Nox

"Be still and know." - { Minors proceed with caution some NSFW themes } { Request's open}

[vacate-et-scire]

☆⋅⋆──────⋆ALLOW YOURSELF TO SHINE WITHOUT THE DESIRE TO BE SEEN⋆──────⋆⋅☆

Hello loves I finally made a masterlist for my writing blog and a main post {:<

What I will write for:

Jujutsu Kaisen (rarely)

AOT

Bungo Stray Dogs

Blue Lock (manga included)

Windbreaker (manga included)

COD

Chainsaw Man

Death Note

Castlevenia

TDP

BG3

DC & Marvel (They're close enough plz don't kill me)

What I will not write in general:

Abuse

Harassment

weird shit in smut, not to kink shame but like anything objectively gross I can't stomach

intense gore

yandere fics

EVENTS:

[match ups] - [CLOSED]

{{I AM SOON UPDATING TO A TAGGING SYSTEM MASTERLIST FOR CONVENIENCE SORRY}}

MORE INFO:

I mainly only write gn!readers and implied male/fem readers (exception to my few smut fics), with no mentions to skin colour

If you’re looking to be mutuals don’t hesitate to pop me a message since I don’t have my main account listed here 🤍

[vacate-et-scire]

I’m throwing this into the ask boxes of every dispatch writer I can find but if you can can you write Flambae x musician (preferably ftm) m!reader? Like, reader is one of prisms pop star friends and she got so sick of him complaining about meeting terrible dudes on dating apps she just kinda thre Flambae at reader like “here damn!!”🌝 I’m super bad at explaining but I hope you get me yk…

✧ ˚ · . Next Love Song Is About Me?

Flambae x ftm, pop star reader

Backstage is always the same blend of noise and silence. The roar of the crowd fading into the buzzing in your head as adrenaline drains out of your muscles and leaves you exhausted but satisfied, and when you finally step into the green room you feel the sweat cooling on your skin while your bandmates scatter in their usual post show chaos. Someone tosses you a bottle of water and you down half of it immediately because your throat feels raw from singing, and you sit heavily on the couch while your body tries to settle into a normal rhythm again.

You do not even realize someone else is in the room until a voice speaks up from your right. “Prism was not exaggerating. You are definitely something.”

You choke slightly on the mouthful of water you were trying to finish, eyes snapping to the stranger standing a few feet away. He is leaning casually on one of the folding tables like he owns the room, arms crossed, smiling like this is the most normal introduction a person could possibly offer. For a second you are too confused to speak because security is tight backstage and the only people who get in are crew, band, or guests, so your brain jumps to the most obvious possibility.

“Are you a fan?” you ask, trying not to sound rude, but ready to call for security if needed. It comes out cautious anyway.

He laughs under his breath, and it sounds confident without tipping into arrogance. “No. Well, yes, technically, I guess. I like your music. But I’m not here because I snuck backstage or something. I’m here because Prism told me to be here.”

You stare because that does not make things clearer at all. “Pr- Alice? She told you to be backstage. For what?”

He tilts his head a little and that smile gets even more amused. “You really do work too much. She said you forgot about the date she was trying to set up. I’m Chad. Flambae if we’re using stage names.”

Your brain catches up slowly, replaying every conversation you had with Alice in the last few months until one moment finally lands. Two weeks ago, complaining about dating apps, about guys who matched and then disappeared the moment you mentioned you were trans, about how frustrating and tiring it was to feel like a concept to people instead of an actual person. Alice had snapped her fingers and said she had the perfect guy for you. You agreed at the moment then got wrapped up in rehearsals, interviews, and travel and completely forgot to follow up.

Heat rushes to your face so fast you feel it before you understand it. “I, uh. Wow. Okay. I was not expecting that at all.”

Chad looks delighted by your embarrassment. Not mocking, just entertained. “Relax. I’m not here to drag you on a surprise formal date. Prism thought it would be funny to throw me in here and then vanish. She literally pushed me backstage and disappeared before I could stop her... I think she got distracted by your drummer?”

You huff a laugh and rub the back of your neck because suddenly everything feels uncomfortably warm. “Sorry. I thought you were a creepy fan for a second and yeah Micah they're friends he's a.. tech kinda guy”

He pushes off the table and walks closer. Not too close, just enough that it feels intentional. “If you thought I was a creepy fan you should have seen your face. You looked like you were going to throw the water bottle at me.”

You groan quietly. “I wasn’t... Well I was..”

You straighten your posture because falling apart in front of a cute guy is not how you want to present yourself. “So this was Alice’s idea of matchmaking. Lock us in a room and pray we hit it off?”

