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Hello, fine individual! I’m not sure if you write for Lohen, but if you do, could you do Lohen x female reader where reader gets unexpectedly heavily injured? Thank you so much :)

　　　　૮꒰ྀིㅤ❝ while we dance on the edge of the knife! ❞ㅤ꒱ྀིა　　

𑣲ㅤ m's warningsㅤ ◞ sfw, implied blood mention, injury mention, angst/comfort (more on the fact that lohen becomes a certified crashout when the abyss uses his feelings for you against him), no established relationship, reader is highkey nonchalant at first, reader uses a blade, secretary! reader

𑣲ㅤ m's synopsisㅤ ◞ lohen? in love? oh my word, are you joking or what? the vice captain falling for his stern secretary? the one who refuses to fight him?

𑣲ㅤ m's noteㅤ ◞ rip 2.5k follower event... otw to 5k followers already chat... this was supposed to be a simple headcannon thing until it clicked in my head...

𑣲 characters included: lohen x gn! reader (* wc is around 2k+ i stopped counting)

originally, you became varka's second in command for how responsible you were, and the amount of paperwork you agreed to help jean with while he was gone.

but now that he's back... you tossed it on right back to him, and helped arrange events, and went back to your rightfully elected jobs; at least initially the ones you signed up for anyway.

now finally at the side of jean in preparing the little mini festival made for the return of varka's group, he only decided to call you back in. great, just when you got the only person who was willing to do the paperwork WITH you...

you were his second in command, not one that he asked for, but subconsciously is thankful for. little does he know, varka had assigned you a different mission when you became lohen's right hand general; stop him from going too far, become the limit that stops him from reaching the undescribable insanity he might want to attain.

you... well, you don't really know what to expect. you've been a knight of favonius ever since you were a child, maybe between klee's age and noelle's age was when you started—but you had never ever met anybody named 'lohen'. you've met a few of the people at fifth company, but not enough for any of them to be truly recognizable.

even you at first, were completely in awe of the description your boss was giving to you about the man you were about to work for. adre.... adrenaline-junkie? battle maniac? yet polite, and friendly? could you please pick a struggle?!

you squinted at the blonde man momentarily, "are you sure that's one person, varka? i mean—" sighing as you place the finished stack of paperwork to the side. "you just told me he likes killing for fun, but is very kind, and has a friendly demeanor?"

˚⟡˖ ࣪By The Sea You Will Find Me˚⟡˖ || jacaerys.velaryon

summary: when word gets out about the brown haired boy that washed up your shores to the iron throne- three dragon riders fly to your seaside village to introduce themselves to your family; one of them in particular catches your eye- lucky for you, you had caught his as well.

word count: 3.4oo+

pairings: jacaerys velaryon x fisherman/smallfolk!reader

a/n: have i finished hotd? no! will i make more chapters? most likely :) are the characters a lil ooc? idk, like i said i didnt finish it

credit to: @enchanthings for the dividers!

The air in your small sea side cottage was tense.

There was no laughter for today's dinner. No younger siblings running and cheering as you sang songs of salt and sea. There was no chatter about the day either: whether the fish were kind enough to provide you a suitable haul for the market, or if the shells that washed up on the shore would fetch for a good enough price once polished- just lips pressed into thin lines, heads down to avoid offending their betters.

The flames from the fire pit grew low too, as if it knew to snuff out any warmth left behind it's four wall.

It was strange- this whole situation was strange- you were all privy to that fact.

⤷ ALMOST SAID , JASON TODD .

summary 𓂃 the one where Jason breaks a pen, walks home in the snow, and almost says the thing he's been biting back for fifteen years.

cast 𓂃 Jason Todd and posh dickhead Oliver (irrelevant side character)

tags 𓂃 childhood best friend!jason todd x fem!reader , university au , canon compliant , jealous!jason todd , study group , gotham city , grumpy!jason x sunshine!reader , pre relationship , mutual pining , Jason’s pov , idiots in love , unspoken feelings.

wc 𓂃 2.1k.

— oneshot request ! part two of this series.

Snow.

It's fucking snowing, and Jason Todd is already in a bad mood.

Not because of the snow—Gotham in December is basically a slushy, gray, miserable hellscape regardless of precipitation—but because of him.

That posh dickhead Oliver.

Even the name sounds like wet cardboard. Like someone tried to invent a pretentious trust fund baby in a lab and accidentally created the most punchable face on the Eastern Seaboard.

