#subtle angst

[aventurineswife]

Hello!! Can I request a reader who hits themselves whenever they do something wrong? For example if they make a simple mistake they’d bonk themselves in the head with their hand, or pinch themselves if they got something wrong? With Boothill, Jiaoqiu, Aventurine, and Mydei? (If this is uncomfortable for you, you can just delete this!!!)

“You Don’t Deserve to Bleed for Mistakes”

Tags: Mydei x Reader, Aventurine x Reader, Jiaoqiu x Reader, Boothill x Reader, Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Healing, Soft Moments, Subtle Angst, Trauma Response, Comfort After Panic, Slow Burn, Introspective, Found Family Themes, Internalized Guilt, Gentle Romance, Protective, Supportive, Mental Health Exploration.

Warnings: Mild Self-Harm, Trauma Responses, Low Self-Esteem, Negative Self-Talk, Emotional Distress, Mentions of Past Violence, Implied PTSD Themes, Guilt, Vulnerability.

Jiaoqiu first noticed it when you fumbled a tea cup.

A simple slip—ceramic against wood, a soft clink—and your reaction was instant: a sharp, scolding smack to your forehead. It wasn’t exaggerated or dramatic, but it struck him all the same. It wasn’t the sound, nor the movement—it was the habit. Mechanical. Rehearsed. Too familiar.

He paused mid-pour, his irises briefly peeking through heavy lashes before closing again.

“You bruise more easily than you think,” he said softly, refilling your cup with an herbal blend meant for clarity and calm.

You offered him an awkward smile. “It was just—I'm always clumsy with your things. I didn’t mean to mess it up.”

He stirred the tea with a long-handled spoon, the feather fan resting quietly beside him. “If I scolded my patients each time they spilled something, I’d have no one left to care for.”

His words were gentle. Too gentle. You felt the weight beneath them.

Later that night, while tending to soldiers in the makeshift infirmary, you misspoke a dosage reading. You realized it immediately—but before anyone else could react, your fingers pinched the side of your arm sharply, a punishment as fast as it was automatic.

“Don’t.”

Jiaoqiu’s voice cut through the air—quiet, but firm. You turned, startled.

He was standing at the threshold of the tent, the light of his cauldron reflecting off his pale hair. The soldiers turned away, sensing something personal in the air.

He approached, silent footsteps muffled by the dry grass beneath. “What are you trying to correct, little ember? Your actions? Or yourself?”

You stammered, “I just... I always get things wrong. I have to—”

“No, you don’t,” he said, and for once his eyes opened fully. You saw them clearly—the burning gold laced with pain, the damage, the compassion. “You punish yourself the way I once punished myself... for surviving while others didn’t.”

Your breath caught.

“I know how guilt festers. It whispers that pain is a price we must pay for failure. But that belief...” He gently took your hand, tracing the red mark you’d left. “...it eats away at you. It doesn’t make you better. It only makes you bleed inside.”

In the warmth of his presence, you felt the weight begin to lift.

That night, he taught you to redirect those moments—to press your fingers to your wrist gently instead, to inhale a specific medicinal aroma he prepared just for you. He didn't scold the habit, but slowly rewrote it—with care, ritual, and presence.

In time, you no longer raised a hand to yourself in frustration.

You reached for his instead.

Boothill noticed the first time you flinched at your own mistake.

You’d dropped a canister of ammunition while helping him load his gear. You muttered something angry under your breath and slapped the side of your own head with the heel of your palm, hard enough that he heard the thump over the noise of engines.

He tilted his hat back and looked at you, long and hard.

You tried to laugh it off. “Guess I deserved that one, huh?”

He didn’t answer.

Two days later, you grazed a panel wrong while hotwiring a transport. Pinch. Your hand jerked to your bicep. Boothill caught it mid-motion.

“Do that again and I’ll make you wear padded gloves.” His voice was flat, low, dangerous.

You blinked, confused. “What—?”

He leaned in close, shark-teeth flashing in a sneer that wasn’t aimed at you, but at the ghosts behind your self-harm. “Ain’t nothin’ you can do that’s worth hurtin’ yourself over. That’s my job—hurtin’ folks that deserve it.”

You tried to pull away, muttering, “You don’t get it. I have to. It keeps me sharp. Makes sure I don't mess up again.”

He grabbed your wrist again—not hard, but solid.

“I was raised where folks got beaten to stay in line,” he said, voice gravel. “Don’t mean it made us better. Just mean it made us quiet.”

You looked up at him, surprised. The Boothill everyone feared—silent killer, reckless bounty, face on a thousand wanted posters—wasn’t shouting.

He was steady.

“You’re part of my posse now,” he added, voice softer. “Ain’t gonna let no one beat on you... not even you.”

That night, he gave you one of his bullet bracelets—a charm for steadiness, he claimed. “Squeeze this when you’re mad at yourself,” he said. “Hurts less. Looks cooler.”

You started wearing it every day.

And in the months to come, when you nearly hit yourself again, you’d feel the cold metal between your fingers, and remember his words:

"That ain’t discipline. That’s old hurt tryin’ to wear a new mask."

Aventurine was the kind of man who watched people more than he let on.

He noticed every twitch, every breath shift, every adjustment of body language like a dealer tracking cards at a high-stakes table.

So when you apologized too quickly after knocking over a stack of data chips—bowing slightly, murmuring “stupid”—and flicking your temple with your nails, he didn’t say anything. Not at first.

But he clocked it.

And the next time, when you missed a calculation during an investment meeting and pinched your forearm under the table hard enough to leave a mark—he slid his chair beside yours.

“You keep doing that,” he said, smiling, voice a whisper of velvet poison. “Self-punishment. Quick. Dirty. Not even dramatic enough to be effective.”

You tried to laugh. “It’s nothing.”

“Oh no, no no no,” he whispered, eyes glinting underneath his hat. “Everything is something. Especially habits that come out under pressure.”