Chad lifts his hands. “I mean, she was not entirely wrong. I am definitely not complaining.”

You feel your blush return, and he notices because of course he does. He grins. “You are fucking cute.”

“What?” you mutter, pointing at him. “Are you trying to use confidence to make me nervous?”

“Is it working?” he shoots back instantly.

You try not to laugh, and fail. He seems pleased with that too.

He sits at the opposite end of the couch but angled toward you, giving you the option to shift closer or stay distant, which makes you relax slightly because it feels like a subtle sign of respect rather than pressure. You take another long drink of water just to have something to do with your hands.

“So Alice talks about me I guess,” you say.

“Only good things,” he answers. “She said you were talented, smart, and funny, and that you do not take shit from anyone. Then she added that you complain about dating the most out of anyone she knows.”

You groan into your hands. “She did not.”

“Oh she did.”

You peek at him through your fingers. “Well. She was right. Dating apps suck. Especially when people act weird once they find out I’m famous and that.. I'm... ya'know”

His expression softens differently, not pity, just understanding. “Yeah, she told me, she also said that you wanted someone who did not treat you like a big deal.”

“And you still showed up?” you ask quietly.

He nods once, without hesitation. “Yeah. Because that is not hard. You are just a guy. And you are hot. That is literally it.”

You cannot stop your smile because no one has said something that blunt without awkwardness in a long time. “That was very smooth.”

He leans back against the couch like he just won something. “I am extremely smooth, It's my best fucking quality.”

You respond without thinking. “You sure it is not your hair?”

He touches his hair dramatically. “You have a point. It is pretty incredible.”

Now the conversation feels natural and warm and light, and even though your legs still ache from performing, you feel energized again in a different way. You want to keep talking, and he looks like he wants to keep talking too, you realize that Alice might actually have known exactly what she was doing.

“So,” he says after a moment that stretches comfortably. “Can I take you out? Not right now because you look like you are about to pass out, but maybe when you are free and not performing?”

You bite the inside of your cheek to keep your smile from being too obvious. “Yeah. I would like that. I really would.”

“Good,” he replies, then pulls his phone from his pocket and holds it out. “Put your number in before Prism finds us and decides we are not flirting hard enough.”

You take the phone and type your number while your hands shake just a little. He saves it without looking, clearly trusting you did not type something fake, and then adds, “Text me when you are not drowning in work.”

You feel your chest loosen in a way you did not expect. “Deal.”

Before he stands to leave he leans forward slightly, and you think for a second he is going to kiss your cheek, but instead he just says, quiet enough that you have to really listen, “And for the record? For first impressions, I really like you”

When he finally heads toward the exit you are left staring at the door, grinning like an idiot, and Alice or well Prism in her get up comes barrelling in two seconds later yelling, “Well. Did you guys make out or what?”

You toss a bottle cap at her, and she screams with laughter and victory because she knows exactly what she just set in motion.

And you cannot even be mad because you are already texting Chad before you have fully caught your breath.

[vacate-et-scire]

Papa, me want more movie. Do you have a sort of vision how Flambae and Masc!Reader met and ended up together?

╰┈➤ ❝ [ My Sixteens Sweetheart ]

🌟: I may have gotten carried away and done literally no dialogue, this is just a backstory sooo lore dump of how I think this version of Flambae and reader found each other <3

flambae x male reader

warning: [light homophobia from parental figures] [reader not understanding fully that he's gay as a teen] [troubled teen flambae]

You met Chad in your second year of high school, and his reputation arrived six months before he did. Everyone already had stories about him, the trouble he caused at his last school, the fighting, the arson rumours that nobody fully confirmed, but nobody doubted either since he never got charged. When he walked into class on his first day wearing a leather jacket in the middle of spring and scowling at anyone who stared too long, nobody seemed too keen on being his desk mate, some students setting bags in empty seats next to them.

You were the only one who did not look away. Not because you wanted to be bold or rebellious, you were just curious. He noticed that instantly and rolled his eyes, but he sat next to you anyway, which shocked everyone else and made absolutely no sense because you were nothing alike. You were Mr straight A's metaphorically, you did try your hardest on tests, you were nice to the teachers, and friendly to most everyone no matter what group the gravitated towards.

He on the other hand kept trying to get suspended that week. He argued with teachers, climbed the roof, and got into a shouting match with the hall monitor before lunch, but for some reason he sat beside you every single day. He insulted everything from math to the cafeteria chairs, yet he always leaned toward you to say it, like you were the person he wanted to hear his commentary.

