batman.

“He relies too heavily on intimidation,” Edward muttered, waving his hands dramatically as he spoke. “That’s the flaw everyone misses. Gotham fears him, yes, but fear makes people predictable.” He stopped near the evidence board nailed to the wall, tapping one long finger against a photograph of the vigilante. “If you can predict someone, you can corner them.” His glasses slipped slightly down his nose as he rambled, completely lost in thought now. “Everyone thinks brute force is the answer, but no, no, no—that’s amateur work. Batman’s mind is the real battlefield.”

You barely even realized you were smiling until he glanced over and caught you staring.

“What?” he asked immediately, suspicious but not unkind.

“Nothing,” you replied softly, resting your chin in your palm. “You’re just… really smart.”

Edward blinked at that. The confidence in his expression faltered for only a second before returning twice as strong. “Well, obviously.”

You laughed quietly, and the sound made something gentler appear in his face. Most people only saw the sharp edges of Edward Nygma—the ego, the obsession, the dangerous brilliance—but moments like this felt different. Domestic. Human. He walked back toward the couch, still talking animatedly while shuffling through pages of notes.

“The key,” he continued, sitting beside you close enough for your shoulders to touch, “would be forcing Batman into a situation where he cannot rely on preparation. A spontaneous intellectual trap. Something elegant.” His eyes lit up with excitement as he explained it, hands moving faster the more invested he became. “Imagine this: three simultaneous crimes across Gotham, each containing contradictory clues. He’d have to choose which trail is real while the clock runs against him.” Edward grinned proudly. “Beautiful, isn’t it?”

You looked at him like he’d hung the stars.

“It is beautiful,” you admitted.

That seemed to catch him off guard more than praise usually did. Edward’s mouth opened slightly before he scoffed under his breath, trying to play off the faint redness creeping onto his cheeks. “You make me sound like some kind of artist.”

“You kind of are.”

For a moment, he just stared at you. The apartment suddenly felt quieter, the storm outside more distant. Edward wasn’t used to being listened to like this—not tolerated, not feared, but genuinely listened to. Like every thought in his head mattered. Slowly, he leaned back against the couch cushions, adjusting his glasses while a smug little smile tugged at his lips.

“You know,” he murmured, voice softer now, “most people stop paying attention after the first five minutes.”

“I could listen to you for hours.”

That earned a genuine laugh from him, low and surprised. “Careful,” he said, leaning closer. “Encouragement like that is dangerous.”

“I think I can handle it.”

Edward studied you carefully then, like he was trying to solve a puzzle and couldn’t quite figure out how someone could look at him with so much warmth instead of judgment. Finally, he reached over and took your hand absentmindedly, thumb brushing across your knuckles while he started talking again—this time quieter, calmer, more relaxed. You listened to every word, even when the theories became complicated or overly dramatic, because hearing Edward speak about the things he loved always sounded a little like watching lightning bottled into a person.

And honestly?

You could’ve stayed there all night listening to him talk about Batman, riddles, revenge, or anything else that crossed his brilliant mind.

[raidenssblog]

May I request Red Hood, Rick Flag, Harley Quinn, and Poison Ivy w/ a potential S/O who is a vigilante w/ a doctor motif? They are unlike Batman in that they just straight up murder those who they deem "undeserving of life" and "repurpose" their bodies to serve injured/sick civilians. They've got a bit of a god complex goin on here

And they may or may not sell organs to make a quick buck 💀

They are also quite empathetic and a big aura farmer

i got cha

Red Hood

Jason would clock the hypocrisy immediately, but he’d also be fascinated by it. Here’s this vigilante dressed like some plague-doctor angel of death, preaching mercy for civilians while carving criminals apart on an operating table in the next room. The organ selling? He’d definitely raise an eyebrow at first, but once he realizes the money is funding clinics, medicine, and surgeries for people Gotham abandoned, he starts viewing it less as greed and more as “creative budgeting.” Jason’s not morally clean himself, so he’s in absolutely no position to lecture somebody else about body counts.

That said, he would challenge the god complex constantly. Not because he’s morally superior, but because he knows what happens when someone starts believing they alone decide who deserves life. He’d catch them standing over a body talking about “removing infection from society,” and he’d just deadpan, “You know that’s exactly how every cult leader starts, right?” Still, he’d admire the efficiency, the intelligence, and weirdly enough, the compassion underneath all the horror. Watching them gently stitch up a terrified child after spending the night dismembering traffickers would make something in him ache.

Romantically, Jason would be obsessed with the contrast. One second they’re terrifying enough to make hardened gangsters cry, next they’re softly feeding soup to an old woman recovering from surgery. He’d absolutely fall for the fact they genuinely care about people, even if their methods are horrifyingly extreme. The “aura farming” energy would drive him insane too because they’d walk into a room covered in blood and still somehow look like a divine savior descending from heaven. Jason would hate how attractive that is.