You turned your head away, embarrassed. “I just don’t want to disappoint anyone.”

Aventurine’s smile softened in a way that was almost imperceptible. “Darling, disappointment is part of the game. Everyone loses hands. The question is whether you walk away... or double down.”

You frowned. “What does that have to do with hitting myself?”

“Because you’re folding before the next card is even dealt,” he said, tapping your forehead lightly—not as punishment, but to make a point. “And that, sweetheart, is how the house always wins.”

He offered you a gold-trimmed chip from his pocket.

“When you feel the urge to hit yourself again—flip this instead. Call it a challenge to fate.”

You took it. The weight of it felt good in your hand.

Over time, you’d still slip—old habits were like poorly shuffled decks. But Aventurine never mocked you. Never lectured. He simply raised an eyebrow and whispered, “Feeling lucky?”

And somehow, you did.

Mydei was not a man of many words, but he felt deeply—and he saw clearly.

He’d witnessed countless warriors fall—not from blade or fire, but from themselves. Guilt could rot a person faster than poison. So the first time he saw you hit yourself for a minor error—when you misread coordinates during a critical deployment—his reaction was swift.

Your hand had barely touched your temple before his own caught your wrist.

He said nothing.

Just looked at you—those golden eyes like twin torches, steady and unflinching.

“I made a mistake,” you mumbled, heart pounding. “I should’ve double-checked.”

“Yes,” he replied, tone even. “But you are not a punishment.”

You blinked. “What?”

His grip didn’t tighten, but it didn’t let go either. “The world has enough swords. You do not need to be one against yourself.”

You felt your throat tighten.

“I’ve seen men break bones to absolve guilt,” he continued. “Fathers crush their hands for children they could not save. And I have watched them die just the same.”

You looked at him, eyes stinging. “Then what am I supposed to do?”

He released your wrist.

“Live.”

His voice was low. Strong. Like the sea crashing beneath the cliffs of Kremnos. “Live—and carry the weight with discipline, not destruction. Learn from the wound. Do not become it.”

He took the red ribbon from his belt and tied it around your palm. “This is a warrior’s promise. Not to be without mistakes... but to rise despite them.”

You never hit yourself again.

But sometimes, you’d press your fingers to that ribbon, still looped around your hand long after the threads had frayed—because he had seen you, and he believed:

You were not a punishment.

You were a promise.

[glimmerfics]

Go on an adventure and get a little handsy with Kaeya Alberich in this NSFW Choose Your Own Adventure!

🔗 READ/PLAY HERE 🎮 interactive fanfic "An Evening with The Cavalry Captain" by luciferdelacroix 📖 Episode 1 of 3

[prongspower]

🥀A Safe Place to Land🌹

A Jason Todd x Single Mom!Reader Story

Chapter Twenty Four:

Cracks in the Armor 🌹

Life with Jason is starting to feel almost ordinary—game nights at Wayne Manor, late movies, sleepy kisses—but small things keep tugging at the edges of that calm. A teasing comment from Dick about Jason’s “night shifts.” A sudden phone call that pulls him away mid-date. New bruises that don’t match his stories. Even Sophia’s teacher calls Red Hood “complicated.” You tell yourself not to overthink it, but Gotham doesn’t let secrets rest for long—and the man who swore he’d protect you might be hiding the one truth you’ve already started to guess.

Author’s Note 📝 Chapter 25 is in my drafts and ready to go out tonight or early tomorrow once my headers are done. Get ready babes. ~Prongs

🥀Return To Story Master List🌹

Your POV: Game Night at the Manor

Friday night at Wayne Manor feels like something out of a different life.

Sophia is curled up on the rug, sticky-fingered and feeding popcorn to Bruce’s very unimpressed dog.

Damian is reading trivia cards with military precision. Tim’s sprawled sideways across a couch that probably costs more than your rent, and Dick keeps “accidentally” changing the movie channel to anything with explosions.

Jason’s beside you on the floor, one arm stretched casually along the couch, pretending he’s not competitive. You can feel the heat of him, the quiet energy he always carries like a storm that’s learned patience.

“Who,” Damian intones, “is Gotham’s most handsome vigilante?”

Sophia sits bolt upright, triumphant. “Red Hood!” she squeals, sugar-drunk and certain.

The room explodes—Tim nearly spills his drink, Dick snorts so hard he has to set down the popcorn bowl.

“Oh man,” Tim laughs. “Even Gotham preschoolers are following the crime beat.”

“Yeah,” Dick says, smirking. “Word is Red Hood’s running an outreach program now. Teaches manners between shootouts.”

Jason rolls his eyes. “Hilarious.”

“Hey,” Dick goes on, stretching the tease, “guy’s got range. Shows up at all hours, never sleeps, grumbles through breakfast…” he trails off, giving a pointed look across the couch. “Sound like anyone we know?”

Tim hums. “Can’t place it. Definitely someone with anger issues and a leather jacket.”

Jason flips them both off without looking away from the TV. “You two done?”

“Relax,” Dick says, raising both palms. “Just saying, you’ve got that nocturnal glow lately.”

You laugh along, because that’s what everyone’s doing—but Jason doesn’t.

It’s just a second—his shoulders go still, his jaw tightens, and then it’s gone.

Sophia giggles, offering him a piece of popcorn, and the tension breaks.

You tell yourself it’s nothing. Just brothers being jerks. Just Gotham jokes.

Still, you file it away along with the late nights and little bruises.

⸻

Two weeks pass, quiet on the surface.

Mornings find their rhythm: cereal in a rainbow bowl, socks that never match, Jason texts good morning before the kettle boils and shows up right as you’re hunting keys, jacket smelling like rain and street metal. He walks you both to daycare and the clinic, coffee traded for chocolate milk, a kiss pressed to your temple on the corner because Sophia’s watching and squealing, “Ew!” like it’s a law of physics.

