roma★
2025 on Tumblr: Trends That Defined the Year
Alisa U Zemlji Chuda
Kaledo Art
cherry valley forever
Show & Tell
YOU ARE THE REASON
todays bird
occasionally subtle
sheepfilms
祝日 / Permanent Vacation
Origami Around
Janaina Medeiros
🪼
❣ Chile in a Photography ❣
RMH
Sweet Seals For You, Always
Monterey Bay Aquarium
Love Begins
PR's Tumblrdome
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@sanrioooooa
stop calling it a war. it's not a goddamn fucking war. it's a genocide. call it as such. stop censoring yourself and stop falling for the most stupidest fucking propaganda right now. it is not a war. stop fucking calling it a war. it is genocide. say it. say the words. it is a genocide.
sunshine! 𝜗𝜚⋆₊˚ln1
summary: when lando starts posting a new mystery figure to his instagram with no warning, fans get rabid trying to find their identity. but aside from lando's obsessive posting, the target of their hunt doesn't exist. in your cozy monaco world, you and lando agree to one thing: private, but not secret. the world will never know your name, but they will know that lando loves you.
♫ problemz, jungle
lando history isn't so bad 🧿
liked by osarpiastri, mclarenf1, georgerussell63, and 298,695 others
view 48,596 comments
user okay but WHO is that on slide 6??
user IS THIS A HARD LAUNCH?
user THERE WAS NO SOFT LAUNCH, THIS IS THE HARDEST LAUNCH I'VE EVER WITNESSED user I'M SPEECHLESS, POWER MOVE FROM LANDO user why is the face card so lethal?? who even is that??
Curtain Call | Connor Bedard
prompt: Nick Foligno drags Connor to see Hadestown after the Blackhawks get sent tickets, due to Connor's lack of knowledge about anything that doesn't surround hockey. What Connor didn't expect was to see you on stage, and to be utterly consumed.
pairing: Connor Bedard x theater f!reader
content: Hadestown references, theater vocab, awkward Connor, but he's also low key obsessed?, fluff
wc: 2.3k
a/n: is this niche? maybe. i've been so obsessed with the idea of Connor seeing a musical and falling in love with the female lead, so here we are. Also, I know Nick isn't captain anymore :((( I miss him though, so let's all pretend
Superstitions
Connor Bedard x fem!reader || fluff, mild swearing
description: Connor Bedard has a lucky routine for everything - until one accidental "good luck" from his sarcastic neighbour ends the Blackhawks' winning streak. Convinced her relentless teasing is somehow his real lucky charm, he comes up with a plan.
Chicago in early November had a way of making the cold feel personal. It wasn't the dramatic, snowy kind. It was rather damp and windy, the kind that crept through your coat and settled in your bones before you'd even reached the corner. At eight in the morning the sun was still half-asleep, the sidewalks glistened from last night's drizzle, and the lobby of your apartment building smelled like fresh coffee and wet wool.
Your dog trotted happily beside you, blissfully unaware that normal people hated mornings. You wrapped both hands around your double espresso, trying to steal whatever warmth was left in the cup as you pushed through the front door.
Someone caught it before it swung shut.
"Oh. Thanks."
"No problem."
You glanced up. It was your neighbour.
You didn't know much about him beyond the obvious. Quiet. Polite. Lived on the same floor as you. Was a captain of Chicago Blackhawks. Left at strange hours carrying enough hockey equipment to stock a sporting goods store.
Today was no different. A duffel hung off one shoulder, two sticks tucked under one arm. His hair still looked slightly flattened from sleep.
"You off to practice?"
"Yeah."
You took another sip of your coffee.
"Game tonight too?"
He nodded.
"Against Minnesota, huh?"
"Yeah, right." He looked at you for a second. "Wait, you know who we're playing?"
You shrugged.
"I've accidentally learned more about the Blackhawks than I ever planned to."
Your dog decided this was the perfect moment to investigate a neighbour from 3b walking past you, nearly wrapping his leash around your legs. While you untangled the mess, you looked back at Connor.
"Well... try not to fall over today."
He stopped walking.
"...Excuse me?"
You exaggerated an awkward stumble, nearly spilling your own coffee in the process.
"You know, like that."
He groaned.
"Oh, come on."
"What?"
"You've seen it?"
"The entire internet has seen it, Bedard."
The clip of him eating ice during warmups had been published a few days ago and went viral. Somehow it ended up on everyone's for you page, yours included.
"It wasn't even during the game," he defended himself and then laughed through an exasperated sigh and shook his head.
"You're unbelievable."
"I've been told."
He started backing toward the parking garage.
"See you."
"Don't make friends with the boards this time."
"You too have a nice day." He rolled his eyes with a smirk on his face.
The Blackhawks beat Minnesota that night. You only found out because ESPN insisted on sending you notifications you forgot to turn off.
Good for them, you guessed. Good for your weird neighbour, too.
⸻
A week later you were heading back from your morning walk with the dog when the elevator doors opened. Connor stepped out looking like he'd packed for six months.
Suit, winter coat, one large suitcase and his huge hockey bag.
You blinked.
"Moving out?"
He laughed.
"No. Flying out to Colorado for the night."
"You have another game already?"
"Yeah."
He pulled the suitcase behind him before adding, almost apologetically, "It's basically every other day."
"...That sounds miserable."
"It has its moments." He shrugged.
He was halfway across the lobby when you called after him.
"Hey."
He turned.
"Maybe hit the net tonight."
He stared.
"...That's literally my job."
"I know." You smiled sweetly. "Would be pretty embarrassing if you couldn't do the only thing you're paid for."
"I'll remember that." A laugh slipped out before he could stop it.
"You should."
Chicago won that night again.