Jason adjusts his grip on his pen, the cheap plastic creaking under his thumb. The seminar room's fluorescent lights hum overhead, casting everything in that sickly institutional pallor that makes even the most beautiful people look vaguely jaundiced. But somehow, somehow, Oliver still looks like he just stepped out of a J.Crew catalog.

Dark academia aesthetic, Jason thinks derisively, watching Oliver gesture expansively with both hands while explaining something about Keats's odes. The guy probably owns a tweed jacket with elbow patches. Probably drinks Earl Grey from an actual teapot. Probably has a father who plays tennis and a mother who calls brunch "luncheon."

Jason's own fingers are stained with ink and old calluses. His leather jacket is draped over the back of his chair, revealing the faded henley underneath — something he'd bought secondhand three years ago and hadn't bothered replacing. His combat boots have salt stains climbing up the sides from last week's patrol in the Bowery.

He looks like he walked into the wrong building.

And Oliver keeps. Touching. You.

It's subtle. A hand on your shoulder when you laugh at something. Fingertips brushing your wrist when you reach for the same annotated anthology. Leaning in closer than necessary to point at a line of poetry, his breath warm against your temple.

Jason's jaw aches. He's clenching it so hard his molars might crack.

"Shelley's 'Ode to the West Wind' is obviously about revolution," you're saying now, your voice bright and familiar and so goddamn warm that Jason wants to wrap it around himself like a blanket. "It's not just about autumn — it's about death and rebirth. About tearing everything down so something better can grow."

You tuck a piece of hair behind your ear, and Jason watches the motion like it's sacred. He's watched you do that a thousand times. A million. Since you were both nine years old and you sat next to him in Mrs. Albright's fourth-grade classroom, your ponytail askew and a pencil tucked behind your ear, asking him if he wanted to share your crayons because his were all broken.

"Your crayons are sad," you'd said, already pushing half the box toward him. "These are the good ones. The ones that don't have paper. They feel nicer."

He'd stared at you like you were insane. No one shared with the kid from the bad part of town. No one offered him anything without wanting something back.

But you just smiled at him — that ridiculous, sunshine smile — and went back to coloring your tree purple because "green is boring, Jay, don't you want to live in a world where trees can be purple?"

Jay. That was the first time anyone had ever called him that.

He'd colored his tree orange that day. Just to be contrary.

You'd laughed.

He'd felt something crack open in his chest that he didn't have a name for yet.

"Interesting interpretation," Oliver says now, and his voice is smooth. Educated. The kind of voice that's never had to shout to be heard over gunfire or police sirens. "But I think Shelley's more concerned with the personal than the political. The west wind as a metaphor for creative inspiration, not violent upheaval."

He looks at you when he says it. Like he's inviting you into a secret.

Jason's pen snaps.

The sound is sharp in the quiet seminar room. Heads turn. Professor Chen glances up from her notes, eyebrows raised.

"Everything alright, Mr. Todd?"

"Fine," Jason grits out, and he pulls another pen from his jacket pocket. This one's metal. Harder to break. "Pen was cheap."

You're looking at him now. You've got that expression on your face — the one you always get when you're worried about him but don't want to make a thing of it. Your forehead creases slightly. Your lips part.

He looks away before you can ask.

Don't. Don't ask. Don't make me say it out loud.

Oliver is still talking. Something about Keats's "l on a Grecian Urn" now. "Beauty is truth, truth beauty" — that is all you know on earth, and all you need to know. Oliver thinks it's about transcendence. Jason thinks it's about how beauty and truth are both violent, both painful, both things you can't hold onto no matter how hard you try.

He thinks about the urn. Frozen. Perfect. Preserved forever in a moment that never actually happened.

He thinks about how he came back wrong. How his hands don't feel like his hands anymore. How sometimes he looks in the mirror and sees a ghost wearing Jason Todd's face.

You've never treated him like a ghost.

You were there when his mom — Catherine, not Sheila, never Sheila — got sick. You used to sneak him food from your own kitchen because you knew the Todds didn't always have enough. You sat with him in the hospital waiting room when he was ten and terrified and trying not to cry.

You were there when Willis went to prison. When the social workers came. When Catherine died.

You were the one who found him in the cemetery afterward, sitting on the wet grass in the rain, and you didn't say anything. You just sat down next to him and put your head on his shoulder.

"I'm cold," you'd whispered.

"So go home," he'd said, his voice wrecked.

"Not without you."