At night he doesn’t always stay. Sometimes he leaves after dishes and story time, shoulder brushing yours at the door, promising he’ll sleep. Sometimes he does. Other times the texts taper off after eleven—three dots, then nothing—followed by a 2:17 a.m. ‘Sleep easy’ that reads more like ‘I’m still alive.’

You don’t ask where he goes.

You tell yourself that’s growth. You tell yourself you’re choosing peace.

⸻

On Wednesday, Sophia’s daycare smells like paint water and butter crackers. Her class has taped “community helpers” drawings along the hallway—fire trucks with square wheels, stick-figure doctors with giant smiles. You’re buckling her into her little jacket when she says it, matter-of-fact:

“Mommy, teacher said Red Hood’s not a good guy always.” She still smiles at her drawing of the vigilante up on the wall.

Your fingers pause on the zipper. “Did she?”

Sophia nods, curls bobbing. “She said him is….” She works hard on the word. “Com-pli-kaarrr… complicated.”

You force a smile. “That’s a big word.”

“Mm-hmm.” She swings her legs, unbothered. “I drawed him nice though….”

You kiss her forehead, steadying the wobble in your chest. “Finish your crackers, bug.”

All the way home, the word sits behind your ribs like a tack. ‘Complicated.’

⸻

The next morning at work The clinic lobby is too bright. Phones ring, someone laughs too loudly near the copier, and Ren has three pens stuck in her bun like a battle crown. Jordan drops a stack of intake charts on the desk with a look that says if one more insurance portal logs me out, I will throw hands.

On the lobby TV GCN runs on mute. A red banner crawls past a familiar anchor’s mouth. You don’t have to hear it to know the cadence: VIGILANTE INTERCEPTS FALCONE CONVOY—TWO HOSPITALIZED, NO ARRESTS.

You glance away. Then back again.

The footage is grainy, rain-slicked. A black van, tires spitting water. A figure in a red helmet spinning into frame—too fast, too precise—and then it cuts to the convoy aftermath, flashing lights like seizures against the wet. Your stomach hollows. You tell yourself it could be any night. Any man.

Bruce Wayne walks through ten minutes later, dressed like a board of directors still lives under his skin. He smiles—polite as always—but it barely reaches his eyes

“Morning,” he says.

“Morning,” you answer, and you both pretend you haven’t seen the same headline, the same color red.

Ren elbows you after he’s gone—her whisper a sugar packet tearing open. “Gotham’s got more drama than a telenovela. You okay?”

“I’m fine,” you say, and it lands wrong in your own mouth.

Your Couch, Later that Night

The second sign doesn’t feel like danger.

It feels like almost.

A movie hums low in the background. The lights are off except for the soft gold spilling from the hallway, wrapping around the couch where you and Jason are half-watching, half-lost in each other.

His hand cups your jaw, thumb tracing lazy circles, his mouth gentle in a way that feels learned—like a language he’s still getting used to speaking.

You smile against his lips. “You’re really bad at pretending you don’t know what you’re doing.”

His grin is crooked, breath brushing your cheek. “You complaining?”

“Not even a little.”

You kiss again—deeper this time—and everything sharp in the world softens. Your palm slides up his chest, over his shoulder, then under the edge of his shirt, fingers brushing warm skin and the hard line of muscle beneath.

Until you feel it.

A ridge of raised scar tissue—long, vertical, wrong. The kind of wound that doesn’t belong to the living.

Jason flinches before he can stop himself. It’s small, but you feel the whole air shift. The tension isn’t the good kind anymore.

You start to pull your hand back, confusion spilling into your voice. “Jay, I didn’t mean—”

“It’s fine.”

He’s already sitting up, tugging his shirt down, eyes fixed anywhere but on you. “I just—forgot I was supposed to meet someone.”

It’s a lie, and you both know it. But the way he says it—quiet, almost desperate—makes you let it stand.

“Right now?” you ask softly.

“Yeah.” He reaches for his hoodie, movements sharp, distracted. “It’s nothing big. Just—something came up.”

You don’t push. You just watch him pull on the garment, the hood coming up like armor. The warmth between you replaced by a chill that feels too familiar.

“Rain check?” he says, half a smile ghosting across his face.

You nod, trying not to sound hurt. “Sure.”

He hesitates, leans in, and presses a quick kiss to your forehead. “Lock up behind me.”

And then he’s gone—the door clicking shut, his shadow bleeding into the hall.

You sit there, the movie still flickering across the screen, your hand hovering over the place where his heart had been.

He’d flinched. Not like fear. Like memory. And that’s something you relate to far too much.

You tell yourself it’s just Gotham. But deep down, you already know—this isn’t the kind of scar you get from falling off a motorcycle.

⸻

Several hours later, the couch still feels haunted by what almost was. You fell asleep with his leather jacket wrapped around you.

You wake up to the sound of a knock on the door. The clock reads just past midnight.

Jason’s waiting on the other end of the door. His hoodie nearly soaked through.

“Hey,” he says, voice rough with wind and something else. “Forgot my jacket.” You let him in trying not to crowd him.

“Yeah… I noticed,” you say it with a smile, but it doesn’t come out as a joke.

He catches it. Of course he does.

When you finally reach for him, it’s instinct to lift your hand—to touch lightly to a new scrape at his temple, careful in a way you never were allowed to be with anyone else. He doesn’t flinch. He leans.

“Bike thing,” he says softly. The lie is gentle, which somehow makes it worse. “Chain slipped.”

You trace the air near the bruise but don’t press. “You don’t have to tell me,” you whisper. “But please… be careful.”

For a heartbeat, he’s silent. Then he exhales, eyes on yours, and does something you don’t expect: he doesn’t dodge, doesn’t charm, doesn’t deflect.

“I’m trying,” he says.

Two words that hold more than any story.

Your throat tightens. He dips his head to kiss your forehead—warm, steady, lingering just a second longer than habit—and the knot under your breastbone loosens and pulls tight at the same time.