⸻
By now it had somehow become... a thing. Not that either of you would've admitted it. Of course not.
You ran into Connor again in the mail room a few days later. He was sorting through letters with the same concentration most people reserved for tax returns.
"Funny enough, I'm actually going to your game tonight."
His eyebrows lifted.
"You?"
"My friend from Massachusetts is visiting."
"Hockey fan?"
"Obsessed."
You fished your mailbox key out of your bag.
"So apparently I'm spending my evening pretending I understand icing."
Connor laughed.
"You'll figure it out."
"I also bought decent seats."
"So?" He glanced over.
"So your little skating thing better be worth the money. The tickets were expensive."
"My little skating thing?" Connor leaned against the row of mailboxes. "Where are you sitting?"
You looked at him suspiciously.
"Why?"
"So I know where exactly to shoot the puck."
"Oh?"
"So you can properly appreciate how little my skating thing actually is."
You couldn't help laughing.
The Blackhawks won that night as well. Blackhawks' captain Bedard also scored a hat trick. Apparently, the game was indeed worth the money.
⸻
Two mornings later you were grabbing coffee across the street when you spotted Connor loading his gear into the trunk of his SUV. The pedestrian light had already started counting down. No chance. You cupped your hands around your mouth instead.
"Game day?"
He looked up.
"Yep."
Without thinking, you called back, "Good luck!"
He smiled.
"Thanks!"
That was it. No joke. No teasing this time. Just... good luck.
That night your phone buzzed. ESPN again. You really should figure out how to turn off the notifications.
Blackhawks lose 4–3 in overtime. Winning streak is officially over.
Before bed you watched Connor's postgame interview out of curiosity. He looked tired more than anything. Frustrated in the quiet way people get, when they know exactly what went wrong but can't change it anymore.
"We had our chances," he said. "Just didn't capitalize."
You closed Instagram and went to sleep without giving it another thought.
Connor was on the other hand still worked up from the game. Somewhere between the locker room and the team bus, a ridiculous little thought wandered into his head.
She didn't make fun of me today.
He actually snorted at himself.
Seriously?
He wasn't twelve. He was playing in the NHL. There were all sorts of ridiculous superstitions but there was absolutely no universe where his performance depended on his sarcastic neighbour roasting him in the apartment lobby... Still.
It was the only thing that had been different today.
⸻
Monday evening found you exactly forty-three minutes behind schedule. What was supposed to be a quick shower had spiraled into the full everything-shower - hair mask, exfoliator, shaving... Every bottle currently living on the edge of your bathtub had somehow been involved. The mirror was still completely fogged over, one leg was moisturized, the other definitely wasn't, and you were halfway through rubbing body lotion into your arms when someone knocked.
Three quick raps you could easily ignore, since nobody was supposed to come over. You were about to leave for the bar night with your girls and had absolutely no time for anything else.
Another knock. Longer and louder this time.
Your dog sprang off the bath mat and started barking like the building was under attack.
"Oh my God..."
You glanced toward the clock. You were already late for drinks with the girls. Shit.
The knocking came again. Persistent. For God's sake!
"Alright! Jesus, I'm coming."
You tied your bathrobe a little tighter and padded to the front door, your dog squeezing between your legs, determined to defend you and the apartment.
You opened it. Connor stood there looking oddly frantic - hockey bag over one shoulder, car keys in his hand. He was slightly out of breath. He looked ready to launch into something... Instead he stopped.
"...Is that vanilla?"
You blinked.
"...Sorry, what?"
He frowned, almost distracted.
"It smells sweet."
You looked down at the bottle still in your hand.
"Oh. Yeah." You held it up. "Lotion. Vanilla lotion."
"...Right."
An awkward beat passed.
"So..." you said. "What are you doing here?"
His brain seemed to catch up with the rest of him.
"I need you to do the thing."
"...What thing?"
"Your thing."
You frowned.
"My thing?"
"The..." He gestured vaguely between the two of you. "You know.. Before games."
"I honestly have no clue what you're talking about."
"The mean things."
"I don't say mean things. They're jokes."
"Fine." He checked his watch. "The jokes. Whatever." Another glance at his watch. "Please."
"...Connor."
"I have to be at the arena in twenty minutes."
"...Okay?"
"And everyone should stick to their routines."
You folded your arms.
"So I didn't change anything before Colorado." He started counting on his fingers. "Same breakfast. Same workout. Same drive. Same order getting dressed."
He looked at you.
"The only difference..." His shoulders dropped. "...was that you wished me good luck last time."
You stared at him for a second and then laughed.
"You think me saying 'good luck' made Blackhawks lose in overtime?"
"I don't know but I also can't prove it didn't."
You rubbed your forehead.
"I've heard hockey players are superstitious... But this..." You pointed straight at him. "...this is clinical."
Connor didn't even look offended.
"Sidney Crosby has routines."
"I'm sure they're nowhere this ridiculous."
"...Probably not. But if Sid's doing routine stuff, I'm doing routine stuff."
"That is some spectacularly bad logic."
He smiled sheepishly.
"Please?"
It wasn't dramatic or manipulative. Just... weirdly sincere. Like he knew this was completely insane and had decided to commit anyway.
"You told me not to fall over."
"...Yeah?"
"I had a good game after that."
"So?"
"So..." He spread his hands. "...do it again. Please."
You let out the longest sigh of your life.
"You are unbelievable, Bedard."
"I've heard."
"No, I don't think you have." Another sigh. "...Fine."
You pretended to think.
"Don't trip."
Connor nodded immediately.
"The ice is slippery."
Another nod.
"And maybe try shooting at the net."
"I usually- "
"It's literally the biggest thing standing there on the ice."
"I know."
"I don't know how you miss it, honestly."