By the third week, you were the only person he talked to without it turning into an argument because he said something rude and the other person snapped back, making him get heated. You walked to class together, you argued about movies, you sat in the grass during lunch while he made fun of couples holding hands and then got weirdly quiet whenever you agreed with him.

He told you about his anger issues and how it literally affected how his powers worked, he told you about his family and how they meant a lot to him, but they never understood him, how it seemed like they tried to rile him up just so he could get in trouble.

He never asked about your parents, and you never offered the information. They did not like the way Chad dressed or spoke or existed, and they made it very clear you should stay away from people “like him.” You kept your distance in front of them. You let them believe you were listening. Later, when they slept, you snuck out and met him behind the convenience store with two cheap sodas.

Chad laughed so hard he fell over on the pavement, and you realized that he only ever laughed like that around you.

Feelings came later. He flirted with everyone as a joke, tossing lines that were half confidence and half deflection, always exaggerated, always unrealistic. The first time he flirted with you, it was different. He said you had a nice smile in a tone that was too casual to be a joke, then he panicked before you could react, called you a loser, and walked away fast to his next class.

You did not say anything about it, not because you did not notice, but because you did not know what you were allowed to want. At home, you were a straight son who followed rules. With Chad, you were someone you liked better, someone who could sit with him on rooftops and talk about real things without worrying about being punished for having a heartbeat.

Your friendship was intense in a way neither of you understood. There were moments when your shoulders brushed and both of you froze. Moments when you sat too close and neither of you moved away. Moments when he swore he did not need anybody, yet he waited for your text every night. Just two awkward teenage boys, well you carried most of the awkwardness, he just got a bit nervous.

You almost kissed once when you were seventeen. It was raining, and he showed up at your window at midnight because he got into it with his aunt and needed somewhere else to be. You let him in without speaking, and he grabbed your shirt like he was scared, you knew it was probably because he sat out in the rain debating if he should stay over at your place for an hour and probably had the chills. You held him until he stopped shaking, and then he looked up at you with this raw, open expression that did not match his loud personality. Your noses were almost touching. His breath hitched like he wanted to say something honest, and then he bailed on the moment, shoved you away gently, and told you he was “so done with being awake right now” before throwing the blanket over his head.

You did not try again. Neither did he.

After graduation, your lives went in circles. He sometimes disappeared, got into trouble, came back, stayed at your place when things got bad, ate your leftovers like he owned the fridge, pretended not to care that you kept a toothbrush for him in the bathroom, and flirted in a way that was no longer a joke but also not yet real.

You dated nobody because nobody else ever felt right. He pretended he slept around because it was easier than admitting he cared about one person too much.

Every time you drifted apart, you found your way back again. Every time you fought, you missed each other. Every time something went wrong, he called you first.

He confessed in the smallest way possible if you could even call it that, sitting on your floor in your first shitty apartment after high school, eating pizza at two in the morning. He asked if you ever wondered what would have happened if you had kissed him that night in the rain. You asked him why he was asking. He said it did not matter, it was just a thought, then he stared at the wall for a long time, and you understood that it mattered more than anything.

You did not kiss him that night. You leaned against him, and he leaned back, and that was enough for both of you right then.

It took a few more years, a lot of talking, a lot of misunderstandings, and a lot of growing up before the two of you finally figured out how to say what you meant. Before that, it was messy, confusing, intense, and complicated in a way that only made sense because it was him.

But from the moment he sat beside you in that classroom and refused to sit anywhere else, it was always going to be him. And even when you were not together yet, you already belonged to each other.

[vacate-et-scire]

The Flambae x Male Reader fic is so cute!!!! I imagined MReader to be that calm like he is there to mediate Flambae!

So…i was wondering if we can get a part two of maybe Flambae proposing to Reader and a wedding with Z-Team ensues. Just some cute fluff and Prism being the girlboss she is Flambae’s wingwoman.

┌─── .'꒰Ready, Set, Say yes!'. ── · · · ♡

flambae x male reader

🌟: I hope I got this right, I don't often use too much dialogue for the reader unless I can't do it any other way so it's more neutral to the personality

Chad spent the entire week pacing around the apartment like he was waiting for a bomb to explode, which would not have been unusual for him, except this time the bomb was in his own chest. He was quieter than normal, which for him still meant complaining loudly about everything, but with a different energy, like his brain was spinning on a track he could not jump off, and whenever you asked what was wrong, he would wave a hand and distract himself.