“Want tea?” you manage, because doing is easier than drowning.

“Always,” he says, and the corner of his mouth lifts, grateful.

You make peppermint, the house filling with that clean, sweet steam, a shorthand for stay. You know it’s his favorite for when he gets back from wherever he disappears to.

You both sip in silence on the same couch. Your legs propped up in his lap. You stay like that till the mugs are empty.

Jason breaks the silence with a whisper. “I can’t stay… I just…. Didn’t want to leave things that way.” He sets down the mug but lightly rubs your legs.

You nod understanding as best you can “Just text when you’re in,” you say.

“I will.” He tucks a curl behind your ear, like he can’t help himself. “Sleep easy.”

You follow him out and lock the door, standing there with your palm on the wood, feeling the echo of his steps in the hallway, the echo of the siren still stuck to the night.

⸻

You don’t sleep immediately.

You sit at Sophia’s bedside for a while, because this is the only place your breathing evens out without effort.

She’s sprawled diagonally across the mattress, clutching the stuffed bat she swore she named Brucey. In the night-light glow, her lashes cast little crescents on her cheeks. You brush your knuckles down her forehead, and she sighs, rolling toward your touch.

“Complicated,” you mouth into the quiet.

You know what complicated is. You left it. You survived it. You promised yourself you’d spot it from a mile away next time.

But Jason’s not a labyrinth with a monster at the center. He’s a man who reads silly voices, whose hands shake sometimes when the adrenaline drains, who smells like rain and gun oil and peppermint tea.

He is not simple. He is not safe in the way civilian life manuals would recommend.

He is, however, careful with you and Sophia.

You aren’t sure that’s enough. But, you aren’t sure it isn’t either.

Your phone buzzes on the dresser, face-down.

You don’t have to look to know what it says.

📱JASON TODD [2:13 A.M.]

Made it. Sweet Dreams

You exhale through your nose, and smile without meaning to, and text back:

📱YOU [2:14 A.M.]:

You too Jason.

If you were to step to back the curtain across the room, you know you would see the edge a red helmet on the top of the roof across the street.

You don’t look though. Not tonight.

You crawl into your own bed and listen to the city’s pulse, to your daughter’s gentle sleep-sounds, to the small truth inside your ribs that finally stops pretending.

You already know.

You just can’t say it, not out loud yet.

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[secretlysheikah]

Like from that quest from the researches. One is over the gerudo fairy. one near where dinrael spawns in eldinOne in that ice cave. whatcha think of that ha?

I have no logical clue what this ask was about when you got it Kip, but I thought the best way to answer is to make it into something completely new just for you.

I decided to make it into a prompt:

Once again they found themselves in Wild’s Hyrule but this time they were dropped in the perfect spot! They had landed just outside of Hateno village and Wild was going to make it a point to show them around.

Wild practically skipped in delight as they got closer to the little town. When the group passed under the arches of town Wild made it a point to show them around. He showed off his house that he bought during his adventure first and with the help of the village children the eight other heroes were shown all around the small town.

After a lazy afternoon of exploring the nine heroes sat around the tree outside of Wild’s house and listened to the kids babble on about nothing and everything. The day was sunny and bright and Wild was happy to see his brother’s soaking up the sunshine in one of his favorite places. He was not sure how the kids had gotten on to the topic of the leviathan bones, but it was clear that the bones had been the talk of the town as of late.

“Like from that quest Link did from the researches!” One of the little girls chirped happily as she bit into one of the baked apples Wild had made for them. The other children nodded excitedly and Wild could tell the heroes were all ears.

“Yeah, yeah! There’s one set of bones uhhh…” the little girl started but it was clear she was having trouble with the details.

“One is over the Gerudo fairy,” the little boy with glasses chimed in helpfully and the girl nodded excitedly.

“Yeah! One near where Dinrael spawns in Eldin, Oh and one in that ice cave!” She continued happily showing off her missing two front teeth in a wide grin.

“Spawns!?!” Legend choked out in shock at the word.

“She means where the dragon appears,” the little boy with glasses jumped in quickly. Wars thumped Legend on the back as he began to cough violently, apparently choking on a small bit of apple the had in his mouth when he made the exclamation. The boy flushed at the display and began to explain.

“She, uh overheard the adults talking about salmon and their life cycle,” He began sheepishly before continuing “she has been using that word ever since,” he finished lamely. The girl beamed and the other heroes had to hide their snickering behind their hands.

“whatcha think of that ha?” She asked then and Sky smiled down at her.

“I think that’s really interesting; do they know where the bones came from?” He asked and the girl shrugged, clearly losing interest in the subject.

“Well, I heard a rumor that the leviathans were once considered Gods. But that doesn’t really make sense to me,” the little boy said as he pushed his glasses back up the bridge of his nose.

“Why is that?” Time asked genuinely curious about the boy’s thought.

“Well, it’s just that, Gods are Gods you know? How can they even die let alone leave anything behind?” The boy said before taking a bite of his apple.

“Oh, Gods can die.” Sky said suddenly and the group at large looked his way. His face was suddenly stoic and serious.

“Just be glad the only thing they left behind this time were bones.” Sky said quietly averting his gaze from the curious group and tossing away the leftovers of his apple, his appetite apparently gone.

I hope you liked it!

[elfy-elf-imagines]

Fear of the Future | Legolas

Pairing: Legolas x Modern!Reader 

Prompt: ---

Genre: Fluff

Warnings: none

Requested by: ---

     “Meleth nín.” The soft voice belonging to Legolas called out. You turn, tearing your gaze away from the massive window you previously starred out. Your hair whipped behind you, falling down your back, the intricate braids a servant placed keeping it from your face. While Legolas still wears the silver circlet from Aragorn's coronation, he switched the silky formal attire for his usual leathers. His blonde hair was pulled from his face in his signature braids, perfectly showing off his pointed, high cheekbones and sharp jaw. 