Connor let out a breath that almost sounded relieved.
"There."
"Happy?"
"Very."
"Good."
"Thank-"
He stopped himself, straightened his shoulders and put on an exaggeratedly offended expression. He pointed toward the elevator.
"And you..."
"What?"
"...Don't miss it."
You looked at the single elevator at the end of the hallway and laughed.
"You're terrible at this."
"I know."
He checked the time again.
"Oh crap. Gotta run. Bye!"
Instead of waiting for the elevator, he shoved open the stairwell door and disappeared two steps at a time.
You stood there blinking after him. What... Was.. That?..
You leaned into the stairwell.
"YOU'RE OFFICIALLY A LUNATIC, BEDARD!"
Your voice echoed all the way down.
"DON'T FORGET TO SHOOT THE SMALL BLACK ROUND THING!"
A second later his voice floated back up.
"YOU ARE THE BEST!"
⸻
It was almost 1 a.m. when you got home. The underground garage was nearly empty, quiet except for your footsteps bouncing off the concrete. You'd barely locked your car when someone yelled -
"IT WORKED!"
You nearly had a heart attack. Whirling around, you instinctively held your keys between your fingers. Connor was leaning against his SUV, grinning like Christmas had come early. Your pulse was somewhere in your throat.
"BEDARD!"
He immediately started laughing.
"You absolute asshole!"
"Hi to you, too."
"What is wrong with you?"
"What?"
"You don't sneak up on women in parking garages at midnight!"
"I wasn't sneaking."
"I almost stabbed you!"
He looked at your hand.
"...With a key?"
"It's a sharp key!"
Still muttering, you started toward the elevator. Connor hurried after you.
"Okay." He was still smiling. "I'm sorry."
"No, you're not."
"...Yea, not really." Nothing seemed to bring him down and erase the grin from his face.
The elevator doors opened.
"You scared at least ten years off my life."
"I got excited."
You looked over.
"...Becauuuse?"
"I waited for you."
"You what?"
He shrugged.
"Media wrapped around eleven.. I've been down here since... eleven-thirty?"
You stared at him.
"You've been sitting in a parking garage for almost an hour?"
"I watched highlights from the game." He pointed upward. "Also our Wi-Fi reaches down here."
"...Good to know?"
"Anyway."
The elevator started moving.
"It worked."
"What worked?"
"You."
"...Me?"
"The comments. I scored twice."
"...Seriously?"
"We won three-one."
You couldn't help smiling.
"Well... Congratulations?"
"I told you."
"I still think it's complete nonsense."
"Maybe." He shrugged. "But we're chasing a playoff spot."
"And?"
"And I'm not risking it."
You shook your head.
"The amount of pucks that went to your head over all these years finally shows. You are actually insane."
He laughed.
"Breakfast tomorrow?"
"What?"
"Wildberry? The pancake place? You can insult me there before I head to the airport tomorrow."
The elevator chimed and you stepped out together.
"You know, Bedard..."
"Hm?"
"I genuinely think you'd have better games if you spent less time organising breakfast dates... and more time working on your stickhandling."
Connor laughed immediately.
"Oh, that's good."
"What?"
"Save that one for tomorrow."
He started walking backward toward his apartment.
"I'll pick you up at eight. You can take your dog. Actually please take your dog with you."
"I never agreed."
"You also didn't say no."
"This is not a date."
His grin somehow got even bigger.
"It absolutely is. I'll see you tomorrow."
He unlocked his door, then looked back.
"And for the record... You are right - I should probably spend more time practicing.."
A beat.
"But I also want to take you on a date. So we'll start with this tomorrow."
Before you could answer, he disappeared inside and his door clicked shut. You stood alone in the hallway, staring at it for several long seconds.
What. The. Hell?
Somehow, you'd ended up agreeing to breakfast with your hockey-playing neighbour because he genuinely believed your sarcastic insults were good luck. Which was absurd. Completely absurd.
So why were you already wondering what you were going to wear?
FRIENDS (ft. John Logan)
blurb: john logan is in love with you. he thinks you’re in love with his best friend when you keep sticking to garrett graham all night. boy is he wrong. based off two separate requests.
or: you want logan. logan wants you. and garrett’s just there.
warnings: fem!reader, jealous!logan, alcohol, miscommunication trope (i know i’m sorry), argument, brief angst, mutual pining, bad smut in the end lmao
John Logan has a tick.
It’s subtle. Barely there.
He doesn’t even notice it himself.
But right now, he could feel the dull ache of his clenching jaw every time he spotted you speaking to Garrett.
The off campus house was packed; college students drinking, loud music blasting, and Logan’s annoying roommates belting out incorrect song lyrics among other slurred talk.
Nighttime cuddles
Your son sneaks into your bed in the middle of the night
Valarr x pregnant wife!reader
Content: pure fluff as the gods intended, your son is 3, Valarr is a great father and husband, Valarr wants a girl, really short.
You’re woken from your lovely sleep not by the maid or your husband, who was sound asleep with his face buried in your hair hand resting on your growing bump. No, it’s from your 3 year old son Jaehaerys pulling on your arm trying to use you to climb into bed.
No Aelias, your mother is NOT trapped inside that locket
Valarr Targaryen X Reader
ITIMMW AU Synopsys: In which your brother gets sick and you leave your husband and child alone WC: 3K A/N: I don't really like how this turned out it feels rushed ): i've been busy, but i hope the person who requested it likes it
Hey so baby Thomas Grayson is the sweetest baby ever! If that's okay, could I please request something about Dick's reaction to his first milestones like crawling, walking, first word... or maybe tomtom being a mama's boy 🥺 loove a mini dick grayson loving his mama so so much just like his dad does
feel free to ignore it of it does not pleases you lol! have a good day <3
𝐌𝐀𝐌𝐀'𝐒 𝐁𝐎𝐘 ⸝⸝⸝ 𝐝𝐢𝐜𝐤 𝐠𝐫𝐚𝐲𝐬𝐨𝐧
𝐬𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐞 ⇢ your son was always meant to be a mama's boy. dick simply made sure of it.
𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 ⇢ this is a sort of continuation of the tiny tyrant of blüdhaven ⬫ fluff ⬫ established relationship ⬫ f!reader ⬫ no physical description is given for the reader ⬫ for writing purposes, i named your baby thomas grayson ⬫ english isn't my language ...
𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭 ⇢ 1,4k.
𐙚˙⋆.♡ 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐲 𝐭𝐲𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐭 𝐨𝐟 𝐛𝐥𝐮̈𝐝𝐡𝐚𝐯𝐞𝐧
.ᐟ 𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: richard "dick" grayson x f!reader + your son.
.ᐟ 𝐬𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐞: dick grayson has faced supervillains, aliens, and identity crises. but nothing could have prepared him for becoming thomas grayson's father.
.ᐟ 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: fluff・established relationship・no physical description is given for the reader・for writing purposes, i named your baby thomas grayson・english is not my language.
.ᐟ 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 1,8k.
.☘︎ ݁˖Lucky you!
Includes: Jason Todd, Bruce Wayne, Hal Jordan, & Tim Drake
Summary: How would they react to "Lucky You" jeans
Content: f!reader unless you ignore the vaginal vocabulary, might be oc, fingering, & oral. Tell me if I missed any others .ᐟ
✶⋆.˚Jason Todd
Jason would be fumbling with the zipper, probably in a hurry, when his eyes caught something unusual. He’d pull it down further, trying to see the words more clearly, his eyes catching the printed letters: “lucky you” with a clover at the end.
A slow, predatory like grin would spread across his face, breath catching in his throat. The realization hitting him like a physical force.
”Lucky me?” he’d breathe out, voice rough and thick, panting from previously kissing you.
He’d then tug down the jeans down faster, a possessive, urgent need igniting within him.
”Yeah,” he’d practically growl, his voice low and raw, “damm right. Lucky me,” before forcefully getting rid of your underwear, spreading your legs in the process as well.
✶⋆.˚Bruce Wayne
The door to his quarters slam open, he’s carrying you in his arms, lips and tongues intertwined.
The air was now filled with warmth and the longing for each other's touch. Bruce throws you on to the soft mattress of his king sized bed, both of you pulling away from the kiss.
As you shifted slightly, trying to quickly unzip your jeans, Bruce's gaze shifted down, noticing the "lucky you” peeking from the inside of your jeans.
A slow, genuinely delighted smile spread across his face.
Lifting his head up to look at your face, his usual neat black hair now messy and scrambled from your fingers tugging and pulling at it earlier. Hovering over you, he whispers in your ear, “Lucky me?” He then reaches down to gently trace the edge of the fabric. “You have no idea how lucky I feel,”.
He pulls you closer, your clothed cunt meeting his crotch.
“Now let me make you feel good, hm?” He says as he pulls both your unzipped jeans and underwear off.
✶⋆.˚Hal Jordan
His large body hovers over yours, lips meeting your neck. He’s kissing and nibbling all over your skin.
Hal pulls away, before he moves down to your legs, his face in between your thighs. You could feel the warmth from his breath landing on your clothed cunt.
His fingers travel to the zipper of your jeans, pulling the small piece of metal down. His eyes notice the imprint of the words splattered on the fabric of your jeans. He looks up to your face and then back to the words before letting out a low chuckle.
”Lucky me? Always with the little surprises, aren't you?” he asks, a gentle teasing tone in his voice.
“Lets see how lucky I really am then,” he says with a glimmer in his eyes.
Hal swiftly pulls down both your jeans and underwear, exposing your throbbing pussy. His mouth latches onto your heat, swirling his tongue around the clit. Your hands grip his brown hair, while his mouth continues its work on your lower area, determined to make you finish.
✶⋆.˚Tim Drake
Tim’s gaze locked with yours, a shared amusement dancing in his eyes as your hand deliberately went to your jeans zipper.
He watched the slow, almost teasing way you began to unzip them, a knowing smirk playing on your lips as the hidden “Lucky you” was revealed.
He leaned closer, his breath warm against your cheek, his voice met your ear “What have we here?” His hand goes down to cover yours, the touch sending a jolt through you as he helps you to finish unzipping.
Your hips lift up slightly to make it easier to discard the jeans and your underwear. Tim then pulls you upward so that your back meets his chest before forcing your legs apart, his fingers glide down between your thighs. ”Wet already?” he says before pushing in two fingers, forcing a moan out of you.
Lace divider made by @uzmacchiato
You Must Be His Nursemaid
Pairing: Prince Valarr Targaryen x Reader ( referred to as 'You')
Part 1: You Must Be His Nursemaid | Part 2: A Prince and A Dragon | Part 3: Where Princes, Ladies, Lords, and Knights Gathered in Candlelight | Part 4: Silk Morning, Bloodied Field | Part 5: Where the Dragon Set Its Gaze and Bared Its Teeth
Word Count: ~3.8k
Summary:
Upon arriving at Ashford Keep, Ser Duncan the Tall mistakes Prince Valarr’s wife — and mother of his child — for a nursemaid. Unfortunately for him, he says so aloud. Fortunately for him, she does not take offence.