You were there when Bruce took him in. You met Batman when you were twelve years old and you didn't even flinch. You just looked Bruce Wayne in the eye and said, "You take care of him. Or I'll find you."

Bruce had been impressed. Jason had been embarrassed.

He'd also been — something. Something warm and terrifying and too big for his chest.

The study group ends eventually. Forty-five minutes of Shelley and Keats and Byron, forty-five minutes of Oliver finding excuses to touch you, forty-five minutes of Jason fantasizing about putting his fist through a wall.

Or Oliver's face. Oliver's face works too.

You pack up your things slowly. Jason shoves his notebook into his bag with more force than necessary, the spiral binding catching on a loose thread.

"Same time next week?" Oliver asks, and he's looking at you. Only at you. Like none of the other students are there. Like he isn't even there.

"Sounds good," you say, and your voice is casual. Friendly. Oblivious.

Jason wants to shake you.

He's flirting with you. He's been flirting with you for three weeks. How do you not see it? How do you not—

"Great." Oliver smiles. It's a nice smile. Perfect teeth. Probably had braces. Probably never been punched in the mouth in his entire privileged life.

Jason shoulders his bag and starts walking. He doesn't wait for you.

He knows you'll follow anyway. You always do.

The snow is coming down harder now, fat white flakes dissolving against the asphalt. The campus paths are empty — everyone else has gone inside, or gone home, or gone somewhere that isn't here.

Jason walks fast. Too fast. His boots crunch against the frozen ground, and his breath clouds in front of him, and his thoughts are a hurricane of everything he can't say.

I've known you since we were nine.

I watched you cry at my mother's funeral.

I died, and I came back, and you were the first person I wanted to see.

You're the only person who makes me feel like I'm still human.

And I can't—

"Jason!"

Your voice cuts through the snow. He hears your footsteps hurrying to catch up, the familiar rhythm of your stride. He doesn't slow down.

"Jason, wait up! What's wrong?"

"Nothing."

"Bullshit."

He grits his teeth. You always call him on his bullshit. You always have.

You fall into step beside him, slightly out of breath. Your coat is unzipped — you always forget to zip it — and your scarf is trailing behind you like a banner. Your cheeks are pink from the cold, and there's snow in your hair, and you look so alive that it makes something in his chest ache.

"Is it patrol? Did Bruce say something? Was it—"

"It's nothing," he says again, and his voice comes out harsher than he meant. "Drop it."

You don't drop it. When do you ever?

Your hand catches his elbow, and he stops walking because he can't not stop. Not when you're touching him. Not when your fingers are curled around his arm like you're anchoring him.

"Jay. Come on. Talk to me."

Jay. No one else calls him that. No one else is allowed.

He stares at the snow on the ground. At the footprints they've left behind. At the way your shadow overlaps with his on the white pavement.

"Do you like him?" The words come out before he can stop them. Low. Rough. Almost angry.

You blink. "Who?"

He won't repeat it. He can't. Saying it once was bad enough.

"Forget it." He pulls his arm away from your grip — gently, as gently as he can manage when everything inside him is screaming — and shoves his hands into his jacket pockets.

The rest of the walk is silent.

He ends up at your apartment because you live closer, and because Jason can't bring himself to go home to his own cold, empty space. Your apartment is small and cluttered and warm, full of mismatched furniture and stacks of books and fairy lights that you never turn off because "they make everything feel softer, Jason, don't you think?"

He thinks they make everything feel like a lie.

But he doesn't say that. He just sits on your couch and watches you put on a kettle, and he tries very hard not to think about Oliver's hand on your shoulder.

You make tea — chamomile, because you always make chamomile when he's upset — and you sit down next to him, close enough that your knees almost touch.

"Okay," you say softly. "Start talking."

"Nothing to talk about."

"Jason Peter Todd."

He flinches. You only use the middle name when you're serious.

"I'm not going to let you sit there and pretend everything's fine when you broke a pen with your bare hand in the middle of a seminar," you continue. "That was terrifying. And also kind of hot. But mostly terrifying."

He snorts — and sighs — despite himself. "You're impossible."

"You've known me for fifteen years. You should be used to it by now."

Fifteen years. God.

Fifteen years of you. Fifteen years of sunshine and stubbornness and never, ever letting him push you away.

Because god knows he’s tried… and failed. Terribly. You’re like a living, walking, breathing boomerang.

He looks at you now — really looks — and you're watching him with those eyes that see too much. That have always seen too much. You know about his parents. About the streets. About Robin and the Joker and the crowbar and the grave.