‘How on Earth did I land him?’

Subconsciously, you rub your hands down the side of the dress you wore. It was loose and flowing like most elven-style dresses, a shade of blush pink that made your skin glow The design was simple, but you preferred it over some of the constricting dresses you’ve seen Gondorian nobles wearing. Your hair had been woven into intricate braids, adorned with hair jewelry, and topped with a circlet. At the time the ensemble made you feel regal and beautiful, but now standing before Legolas you felt like a fraud. 

‘Could he see right through me?’

“Hey.” Your voice was quiet; insecurities bubbled inside of you, rendering you nearly mute. It was so unlike your normal bubbly disposition. 

Not being from Middle Earth, the thought of not belonging here always lingered in the back of your mind. You were able to push it aside during the quest of, but now there was nothing else to distract you from the painful question.

‘What happens to me now?’

Would you be returned to Earth, your purpose now complete? The thought made you queasy and flighty. You didn’t belong on Earth anymore, so unlike who you used to be, that wasn’t your home anymore.

“I’ve been looking everywhere for you.” He gave you a blinding smile, practically gliding towards you. He took your hands in his own, a few centimeters separating the two of you, eyes meeting in a stare. Your eyes scan his face, trying to memorize every inch, to burn it in your brain. 

Who knows how long you’ll be like this. 

His blue eyes intently studied your face, the dreamy expression on his face slowly fading until it was passive and tight. Anxiety built in your mind at the change of expression, your brain going into overdrive from panic.  

“What? Is there a massive bug on my face?” you jokingly ask, attempting to break the tension with stupid humor. It didn’t work. 

“There’s something bothering you. What is it, mell-nin?” he asked, his tone soft as silk. All the anxiety and biting fear that had been building the past few days crescendoed. The dam you’d built with fake smiles and a carefree facade was broken by the sincerity that burned in Legolas’ eyes. A sigh left your mouth as you broke eye contact with Legolas to stare at your feet.

“I’m worried.” It was all you were able to utter. Looking up to meet Legolas’ gaze, the softness in his face melted you to the core. “I’m worried about what happens next, in general. Everyone here has somewhere to go back to, but not me. My home is worlds away.” 

Overcome with intense shame, you were unable to look directly in his eyes, instead staring at the side of his face. Silence fell over the two of you, and you wished the floor would swallow you whole. 

“Isn’t it obvious,” was his response. You open your mouth to reply but he cut you off. He moved his head so his eyes stare directly into yours. “You are the woman I love, elf, human, or even dwarf I choose you, meleth nin. You will always have a home with me.” He rested his forehead against yours, the tips of your noses touching. 

“Really?” you uttered in disbelief, embarrassingly enough your eyes began to water slightly.

"Yes, and I apologize for any moment you felt uncertain about your future.” he softly replied. 

“And what of your father? Won’t he not approve of a mortal girl in his court, ruining his son?” I asked, talking as softly as Legolas but with a playful undertone. 

“I suppose he will just have to live with it.” Legolas said, mimicking your tone, a smile spreading across his face. An equally as wide smile appeared in your lips, eyes lighting up like the flickering candles around you. You leaned forward and pressed a delicate kiss on his lips. Before he had a moment to properly react, you pulled back. 

“Orthach 'uren ir tirach enni.” The elvish words were foreign and awkward on your tongue, trying to mimic how Legolas speaks. A small laugh bubbled from his mouth, his eyes the shape of crescent moons. “What?”

“Your pronunciation still needs work, Meleth nin,” he said, no longer attempting to hide his laughter. The sound was one of the most beautiful sounds you’d ever heard. It was sweeter than the most enchanting minstrel, and you’d never hear music the same again. 

While beautiful, his resting expression was always so stern and serious, the weight of Sauron’s influence weighing on him. But in moments like these, where he laughed freely with little to no care in the world, resembling a child full of wonder and excitement, he’s the most beautiful you’ve ever seen. You couldn’t bring myself to do anything but stare and appreciate the moment.

“Alright, alright if you don’t stop this my dinner is going to come back up. Let's get to the celebration!” Gimili’s gruff voice suddenly interrupted the moment. You both turned to face the dwarf, while he attempted to maintain a stern expression, you could see the softness under his gaze. 

"So I can beat you in a drinking contest?” You challenged the dwarf, letting go of Legolas’ hands, moving towards Gimli. 

“Is that a challenge lass?” he questioned. You reached his side and grabbed his arm, looping it with yours.

"It’s not a challenge Gimli, it’s a fact.” You simply said as you move to the Celebration Hall. Before you completely disappear, you turn your head as Gimli rambled on about dwarven alcohol and celebrations. Legolas was still stood where you used to be, wearing the same dreamy expression. You give him an over the top wink with a blinding smile.

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

Elvish Translations: 

- Meleth nin: My love

- Orthach 'uren ir tirach enni: You lift up my heart when you look at me

- Mell nín: My beloved

[aventurineswife]

Hi! I hope you’re doing well 💚

Could I request Aventurine x reader, where reader can’t sleep one night but doesn’t want to wake Aventurine with their restlessness so they decide to try to sleep on the sofa, but then they wake up the next morning to find Aven has squeezed onto the sofa beside them to cuddle them

The Odds of Us

Summary: When you can't sleep one night, you quietly leave the bed to avoid disturbing Aventurine, curling up on the sofa instead. But come morning, you find him squeezed beside you—awkwardly, affectionately—having followed you in the night. Between teasing remarks and rare glimpses of sincerity, Aventurine reminds you that you never have to face the night alone.

Tags: Aventurine x Reader, Fluff, Comfort, Soft Moments, Established Relationship, Emotional Intimacy, Subtle Angst, Protective Aventurine, Cuddling, Domestic Setting, Vulnerability.