𝐖𝐇𝐎𝐒𝐄 𝐖𝐄𝐃𝐃𝐈𝐍𝐆? - 𝐣𝐚𝐬𝐨𝐧 𝐭𝐨𝐝𝐝
jason todd x fem!reader summary: jason can't seem to understand why you keep talking about "your" wedding contains: fluff, established relationship, pet names word count: ~600
You and Jason laid in bed, morning light shuffling in through the blinds and illuminating the soft bedding. Jason had one arm around your waist as his head was tucked into the crook of your neck, eyes shut contentedly. Your eyes were open, staring blankly at the page of your book as you listened to Jason’s soft breathing mix with the morning birdsongs that rolled in with the light.
“Jay?” you whispered quietly, testing to see if he was awake.
“Hm?” he grunted in reply, nose nestling further into your neck.
You kept quiet for a moment, hesitant to bring up such a topic before finally asking, “Do you ever think about what you want your wedding to be like?”
Jason was silent and you felt his arm subtly tense around you. You started to worry you had crossed some line you didn’t know existed before he replied, “What do you mean?”
“I mean like how many people, what type of cake, the venue…that stuff. How do you picture your future wedding?”
You felt Jason’s brow furrow against your skin. “I’m still confused,” he mumbled, lips brushing ur neck and placing a soft kiss there.
You pursed your lips, puzzled at how he could be confused by such a question. “What are you confused about? When I picture my wedding I know I want—”
Jason abruptly sat up straight, causing you to stop speaking and stare at him in confusion. He was really starting to freak you out.
“Why do you keep saying it like that?” he asked, looking at you with a mix of annoyance, confusion, and a hint of hurt.
“Saying it like what?”
Jason looked away for a moment, letting the sunrays filtering in illuminate his features. His scars were highlighted and when his eyes met yours again, you could see them so clearly, their mix of green and blue capturing you before he spoke again.
“Saying ‘your wedding’ or ‘my wedding’. Why do you keep doing that?”
“Um…” you paused, laughing nervously. “What am I supposed to say, Jay?”
“Doll,” he brought his hand up to cradle your face. “There’s not gonna be a ‘my wedding’ or a ‘your wedding’...only ‘our wedding’. I’m not getting married unless it’s to you, princess.”
“Oh.” Your face flushed and your eyes widened, a soft smile breaking out across your lips before you buried your face in Jason’s chest in embarrassment.
Jason laughed, bringing his arms up to envelope you and leaning down to place a kiss upon your head. You were consumed by his intoxicating scent - the expensive cologne Dick had bought him for Christmas, gunpowder from last night’s patrol, your favorite shampoo he swore he never used, and the fresh smell of clean linen sheets.
“Yeah, ‘oh’.” He smiled as you brought your head back up to meet his. Jason kissed you softly and sweetly, still sluggish from sleep. “What, were you plannin’ on marrying someone else?”
Your eyes widened as you pulled back. “No! No, of course not! I just…didn’t know if you wanted that.”
He looked at you with a gentle, lovesick expression on his face. “I never thought I did either, doll.” He paused which made your heart pick up nervously again. But he just brought his hands to yours and raised one to kiss it tenderly. “Until I met you.”
You flushed again, swatting him away playfully. “Who knew you were such a romantic, Todd?”
“Always have been,” he pulled you back into his arms. “Just hadn’t met the right girl until now.”
COLLAR
summary : nobody could disturb jason peter todd when he was knee deep in a dostoevsky. except you, of course, his hot neighbour who liked making his lips bruise up and brain fall out as a friday night hobby.
contains : heavy making out, well read!jason, post Lazarus pit!jay, whipped!jay, thighs man!jay, grinding, basically dry humping, forearm tattoo!jason, but he’s actually a softie, reader wears warm sweaters, bookish!reader but that means she’s a lil freaky, neighbour!jason, booksmart!jason, streetsmart!jason, he’s a moaner I’m calling it, baddie!reader
inspiration : she’s my collar (g + k.u)
It started with a smile.
He'd been carrying boxes from the moving van Bruce had hired, in the middle of the rare heatwave in Gotham. His luck really was something.
He’d been hauling boxes in, wiping his forehead with the hem of his tee, dropping the wet fabric to hang by his waist. Your figure framed in the light of the hallway, like some sort of halo.
He blinked. “Uh, hey?”
You just smiled. Like you knew something he didn’t. “Hey, neighbour.” You disappeared into your apartment, slamming the door shut. With a mutter of “people”, he kicked open his door, resting the box of all his childhood photos on his new dining table. The thing was made of fucking MDF.
He’d failed to notice the copy of Twisted Love tucked in your elbow.
You’d done it, somehow. Ripped through his defences, your will a fist in his wet sheet of paper.
The copy of Twisted Love should’ve been a sign. It should’ve told him that you’d show up at his door after a few weeks of knowing him with a rain cloud over your head and an irrational desire to turn him on like a fucking switch every Friday since.
He’d pull a Glock 19 on whoever disturbed him when he was reading Crime and Punishment, but the annotated copy lay open beside him, his brain was engrossed in something else. Kissing you.
His hands gripped your thighs, sleeve of his plush hoodie sliding up and over the ink on his forearm, tugging you closer. Your lips burned his, nape of his neck stimulated by the drag of your nails.
“Bad day, ma?” His words were muffled by your mouth, tilting his head back into the gentle pressure of your fingers. You took and you took, sucking oxygen from his lungs, rolling your hips down so you dragged across his dick.
He couldn’t suppress a moan at that.
You hummed in agreement, dragging his bottom lip down with your thumb. He should’ve read the signs. Now he scheduled make out sessions with you in avoidance of admitting he liked the way you used him. He ached to be your boy toy whenever you saw fit. He wanted you to push him down, tint his lips with kisses and gloss.
Your teeth snagged at his lip, tugging, moulding him to you. His hands sliding up your back made your sweater drag up, bunching, cold of his apartment pricking at your skin. “Dostoevsky?” You mumbled, between wet, obscene smacks, pornographic moans and following the string of saliva that connected your mouths.