You know about the pit. About the rage. About the things he's done since he came back, the blood on his hands, the monsters he's become.

And you're still here.

You're still here.

"He likes you," Jason says finally. The words scrape against his throat like broken glass.

"Who?"

"Oliver."

You tilt your head. "Oliver's just being friendly."

"He's not." Jason's jaw tightens. "He's not just being friendly. He touches you. He—" He breaks off, running a hand through his hair. "Forget it. I'm being an idiot."

"You're not an idiot."

"I'm acting like one."

You're quiet for a moment. The kettle clicks off, but neither of you moves to pour the tea.

"Jason," you say, and your voice is different now. Softer. "Why do you care if Oliver likes me?"

Because I love you.

Because I've loved you since fourth grade when you gave me your purple crayon.

Because I died and I came back and the only thing that made sense in the whole world was you.

Because I'm afraid one day you'll realize you deserve someone who isn't broken. Someone who isn't a monster. Someone like Oliver with his perfect teeth and his perfect life and his perfect hands that have never hurt anyone.

Because if you choose someone else, I don't know who I am anymore.

He doesn't say any of it.

He just looks at you, and you look at him, and the snow keeps falling outside the window, and the fairy lights glow soft and warm, and his heart is beating so loud he's sure you can hear it.

"Jason," you whisper again.

And he thinks — maybe.

Maybe this is the moment.

Maybe he could reach out. Touch your face. Kiss you. Finally, finally stop pretending he doesn't want to spend every night wrapped up in you, breathing you in, being someone better because you make him want to be better.

His hand moves before he can stop it.

His fingers brush against yours.

You inhale sharply.

And then—

"Aren't you going to pour the tea?" he asks, and he hates himself for it. Hates the way his walls snap back into place. Hates the way you blink, confused, and then slowly, slowly, pull your hand away.

"Right," you say, and your voice sounds strange. "Tea."

You stand up. Walk to the kitchen.

Jason watches you go and feels like he's just lost something he never had the courage to claim.

Later, after the tea is gone and the silence has stretched thin and he's standing at your door with his jacket zipped up to his chin, you stop him.

"Jason."

He turns.

You're standing in the doorway, haloed by the warm light from inside. Snowflakes catch in your hair. Your eyes are bright.

"Oliver doesn't matter," you say quietly.

He stares at you.

"I don't care about Oliver," you continue. "I've never cared about Oliver. I care about—" You stop yourself. Swallow. "Just. He doesn't matter."

"...Okay," Jason says, because he doesn't know what else to say.

You smile. It's not your sunshine smile. It's something softer. Something sadder. Something that looks like hope and fear and everything in between.

"Goodnight, Jason."

"Goodnight."

He walks home in the snow, and his hands are freezing, and his heart is pounding, and he thinks—

Maybe.

Maybe next time.

A/N : He’s such a chud loser I love him

I NED THE REACTION AFTERMATH OF THE "prefect sends one final message" AND MY LIFE IS YOURS🙏🙏🙏

ok 👌

prefect sends a final message — the morning after

pt.1

warnings: pretty much the same as before kinda..? idk

a/n: i didn't wnat to make another smau... lots of literacy devices here, keep your eyes peeled. i teared up a little writing this. i'm probably gonna make a part three, as this one only showcases riddle, leona, and vil. not seperately.

------

The steady noise of the heart rate monitor beside you reverberates across the room.

Beep.

But all you can see is black.

Darkness. Nihility. Devoid of any corporeal form.

No— that’s not quite right. You can still feel the silk sheets beneath your fingers. The blanket draped over you, too light and too heavy all at once. Your lungs expanding, contracting. Expanding. Contracting. A rhythm that doesn’t match the machine’s.

So you muster whatever strength remains to pry your eyelids open.

Now all you see is white.

Blinding. Bright. Blaring.

A sterile ceiling. Fluorescent lights that hum. a large window where the sun seeps in.

You blink. Once. Twice. The white softens into shapes— a window, a curtain, a chair.

A hospital room.

You’re in a hospital room.

Ryland Grace - Touch the stars ┈─★

To say Ryland was touch-starved was putting it lightly, to say the least. All his life, he had been a touch-love-language kind of guy. Hugs, forehead kisses, dancing with someone closely...