Warnings: Brief mentions of past trauma (Aventurine’s backstory), Mild emotional vulnerability, Light language (very mild teasing).

The room was dark—save for the glint of city lights painting soft patterns across the ceiling. You lay on the bed, eyes wide open, mind refusing the sweet surrender of sleep.

Aventurine slept beside you, seemingly at peace, his chest rising in a slow, rhythmic tempo. His hair spilled across the pillow like scattered coins, a rare sign he’d truly let his guard down tonight.

You didn’t want to disturb him.

Not with your restlessness. Not with the storm of thoughts keeping you awake.

So, quietly, you slipped out from under the sheets.

The plush carpet muffled your steps as you padded across the suite, grabbing a throw blanket before settling yourself onto the sofa. It was barely long enough for you to stretch out fully, but the chill in the air and your own need for distance made it tolerable.

You curled into the corner, blanket wrapped around your shoulders, trying to still your mind.

Somewhere between hours and dreams, exhaustion won.

But when morning came, it wasn’t the soft light filtering through the blinds that stirred you—it was a sudden weight against your side. Warmth. A faint tickle of breath brushing your cheek.

You cracked your eyes open groggily, blinking against the light.

Aventurine.

Somehow, impossibly, he’d crammed his frame onto the narrow sofa beside you. One of his arms was tucked awkwardly beneath you, the other slung across your waist. His head rested against your shoulder, tousled blond hair fanning out like he’d fought gravity to be here.

He looked... comfortable. Peaceful, even. One leg hung off the sofa’s edge, and the tip of a patterned sock peeked from beneath the blanket you’d clearly shared in the night.

“Good morning,” you murmured, your voice a whisper. You weren’t even sure he was awake.

“I’d say so,” came his low reply—hoarse and warm with sleep. His words curled around you like the arm at your waist. “Though I have to admit, I wasn’t expecting to wake up halfway through a circus act just to fit beside you.”

You blinked in surprise. “You were awake?”

Aventurine tilted his head up slightly, one eye cracking open, glinting with mischief beneath dark lashes. “Darling, I sleep lighter than my reputation in a room full of auditors.”

You stifled a laugh. “Then why didn’t you say anything?”

He shrugged—or tried to, the movement awkward in the confined space. “Didn’t want to pry. If you needed space, I’d give it.” His voice lowered slightly, more serious now. “But if it was something else… well, let’s just say I’ve slept in worse places for lesser reasons.”

Your chest tightened a little at the implication. You turned slightly to face him, hand brushing his where it rested on your waist.

“I just... couldn’t sleep. Didn’t want to bother you.”

He studied you for a moment. Then, in a rare moment of transparency, his smile softened—less mask, more man.

“You think curling up on the world’s narrowest sofa alone is less of a bother than waking me up?”

You gave him a sheepish look. “Maybe.”

He huffed out a breath—a small, affectionate sound. “Tch. What a gamble.”

“I thought you liked gambles.”

“I like winning them,” he quipped, but the fondness in his tone betrayed him. Then, his hand brushed yours beneath the blanket. “Next time, just wake me.”

You hesitated. “Even if it’s nothing?”

Aventurine leaned in, his voice close, his breath warm against your skin. “Especially then.”

You closed your eyes, letting the comfort of his presence finally ease the knot in your chest.

He tightened his hold on you just slightly. “Besides… I wasn’t sleeping all that well without you, anyway.”

There it was again—his subtle honesty, buried in showmanship but unmistakably real.

“Okay,” you whispered.

“Good.” He paused. “Now scoot over, or I’m going to fall off this damn thing.”

You laughed, shifting just enough to make room. He pressed closer, tucking his face into your shoulder like it was the most natural thing in the world.

And this time, sleep came easily.

Not because the sofa was any softer.

But because Aventurine was there.

And with him, you’d always take the gamble.

Because somehow, against all odds—you’d both won.

[aventurineswife]

can i request for aventurine, boothill, sampo and whoever you wanna add, reader likes to slip love notes in their pocket whenever they hug or greet each other so they can find it later when they’re away from them/at work

Love Tucked Between the Folds

Tags: Aventurine x Reader, Boothill x Reader, Sampo x Reader, Fluff, Romance, Love Notes, Emotional Vulnerability, Comfort, Subtle Angst, Established Relationship.

Warnings: Mild Angst, Mentions Of Trauma/Survivor’s Guilt, Mentions Of Violence, Danger, Emotional Themes.

Aventurine was a man who never missed a tell. He could spot the twitch of a hand that betrayed a losing card, the falter in someone’s smile that gave away their lie. And yet, when it came to you, he was perpetually off-balance.

The first time he found one of your notes, it was during a tense board meeting at the IPC. He’d leaned back in his chair, idly adjusting the cuff of his sleeve, when his fingers brushed against folded paper in his blazer pocket. Unfolding it beneath the table, his eyes skimmed over your looping handwriting:

“You’ll win this one, I just know it. Come home with that smug smile of yours, and let me kiss it off.”

He had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from grinning wide enough to draw suspicion.

From then on, it became a ritual. Whenever you greeted him—whether a quick embrace before he left for work or a languid hug in the evening—your hand would slip deftly into his jacket or trousers pocket. Most people would never dare try to pickpocket Aventurine; you, on the other hand, gave him something infinitely more valuable than credits or chips.

The notes were simple, sometimes playful, sometimes aching with sincerity.

“Don’t push yourself too hard. Even you can’t gamble with exhaustion.”

“I love the way your eyes shine when you talk about plans nobody else understands.”

“You’re not alone, no matter how much you try to convince yourself.”

Each one struck him harder than you realized. Because Aventurine was used to betrayal tucked in between silken words. He was used to knives in the back after warm embraces. Yet here you were, tucking paper scraps of affection where daggers should have been.