“Mhm,” He nodded dumbly, hips jerking up to catch his dick on your clit, the slow grind in response melted his brain. “Crime and Punishment.”
You chuckled, kisses burning down his jaw till your teeth pressed against his pulse. Nipping, latching, sucking a bruise. Maybe you got how to do that from Twisted Love, cause his toes fucking curled. He’d come, no joke. Right here, fully clothed, he’d do it. “Great book. Read Atonement, I still wanna watch it.”
He would, but he was a little tied up right now. “Later, ma.” He breathed, hand slipping in your jeans’ back pocket to squeeze your ass. Jesus, maybe that thing owed him rent. “Later.” He kissed back up to your mouth, allowing you to siphon his thoughts again.
He was 6’ 2”, 225 pounds and you had him like this. If anyone thought he’d been taken hostage, fuck no, he was right where he was supposed to be. Yes, he had patrol in ten minutes. Yes, he’d texted Dick to take his place while he dealt with a personal matter. Yes, he gave no fucks.
“Ah, Jesus, fuck—”
© 2026 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED : NXBODYSANGEL. DO NOT MODIFY, REPOST, PLAGIARISE, TAKE DIRECT INSPIRATION FROM OR CLAIM MY WORK AS YOUR OWN WITHOUT PERMISSION OR GIVING CREDIT.
tagged : @calzone-d , @bloomfaery , @kundere20000000 , @angzls , @olaflookalike , @starr-jazz , @jaydennicole , @sharkcatthatlikesapples , @yukiismokes , @silverjayz , @lil-riddle-kiddle , @glitterywreckage , @thirstblogforaparchedgirl, @t1mbits
note: IT’S SHORT I KNOW I’M SORRY
── 𝒂𝒏 𝒂𝒘𝒌𝒘𝒂𝒓𝒅 𝒆𝒏𝒄𝒐𝒖𝒏𝒕𝒆𝒓 ᝰ.ᐟ
𑣲 featuring — dean di laurentis x fem!reader 𑣲 contains — reader being roommates with allie and hannah ; reader being an overthinker 𑣲 author's note — i hope u enjoy reading this as much as i loved writing it!!
It was a Saturday morning and you were still in bed, the sun gently peaking through your window blinds. You eventually yawned, sitting up and stretching your back. Then you heard your phone buzz, which was unusual for you, especially during weekends. Maybe it was either Hannah or Allie texting you that breakfast was ready, but everyone knew that the three of you were too lazy to have a proper meal to begin your day. And your intuition proved you right: it was a text from an unknown number.
What the hell. It would have been believable, except you spent your Friday night with your roommates binge-watching Love Island while lazily snacking. And also, you literally never give your number to people you just met. You give the stranger a genuine reply.
You scoffed, instantly typing back.
You see three dots appearing in the conversation before they disappear. Then they reappear. It seemed you caught that stranger off guard.
This is when you decide to ignore your phone: either way, that stranger went silent. You decide to get up, open your window blinds, brush your hair and finally throw on an oversized sweater over your pyjama top. You leave your room, finding Hannah and Allie on the couch, already watching Love Island again.
"Without me? Girls! I literally just woke up."
Allie turns to face you, a Cheeto hanging out of her mouth. You theatrically gasp when Hannah mimics her, a Cheeto also shoved in her mouth.
"In my defense, Hannah totally insisted we should rewatch yesterday's episodes to judge the fashion."
"I did not!"
All three of you giggle and you eventually join them on the couch, finding yourself munching on Cheetos too. This is exactly when your phone buzzes against your lap. You ignore it, but it vibrates again ten seconds later. Hannah glances down at your lap while Allie is too focused on the TV. You lazily unlock your phone to open the conversation with the mysterious stranger.
And then a picture follows. You don't even have the time to look at it that Hannah lets out the quietest gasp. But it was enough for Allie to turn towards Hannah because of the noise, and they both looked down at your phone screen.
"Is that Dean Di Laurentis?" They both excitedly say in perfect sync.
"Is it?"
You finally stare down at your phone. You take some time to look at the picture. Firstly, you see a pair of defined and glistening abs. Then your gaze trails up towards the face tied to it. Well, that face was recognizable everywhere. It was indeed Dean fucking Di Laurentis.
"Holy shit." You breathe out.
"Are you sexting him?" Allie quickly adds, instantly pausing the show.
"Are we talking about the same person? She doesn't do sexting." Hannah continues.
"Well if it isn't sexting, then she's definitely onto something."
"We all know she keeps hating on hockey guys. It's basically a sacred rule here."
"What about Garrett, uh?" Allie smirks.
"Not the topic!" Hannah shoots back.
"So, what's the tea girl?"
You helplessly look at Allie when she asks the question. Excellent question. There is no tea, considering this is just a misunderstanding with a really, really handsome guy. You simply showed them the conversation, telling them you had no interest in maintaining it, and they both agreed. Dean seemed like trouble and you tend to stay out of it anyway. Allie resumed Love Island and you didn't hear from Dean anymore.
Well, for someone wanting to stay out of trouble, you failed successfully. Truth is, you were overthinking the situation. You felt bad about leaving his text unanswered, so you eventually replied to his picture the same day, late at night. You sent Dean a selfie, eventually proving to him you guys were strangers. When you thought the conversation would stop after the misunderstanding was solved, you didn't expect him to keep texting you.
It has now been a month and the daily texting was a part of your routine. Friendly texts turned into banter, and banter turned into serious flirting. You couldn't even believe it yourself. You even nicknamed him "Prince Charming" no, not the Disney one. The one from Shrek. Same hairstyle, same person right?