So when you woke up a few days after he did, he was joyous to know he may still have human contact after a decade without it. Except you were the opposite of him, like a fox scurrying away with suspicion the moment a person looked too long. Cold and distant like a faraway planet. A lot bolder and braver than he could ever dream of being, too.

Obviously, he wasn't going to push you into any contact you didn't want, even if the emptiness inside him grew more and more each day. Rocky helped a lot, but he was still stuck in his Xenonite ball.

What bothered him most was that he couldn't comprehend how you were able to so easily brush him off, entirely uninterested in even a hug. How could you stand that after a decade? Had something hurt you in the past? Ryland wouldn't pry, letting you slowly open up a bit more as the days of the mission passed.

"You know, when I was a little girl, I used to want to touch the stars," you said one day, staring out the Hail Mary's porthole, your eyes soaking in every bit of starlight. it was the most vulnerable you had ever been with him. "I believed I could hold them all in my hands. Silly, I know. It's why I wanted to become an astronaut."

"I don't think it's silly," he responded with a lopsided smile, with an honesty that only he could have. It stirred something in you, but you shoved it down as you had been for a while now.

Days later, he found you on the floor, shaking uncontrollably. An aftereffect of the coma. Immediately, he stayed by your side, along with Rocky, doing everything he could until you rode out the episode. When it finally ended, you brushed your fingers against his, curling them around his wrist like an anchor. It sent a shiver down your spine.

This whole time, you had been the brave one. Now it was his turn. Maybe he couldn't be brave for the entire world, but he would be brave for you now because you were bigger than that. Whatever it was between the two of you was bigger than all the stars.

Slowly, you curled yourself against him, letting him wrap his arms around you and burying your face in his shoulder. It was the first hug you had ever felt truly comfortable in. Ryland leaned in a bit, resting his forehead against the top of your head, a few tears falling past his lashes. The steady rise and fall of his chest was soothing as you tightened your grip on the fabric of his shirt.

Now he understood what you meant by wanting to hold the stars. Right now, he was holding one in his arms. His star. The one who would save the stars by his and his best friend's side.

Requests open! Taglist open! Inbox open!

bad case of the mondays

adrian chase x f!nurse!reader

wc: 7.5k

content/warnings: HEAVY ANGST!!! happy ending :D, hurt/comfort, adrian is a little stupid :), gross abuse of italics, adrian’s regeneration, Y/N is high functioning autistic TO ME, canon typical blood and gore, medical inaccuracies though i try my best, imnotadoctor . com

#fanfiction #x reader #adrian chase x reader #adrian chase #freddie stroma #vigilante x reader #vigilante #dc fanfic #dc fandom #peacemaker #peacemaker x reader #fanfic #songfic #SoundCloud #reader insert #angst with a happy ending #fluff and angst

The Comet He Looked Back For⋆˙⟡ S.Ishigami

PART TWO OF: 𝑯𝒂𝒑𝒑𝒚 𝑩𝒊𝒓𝒕𝒉𝒅𝒂𝒚, 𝑷𝒍𝒆𝒂𝒔𝒆 𝑫𝒐𝒏'𝒕 𝑪𝒂𝒍𝒍 𝑴𝒆 𝑨𝒈𝒂𝒊𝒏 SYNOPSIS: Two years since the final phone call, you find yourself face-to-face with Senku Ishigami for the first time in three years, as a mutual friend’s wedding brought you both toward a forced proximity you didn’t ask for. Somewhere between old promises, a newly discovered comet, and a proposal you have yet to know of, the distance you once thought had become permanent begins to suspiciously feel temporary again. WC: 16,870 (Don't even ask anymore) A/N: I AM FINALLY DONE, thank you all for patiently waiting. I SWEAR IT WAS NOT SUPPOSED TO BE THIS LONG, GANG. I had to do research on comets before I did this cuz I wanted to make it as accurate as I could. PLEASE LISTEN TO "PURPLE RAIN" BY PRINCE ON REPEAT. WARNINGS: It’s a happy ending, I SWEAR. Xeno playing cupid cuz nobody had the guts to, drinking (game with Ryusui), failed round of Uno, angst, fluff, crack, AND EVERYTHING IN BETWEEN.

Some comets take years before they become visible again. An example is the comet Encke, taking approximately 3.3 years to complete its orbit. Yet some take decades, such as the ever-famous Halley’s comet.

They slip quietly into the dark corners of space, far beyond what the human eye can see or follow, only to return brightly upon reapproach—as if distance itself had merely been part of their trajectory all along.

Which, scientifically speaking, was accurate.