One evening, after a particularly grueling day navigating the chaos at the IPC headquarters, he came home with his usual smile. You greeted him at the door, pressing into his chest, arms looping around him. His hand instinctively pressed against your back, but tonight, he caught you. Fingers brushed against yours just as you tried to slip another note into his coat pocket.

“Well, well,” he drawled, magenta eyes glinting behind his glasses. “And here I thought I was the master of sleight-of-hand. Caught you red-handed, darling.”

You froze, laughter bubbling nervously in your throat. “...So what if you did?”

He plucked the folded paper from your hand with deliberate slowness, holding it between two gold-ringed fingers. His grin was dazzling, dangerous, but his voice softened, “Do you know how rare it is that someone tries to smuggle affection into my pockets instead of debts, demands, or knives?”

You reached for it, but he pulled it just out of reach. His expression shifted ever so slightly, from teasing gambler to the man beneath—the survivor who never stopped expecting loss.

“I keep these,” he admitted. “Every single one. Maybe that’s reckless of me. Maybe one day, someone will find them and laugh at how Aventurine, the ‘Stratagem,’ hoarded scraps of paper like treasure. But you and I both know…” He trailed off, slipping the note into his breast pocket, close to his heart. “This is the only gamble I never want to lose.”

That night, you found him asleep with the box of your notes—dozens of them—beside the bed. His smile, for once, was unguarded.

Sampo prided himself on noticing everything. He had to, considering how often someone was out for his head—or his wares. Which was why he noticed almost immediately when you slipped something into his pocket the first time.

At first, he thought you’d tried to plant evidence on him. His heart skipped a beat, visions of Silvermane Guards dragging him away flashing in his head. But when he ducked behind a crate to inspect, unfolding the slip of paper, his pupils widened.

“Don’t get into too much trouble today. I’d miss that smug grin if you lost it.”

He laughed—really laughed. “Oh-ho? Well, isn’t this a turn of events. Someone leaving me love notes? What’s next, a parade in my honor?”

Still, he tucked it away carefully, right beside the fake receipts he used to throw people off.

And then it happened again. Every hug, every casual lean against him, every sly brush of your hand against his side—you’d leave behind another folded note. They ranged from sweet to cheeky, often sprinkled with inside jokes.

“Bet you can’t swindle me into doing chores.”

“Your hair looked good today. Don’t get cocky.”

“For all your talk, you’re kind of adorable when you’re serious.”

Sampo carried them like charms, though he’d never admit it outright. When he was haggling with a particularly stubborn merchant, he’d brush his fingers against one in his pocket, and the corner of his mouth would lift just so. When he narrowly escaped yet another guard chase, panting in the shadows, he’d unfold one of your notes, grin crookedly, and whisper, “You’re the only thing worth running back to.”

One day, though, you got sloppy. You’d tried to tuck a note into the inner pocket of his magenta jacket, but your hand lingered a fraction too long. His mint-green eyes caught the movement.

“Ah, sweetheart,” he purred, catching your wrist. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were trying to pickpocket me. But we both know that’s my department.”

You flushed, tugging your hand back. “Maybe I was. What are you gonna do about it?”

Sampo tilted his head, smirk playing at his lips. He produced the note you’d just tried to slip in and waved it teasingly. “Normally, I’d sell whatever I find in my pockets to the highest bidder. But these…” His voice dropped, just a touch more earnest than usual. “These I keep. Even a conman needs something real to hold onto.”

When you kissed him, quick and unexpected, he almost dropped the note. Almost. Instead, he slipped it back into his pocket, heart hammering in a way that no chase, no scam, no pile of credits ever managed.

Boothill wasn’t the type to keep sentimental things. He’d buried too many faces, too many memories, to let himself hold onto scraps of the past. His life was a gun drawn at dawn, a duel with death every sunrise.

And then there was you.

The first time you slipped a note into his pocket, it was after one of his showy standoffs. He’d strutted back to you, spurs clinking, teeth flashing in that shark grin of his. You hugged him tight, murmuring something against his scarf before letting him go. Later, while cleaning his revolver, he found the paper.

“You make it back every time, but I still worry. Don’t die on me, cowboy.”

For a long while, he just stared at it. His metal fingers crumpled it slightly before he smoothed it out again, tucking it into the lining of his jacket.

From then on, the notes multiplied. You never missed a chance—whenever he left for another reckless raid against the IPC, whenever he returned battered but unbroken.

“You’re not just vengeance. You’re more than the ghosts you chase.”

“I believe in you, even when you don’t.”

“Come back so I can scold you properly.”

He carried them into battle like talismans. When bullets whistled past and his cyborg body shuddered from the strain, he’d think of the paper slips pressed against his chest. Not armor, not weaponry, but something far stronger: proof that someone wanted him alive.

One evening, after weeks of silence and smoke, he rode back into camp bloodied but breathing. You rushed to him, tears threatening. Your arms wrapped tight around his frame, hand slipping instinctively toward his pocket.

But this time, Boothill caught you. His mechanical hand covered yours, firm but not rough. His black eyes, marked with those white aim symbols, softened.

“Darlin’,” he drawled, voice quieter than usual. “You reckon I don’t notice? I may play the fool sometimes, but even a gunslinger knows when someone’s loadin’ his pockets with gold instead of lead.”

You blinked, startled. “So… you don’t mind?”

He gave a low chuckle, pulling the latest note from his pocket and unfolding it. His grin flashed sharp as always, but there was something raw in his tone. “Mind? Sugar, I’d be six feet under if not for these. I keep ‘em all. Every last one. Guess even a dead man walkin’ needs a reason to keep walkin’.”

You leaned into him, pressing your forehead against his chest, right where the notes rested. His arm came around you, protective and unyielding.

“Keep writin’ ‘em,” he murmured. “As long as you keep stuffin’ my pockets, I’ll keep findin’ my way back.”

For the first time in years, Boothill believed he might just outdraw fate itself.

[aventurineswife]

Hello! Could I request Aventurine x Vampire!Reader?