This felt weird because the two of you had never met on campus. Not that the idea revulsed you, you simply feared it wouldn't be the same. Texting was easy, flawless and it gave you the time to think about a reply that just felt right. Hiding behind a screen was always easier to communicate your feelings: when you were in front of people, your thoughts were too tangled and you had a hard time speaking up. Well, except when you were around trusted people like Allie and Hannah.
You obviously trusted Dean too, but something about him felt intimidating. Something about a popular hockey player and some random campus girl was intimidating. What would the others think? And also, why are you overthinking this now? You guys are literally not a couple. Just good friends. Who happen to flirt most of the time. But the current situation was perfect for you: just a bunch of texts, away from the public eye, away from other people prying.
But you could feel that Dean yearned for more: he yearned to hang out with you in person. Every once in a while, he would ask you to come to a hockey game or come to a party. You always declined. He was never vexed, but you started feeling bad about pushing him away. Again, it is not that you didn't want to meet him. Your brain was just scared and imagined a thousand scenarios about how this could go wrong.
You feel a shiver running down your spine. Was this going to be the whole "I love you, I can't stop thinking about you" talk? Oh God. Please no. This is too soon. You don't reply and Dean keeps texting.
And yet, you are still mortified. You stare at the three moving dots, biting your lower lip as you expect literally anything. Mostly something negative, but you don't know. Then his message pops up.
You gulp. Well, that was straightforward, but that was less horrible than what you were expecting. You still take a few minutes to think. This might be the only opening you're gonna have, because there is no way you will willingly talk about it ever again. Dean is offering you his hand and you are wondering if you should take it. You take a few deep breaths before finally typing back. It takes you a few minutes to submit your answer.
You wish you could stop typing. But you can't. The fact that he is reading your texts as you send them is stressing you out.
You wait a few minutes. Dean read your messages, but he wasn't replying to them. A million thoughts crossed your mind: maybe he would block you, or maybe he would give you a humble thumbs-up reaction, or maybe he was showing the text to his friends. You sigh, burying your face in your pillow, lifting your head to check your phone every ten seconds.
You read his text once. Twice. Thrice. Many, many times. You couldn't believe it, it was like he ticked all the boxes on the "How to reassure an overthinker" list. Your heart eventually stopped racing and you found your body relaxing to his reply. This is exactly what you needed to hear. It was in the way he paid attention to everything you said, not trying to minimize your feelings, or telling you you would be okay. You also notice how his spelling became more serious, as if he genuinely were valuing the moment.
The two of you conclude that you will meet this exact Friday at your place. You would only have to tell Hannah and Allie to leave for the night, but that would be no trouble. You knew these two would have your back anyway. Actually, this was a good time to call for a girls' meeting. You text the group chat you had with them.
It was finally Friday. Hannah and Allie became your personal advisers since you shared the whole Dean "thing" a few days ago. They would playfully mention him every single time just to catch you blushing. Holy shit, you liked him more than you thought. Allie classified this as your first date, so you obviously had to make a killer first impression. So here you were in Allie's room, getting a complete makeover while Hannah sat in the back with her guitar and her notes.
"Are we sure this is okay?"
You say, worrying about the way your reflection looked. You weren't a huge makeup fan, but Allie made sure she gave you the tiniest makeover ever: just enough to enhance your natural features without transforming them. Hannah gives you a big thumbs-up while Allie frowns.
"Girl, you shouldn't doubt my makeup skills."
"I'm not! I'm just worried this isn't... Me, you know?"
"You look gorgeous. Trust me."
You give her a nod, biting your inner cheek while staring at your face. It'll be alright. Do men even notice makeup anyway? You feel your gaze drift away as Allie fixes your hair with hairspray. She puts her hands on your shoulders, whispering in your ear.
"Dean already loves you, trust me. Now go get dressed."
You come back a few minutes later, awkwardly standing in Allie's doorway. Although you picked an outfit you are used to wearing, you suddenly felt self-conscious. Pampering yourself for a boy was something you never did before, and you were worrying that you either did too much or not enough. Before you could let your thoughts sink in, Hannah speaks up.
"You're so pretty. How are you feeling?"
"I'm gonna shit myself." You blurt out with a chuckle.
"Then make sure you do it before he gets here." Allie laughs.
"Remember to try and communicate your feelings. From what you told us, it looks like Dean only wants you to feel comfortable. Don't worry about him being upset if you are nervous. If it doesn't go well, text us, alright?"
You shyly nod and before you can think further, there's a knock on your door.
"Special delivery's here!" Allie rushes out of her bedroom.
You can see her opening the door while you exit her room, Hannah following. There he is. Dean Di Laurentis. Even more impressive in real life, you had to admit. He casually stands in the doorway, brushing his hand through his hair while he holds a takeaway bag.
"Hey." He says, addressing everyone in the room, but he is looking at you.
"Hi." You reply.
In the meantime, Allie and Hannah are leaving the place. They sneak past the doorway and give you a wink behind Dean's back. You invite him in and you already feel more than awkward. This is when he speaks up.
"As your humble Prince Charming, I made sure to deliver you your favorite meal." His smirk brightens as he looks at you.
"Oh, my prince, you shouldn't have. I'm flattered." You mimic him, inviting him to sit on the couch.
He sets the bag down on the coffee table, opening it to set the food and drinks on it. You can't help but look at him, look at the way his movements are slow and gentle. He also picked your favorite drink, which you probably only mentioned once. You stay silent a bit too long, considering Dean speaks up.
"Are you okay?"
"Nervous." You instantly reply, almost cutting him.
"I think I have the solution. Can I use your TV?"
You nod, giving him the remote control. His fingers brush yours, such an innocent but also deliberate gesture. Your skin is almost tingling from the contact. Dean opens Netflix and puts the Shrek movie on. It gets a giggle out of you.