He started leaving the house with Prism a lot, and he would come home with that smug smile that always meant trouble, except this time he would kiss you, act like nothing happened. One night, when you were getting ready for bed, you accidentally overheard him in the kitchen on the phone with Prism, whispering aggressively, arguing about something that was apparently shiny, expensive, and he kept muttering that he wanted it to be perfect that he wanted to get it right for you. You never confronted him. You let him have whatever secret he was planning.

The proposal happened two days later. You were cooking, and he walked into the kitchen like a storm trapped in a person, looking like he might explode, not with fire, but with nerves. Prism must have abandoned him at the last second because she was not there, and he glanced around the kitchen like all his planning had gone out the window in a matter of seconds.

“Fuck. Fuck this. I had a whole thing. I had music and props and romantic garbage and Prism said it looked like a bad movie set but whatever, it was supposed to happen somewhere else and now it just feels stupid.” He rubbed his face and paced. “She said I should talk from the heart... and you weren't supposed to home? And I was supposed to set up- and aughh fucking hell”

You turned off the stove and waited, because with Chad patience always worked better than pressure.

Then he stopped pacing and reached into his pocket and pulled out a small box that was shaking in his hand.

“You pissed me off when we met,” he said, voice uneven and rough, “because you were calm and normal and you looked at me like I was not something that needed fixing and you made me feel like I was allowed to exist without performing all the time, and when I am with you, I do not feel like a villain or a project or someone who has to prove how hot or dangerous or impossible I am. I just feel like… me. And it scares the shit out of me, but I want it anyway.”

He dropped to one knee so fast it looked like he had been shoved there by invisible force.

“So marry me. Please. Before I chicken out and go set something on fire to cope.”

You laughed and cried at the same time, and when you said yes, he let out a breath like he had been holding it for a year, and he pulled you into him so tightly you could feel how hard he was shaking. He kissed you and then he swore at you for making him emotional, and you swore back and then you kissed him again.

You did not expect Chad to let anyone into his dressing room, yet Prism sat on the counter beside him, swinging her legs and watching him like a hawk that refused to let her favourite idiot fall apart. He stared at himself in the mirror while she tightened his tie for what had to be the sixth time, his leg bouncing like he was ready to sprint away from the altar.

“This knot looks like shit,” he muttered, yanking lightly at the fabric.

Prism slapped his hand away. “You are getting married, not going to fight club, so calm the hell down.” She smoothed the tie again and then adjusted the collar with slow care. “You look good. You look like someone who deserves to be happy.”

He scoffed, eyes avoiding his reflection. “Deserving is debatable.”

She turned his face toward hers. Her voice stayed firm. “You are not the guy who tried to burn half the city anymore. You are the guy who wakes up early to make him coffee because he forgets breakfast. You are the guy who pretends he hates romance but giggles like an idiot when he gets kissed. You love him. He loves you. No debate.”

His jaw clenched and he looked down at his hands. His left hand, perfect in the crisp dress glove. His right hand, missing that ring and pinky finger he lost years ago from pathetic Robert. He had never cared much about it until now. Prism saw him staring.

“It is the left one that counts.” She held his wrist and gave a confident nod. “You still get to wear that ring. You still get to hold him with both hands. Nothing about you is missing today.”

He swallowed hard. “I fucking hate when you get all wise. It makes me feel feelings that I did not sign up for.”

“Good. Now stand up straight.” She tugged his shoulders back. “You are the hottest one at this wedding and you are going to walk out there like you own every square inch of that aisle.”

He looked up finally. There was a spark in his eyes. Nervous, but alive.

Prism smirked. “Go marry your boy, bitch.”

Chad waited at the altar, trying to look cocky but failing miserably because his breathing kept catching in his throat whenever he realized this was real. The venue glowed warm around him, friends who were once strangers some enemies now seated and talking loudly like dysfunctional family next to your own. Music swelled.

Then the doors opened and he saw you.

The way his face changed was instant. Tension melted out of him. His ego dropped its shield. His mouth parted just a little like he forgot how to act. You walked toward him and each step grounded him deeper at that moment, and by the time you reached his hands, he was shaking just a little.

“Hi,” you said quietly.

He grinned with his old arrogance but the corners of his mouth were soft. “You look good. Not as good as me. But close.” His thumb brushed your knuckles and his breathing steadied.

The ceremony passed like a seamless rush. His vows were too long, filled with swearing, filled with jokes that made the crowd laugh, and then heartfelt lines that made him bite his lip and look anywhere except your eyes for a moment because he almost cried. When he slid the ring on your finger and you slid yours onto his left hand, he let out the tiniest laugh of relief, almost disbelieving that the place he lost something once now held something new and permanent.