Maybe something like Reader and Aventurine are on some kind of mission and Reader does not have enough blood packets to sustain themselves for the last few days so is now making a poor attempt to ration them, ending up hungry, sad, and irritable. Aventurine manages to urge them into feeding from him, first from his wrist, before coaxing them to drink directly from his neck, kind of talking them through it as they go

Hopefully that was enough/not too much detail; first time requesting so I'm not too sure how this goes lol. If you do decide to write this then thank you!

The Taste of Trust

Summary: Stranded on a mission in Penacony without enough blood rations, you're left weakened, irritable, and spiraling into a quiet desperation. You try to hide it behind cold silence and restraint—but Aventurine sees right through you. In a rare moment of sincerity, he offers himself as a solution. What begins as a simple feeding from his wrist evolves into something far more intimate and exposing. He talks you through it, gently coaxing you to feed from his neck, revealing a vulnerability beneath his usual flamboyance—and drawing out a piece of your own you thought you'd buried for good.

Tags: Aventurine x Reader, Vampire!Reader, Blood Sharing, Hurt/Comfort, Slow-Burn Intimacy, Protective Aventurine, Emotional Vulnerability, Soft!Aventurine, Vampiric Hunger, Subtle Angst, Hidden Feelings, Power Imbalance, Mutual Trust, Intimate Feeding Scene, Sincere Moments.

Warnings: Blood consumption (vampiric feeding), Descriptions of physical weakness, hunger, emotional breakdown, Mild intimacy (biting, close contact, vulnerability), Mentions of trauma and control issues, Power dynamics explored with care, Aventurine being soft (and sincere, and dangerously charming).

A/N: Don't worry, you did a great job for a first time req! 🙏💖

The ship's interior hummed quietly, the low drone of its systems a dull backdrop to your mounting discomfort. Days into the Penacony mission and the supply crate—your crate—was still missing. Blood packs: gone. Rations: forgotten.

Your reflection in the ship's steel bulkhead was pale, even by vampire standards. Under-eye bruising, dull eyes, the twitch in your jaw each time Aventurine entered the room—it was all unraveling faster than you could fake control.

And Aventurine? Of course he noticed.

He noticed everything.

“You’re testy today,” he said, seated with one leg draped over the other, a playful glint in his eyes. “Let me guess—someone stepped on your coffin?”

You glared. “Not in the mood, Aventurine.”

A chuckle, smooth as silk. “Oh, I can tell. The brooding, the muttering, the way you’re gripping that datapad like it insulted your lineage…”

You stood, swaying a little. “I’ll manage.”

“Will you?” His voice lost its teasing edge, tone quieter now, less performative. His gaze sharpened. “You’ve barely moved from that bench all morning. I may not know the delicate art of blood management, but starving yourself isn’t part of your skillset.”

You didn’t answer.

Instead, you turned your back to him and slumped against the cold wall, knees pulled up, hands trembling slightly. The ache was no longer just physical—it was gnawing at your control, dredging up every suppressed emotion like old corpses rising.

A beat. Then—

“Come here.”

You blinked, turning to find him standing now, hat off, glasses pushed onto his head, eyes too earnest for your liking. Too real.

“I’m not—” you began, voice cracking.

“You are,” he interrupted gently, stepping closer. “And I’d rather not watch you fall apart just because of pride. Drink.”

You blinked again. “From… you?”

He shrugged off his blazer, exposing the elegant lines of his dress shirt. “Why not? I’ve survived worse gambles. Besides—” he raised a wrist, adorned in gold rings and a sleek watch, “—I’m feeling generous.”

“Don't joke.”

“I’m not.” His voice dropped, earnest and low. “You need this.”

You stared at him. The pulse under his skin. The temptation. The unbearable thought of hurting him. “I can’t. I might not stop.”

“You will,” he said, taking your hand, guiding it to his wrist. “You always stop. Because deep down, you’re more in control than you think. And I trust you.”

That—trust—was the dagger.

You hissed softly, then pressed your lips to his wrist, the moment intimate in its quietness. The first taste was dizzying—hot, rich, uniquely him. A velvet fire against the coldness eating at your soul.

Aventurine hissed, but didn’t flinch. His fingers twitched once, then steadied on your shoulder.

“You always take risks alone,” he murmured, voice almost fond. “Let me take one too.”

When you pulled away, breath shaky, he tilted his head, revealing the smooth column of his neck, where veins pulsed in rhythm like a dare.

“I know you’re still starving.”

“I can’t,” you whispered.

“You can. You just don’t want to need someone.” He tilted his head further. “Let me help.”

The scent of his blood was maddening here—closer to his pulse, warmer, louder. He placed your hand on his chest, above his heart.

“Feel that?” he asked, a low hum under his words. “I’m not scared.”

You leaned in. Slowly. Every nerve in your body screaming. Your fangs grazed his skin—and he didn’t move. Didn’t tense.

“I’ll talk you through it,” he whispered, his breath brushing your ear. “You take what you need. No more. No less. I’ll pull you back if you go too far.”

Your fangs sank in.

His breath hitched. His hand gripped your shoulder tighter. But still, he held still. Not a single movement of resistance.

“That’s it…” he whispered hoarsely, threading his fingers gently into your hair. “You're doing fine.”

You fed in silence, eyes fluttering shut, the storm of emotion and hunger settling into something warmer, softer. Your trembling ceased. Your hands steadied. The ache faded.

When you finally pulled away, his neck marred with twin pinpricks and the hint of a smile, he looked at you like you'd just played your hand and finally trusted him with the cards.

“There,” he murmured. “That wasn’t so bad, was it?”

You leaned your forehead against his shoulder, unable to speak.

Aventurine just held you there.

No theatrics. No teasing.

Just him.

Just this.

A rare moment where neither of you were bluffing.

And for the first time in days, you didn’t feel like the monster at the table.

You felt… seen.