"You might be onto something, Prince Charming."
"I know I am."
This is when Dean catches you off guard. As you sip on your drink, you can hear him starting to sing along to All Star. Your head darts in his direction as he seriously keeps singing, a smile beaming on his face. He doesn't stop here. He stands up. Grabs the TV remote. Uses it as a fake microphone and you can't help but look at him, moving your head to the song's rhythm.
This interaction was strangely comforting, because even if to most people this would have been considered ridiculous, it was actually endearing. This was Dean's own way to tell you: "Hey, let's be weird together." And it worked. When the chorus finally arrives, you stand up too. You steal his makeshift mic and start singing along, his voice joining yours as the two of you parade around the room, ending your tour on the couch as the song ends and the movie continues. It somehow felt so natural and easy to be yourself around him.
"How are you feeling now?"
"Amazing." You admit, a shy smile forming on your face.
By the time the two of you finish your takeaway dinner, you snuggle next to him, resting your head on his shoulder. As the movie goes on, you feel Dean's arm wrapping around your shoulder, your eyelids getting heavier. You don't even try to fight it: your body is slowly relaxing next to his, promising you a power nap. The last thing you hear is his laugh.
You eventually wake up in your bed, immediately finding Dean sitting at the edge of it, watching you slowly come back to the living world. You squint your eyes, a yawn escaping your lips as you sit up.
"Did I fall asleep? I'm sor-"
"No, no more apologizing for things that aren't your fault." He says it with a playful tone, although he genuinely means it.
"No promises."
There is a comfortable silence between the two of you. He just looks at you and you stare back at him, lost in the moment. Was this it? Was this the end of your night? But you didn't want it to end, not when everything felt this right.
"By the way, someone drooling on my shoulder is a first for me."
"Hey!" You playfully hit him in the shoulder.
"I really enjoyed our date, though. I mean it."
"Me too. I don't know how you did it, but you managed to help me relax so quickly, so thank you."
"I was just being amazing. As usual." He rolls his eyes, anticipating another hit from you by blocking it.
"Can I see you again?" You ask, biting your inner cheek. There are little chances he will say no, but your brain is always making you doubt.
"I won't let you go." Dean tilts your chin up, making sure your eyes are locked with his. "I promise."
The sudden proximity makes your heart faint and your cheeks blush. You couldn't help but look at his lips until your thoughts escaped your mind before you could stop them.
"I think I really want to kiss you."
"I think I would love that."
Hand still on your chin, Dean closes the gap by sealing his lips with yours. Your arms naturally wrap around his neck, inviting him closer. This kiss is slow, gentle and warm, everything you ever wished for.
𑣲 dividers — @/cursed-carmine 𑣲 author's note — thoughts about the way i set the texts? figured it would be more immersive, but i don't really know tbh so any opinion is welcome tyy
Baelor Targaryen Is Tired
Valarr Targaryen x reader
Synopsys: In Which you get hurt, Valarr Panics and Everyone Else Suffers
wordcount: 4.3k
requester: yes but fore some reason it doesn't let me tag the user
(requests are open)
THE LOOK OF LOVE
FEATURING: valarr targaryen x fem!reader
SUMMARY: You are not adjusting well to Westeros. Luckily, your husband is patient and kind and gentle. Unluckily, all of the other ladies in the Realm are aware of this as well. There are certain difficulties being married to Westeros’s most yearned-for prince, and after one miserable feast too many, everything you have been so desperately trying to quietly endure comes crashing down once you get your husband alone.
WARNINGS: fem!reader, hurt/comfort, reader is foreign (from Qarth), Westeros-typical xenophobia, starts with reader being jealous but escalates into a whole breakdown of her not feeling welcome in westeros, Valarr is also jealous/possessive at certain points.
AUTHOR'S NOTES: I genuinely am not sure where this came from, I don’t even remember writing most of it last night LOLLL I think I woke up from a fever dream at 4 am and banged most of this out, no joke. BUT sometimes a girl just needs to have a very, very justified crashout with a husband who will listen and comfort </3 Valarr I love you euhuhuhuhu Also, got to explore some Westeros-typical xenophobia, which we will see more of in the HTTYD universe after Volantene reader comes to Westeros w/Aerion—but specifically, how bad it likely gets post-Dornish unification when the Storm lords and Reach lords are already losing their mind over Dornish influence in court, and now also having to deal with some foreign Essosi girls being married to their princes. No Kiera erasure here :P Kiera still comes to Westeros, but to marry Matarys, and her and reader become very very close companions. Anyway, enjoy, and ignore any errors I didn't edit LOL! Comments and reblogs v appreciated
I ran here quick when I saw an ask about taking Valarr request….,
Valarr x Yapper!Reader…, because the prince seems like a quiet guy, but he’d be so happy with a yapping gorgeous wife, he just be heart eyes for his bride, who tells him all the gossip she has heard from the Red Keep, or dry humour and sarcastic wits about anything.
Don’t need to write right away, just something to think about hahah
I COULD LISTEN TO YOU ALL DAY—Valarr Targaryen
Valarr Targaryen x wife!reader
content: Valarr’s favorite activity of the day is to simply lie back and listen to his wife talk for hours.
words: 1k
cw: none that I can think of. simply just love sick Valarr listening to his wife talk.
a/n: oh my sweet prince who I often neglect to write about because I am always thirsting over his father and uncle 😔 also here is a small drabble as I work on my other stuff
The sun had long set, the doors to the balcony open allowing a slight breeze to flow through the chambers. It had been a long day of listening to men argue in council, performing duties, and staring at parchment until his eyes crossed. Even now when his body ached for sleep he would not give him.