Eventually their relationship becomes this dangerous balancing act where Jason tries to keep them grounded while secretly enabling them half the time. He’d patch them up after fights while muttering about how selling kidneys on the black market is “probably illegal in, like… every country.” Meanwhile they’d casually hand him coffee while explaining how one dead mobster funded six heart surgeries. He knows he should be more disturbed than he is. That realization honestly scares him more than they do.

Rick Flag

Rick would initially view them as a massive security threat. Someone with surgical expertise, combat skills, and a savior complex is basically a nightmare scenario to a military man. The second he hears about the organ trafficking allegations attached to their name, he’s already preparing contingency plans. But then he actually meets them and realizes they aren’t killing randomly—they have rules, targets, structure, and disturbingly genuine empathy for innocent people.

That empathy is exactly what hooks him.

Rick has spent most of his life surrounded by people who weaponize violence for selfish reasons, so seeing someone use brutality in service of protecting civilians messes with his head. He wouldn’t approve of their methods—not fully—but he’d understand the logic more than he wants to admit. Especially when he sees entire neighborhoods benefiting from underground clinics they secretly fund. The image of them calmly removing a bullet from a frightened civilian while still wearing bloodstained gloves from a prior execution would stay burned into his brain.

He’d become the person constantly questioning them ethically. Rick is practical, not naïve, so he understands why they do what they do, but he refuses to let them fully disappear into their god complex. He’d call them out directly too. “You’re not a deity. You’re a traumatized person with a scalpel and too much confidence.” And honestly? They’d probably respect him for saying it to their face instead of treating them like either a monster or a saint.

Romantically there’s a lot of tension built around trust. Rick’s entire life revolves around control and accountability, while they operate almost like an untouchable myth. But beneath all that arrogance and theatrics, he notices how exhausted they are. How every life they fail to save genuinely devastates them. He’d slowly become one of the only people they allow to see them without the “divine healer” persona. And once that wall drops, Rick’s done for.

Harley Quinn

Harley would think they’re the hottest person alive almost immediately.

A terrifying medical-themed vigilante with a superiority complex, surgical precision, and enough charisma to make people worship them? That is exactly her type of weird. The second she finds out they’re harvesting organs from terrible people to save civilians she’d gasp dramatically and go, “BABES, that is so environmentally conscious of ya.” Morally questionable healthcare redistribution is honestly something she’d weirdly respect.

Unlike Jason or Rick, Harley wouldn’t immediately try to “fix” the god complex because she finds it entertaining. She’d actively encourage the theatrics too. If they walk into a room acting like some divine physician delivering judgment, Harley’s behind them hyping it up like a WWE manager. “YEAHHH, TELL ‘EM THEY GOT TERMINAL STUPIDITY!” She loves confidence and spectacle, and they’ve got both in horrifying amounts.

But underneath all the jokes, Harley would understand them on a frighteningly personal level. She knows what it’s like to twist compassion into something violent and obsessive. She’d recognize that their savior complex probably comes from a desperate need to justify pain and death. That realization would make her softer with them than most people expect. She’d tease relentlessly, but she’d also be the first to notice when they’re spiraling too far into their own delusions.

Their relationship would be chaotic but weirdly affectionate. Imagine Harley sitting on a surgical table kicking her feet while they rant about societal corruption like an angry fallen angel. Meanwhile she’s doodling smiley faces on their medical charts and suggesting increasingly insane code names. They’d probably adore how unafraid she is of them too. Most people see a monster or a miracle when they look at this vigilante. Harley just sees a person who’s deeply messed up in a way that matches her own.

Poison Ivy

Ivy would actually respect them far more than most heroes would.

To her, human society is already monstrously corrupt, so someone eliminating predators and redistributing their organs to save innocent lives doesn’t immediately register as evil. Disturbing? Yes. Morally grey? Absolutely. But Ivy herself has killed for what she believes is a righteous cause, so she’s not exactly standing on ethical high ground here.

What would fascinate her most is their almost religious view of medicine and life. Ivy sees nature as sacred; they see the human body as sacred. In a strange way, their ideologies parallel each other. Both believe they’re correcting flaws in a broken system. Both are willing to become terrifying in order to protect what they love. That similarity would create an immediate understanding between them that feels almost intimate.

She’d probably admire how gentle they are with vulnerable people. Watching this feared vigilante kneel beside a sick child with infinite patience while later condemning a corrupt politician to death would remind Ivy of carnivorous plants: beautiful, nurturing, and lethal all at once. She’d find that duality incredibly attractive. Their god complex wouldn’t scare her much either because Ivy herself can be similarly self-righteous. If anything, she’d occasionally make it worse by validating them too much.

Their relationship would feel oddly calm despite how horrifying they both are individually. Quiet conversations in hidden greenhouses while they sanitize surgical tools. Ivy tending plants beside containers of preserved organs without batting an eye. They’d discuss humanity like disappointed scientists observing a failed experiment, yet still dedicate themselves to saving individual people. There’s something deeply tragic and romantic about two people who’ve lost faith in the world but still can’t stop trying to heal parts of it anyway.