The officiant told you both to kiss. Chad pulled you close with two hands that held nothing back.

The after party was... something in the nicest way possible. Chad never left your side for more than a minute, always touching your arm or leaning close to say something dirty in your ear when nobody was listening, not caring who was watching, just loud and proud and yours. He lifted your hand to kiss the new ring four times in one hour and announced loudly across the room, “Look everyone, left hand. Still got all the fingers. The sexy one married me. W fucking.”

Prism found you later that night leaning against the balcony railing while Chad was downstairs bragging to the rest of the team about how he “bagged the hottest man alive.” She was drunk enough to wobble a little when she reached you, but still glamorous enough to look like she was doing it on purpose.

“He is so happy,” she said, clutching your arm. “Like I have never seen him that happy. It is disgusting. I love it.”

You laughed and she got sentimental the way only drunk Prism ever did. She leaned her forehead against your shoulder for a moment.

“You need to know something,” she said. “He thinks you fixed him. You didn’t. He fixed himself because he wanted to be someone who deserved you.” She looked up at you with a tired smile. “But you were the reason he tried.”

Before you could say anything, Chad spotted you from across the room and waved his hand in the air like he was showing off a trophy. Prism let out a loud emotional sound that definitely came from the champagne and shoved you in his direction.

“Go,” she slurred. “Your idiot husband is calling you.”

You went. Chad grabbed you by the waist as soon as you reached him, pulled you into his lap despite the very nice chair not being meant for two people, kissed your neck, and then whispered in your ear with a raw, unfiltered honesty he usually hid.

“I am so fucking glad it is you.”

He pressed his forehead against yours and you felt his whole body relax, like he had been waiting his entire life for something that finally happened.

He held your hand again, admiring the ring on your finger, and without letting go, he murmured with a small satisfied smile.

And he never let go for the rest of the night.

[vacate-et-scire]

≡;- ꒰ LIGHTS OUT ,-° ꒱

Flambae x male reader

🌟: He is sooo my favourite from the beginning of the game

The first thing you noticed was the silence. The fridge cut out, the AC stopped humming, and the TV died with a little soft pop. Then everything went dark.

Chad, your boyfriend of several gruelling years, groaned in the living room, having just had a movie be interrupted. “City sucks. Told you they can’t keep the lights on for shit.” You were already standing, patting the wall uselessly. “Relax. We'll find candles.”

“Oh yeah. Excellent plan, babe. Let me just use my night vision.” He waved his hands around blindly. “Oh wait. I do not fucking have that.”

You snorted and used your phone flashlight to dig through the cabinet in the hallway. You flicked through a stack of shit that had been sitting there forever: cleaning stuff, old batteries, random receipts. At the bottom was a dusty photo album next to the box of candles. You hesitated. Then grabbed both.

“Light these for me?” You set the candles down.

His annoyance faded just a bit. “Finally. A request that uses my god given talent.” He raised his hand, snapped his fingers, and a small flame sparked in his palm. He brought it to the candle wicks one by one, slow on purpose because he knew you were watching. He was always showing off, even when the audience was only you.

Chad rolled his eyes at his own soft reaction. “Great. Now it looks like a shitty date night.” He leaned back a little.

You lifted the photo album. “Found this too.”

His eyes narrowed. “What is that?”

“Us.” You opened to a page and laughed before I could stop myself. There you two were. Stupid hair. Worse clothes. Teenage years that should never be seen by the human eye.

Chad grabbed the book faster than you could flip the page. “Look at us. Idiots.” His voice held that rough edge that tried too hard to sound unaffected.

“Speak for yourself. I was hot,”

He scoffed. “Yeah. A hot mess.” He stared at one picture. You two were shoulder to shoulder, smirking like we owned the world. His smile softened before he caught himself. “Fuck. I hate how cute we were.”

“Were?” You raised an eyebrow.

“Don’t get cocky.” He shoved my knee with his foot. “I am still the hottest one here. Obviously.”

“Obviously.”

He laughed. Loud. Real. Then he flicked to the next picture. It was him, alone, leaning against a shitty brick wall with a cigarette in his mouth, middle finger to the camera. He tapped the photo with a pride that looked stupidly sincere. “Peak male performance. Fucking incredible specimen.” "Sureeeeee"

He winked. “,You loved that stupid look. You told me I looked sick.”

“I said you looked sick because you nearly coughed up a lung after smoking that.”

“Still looked sick.” He pointed to another photo. “Remember this? You tripped and shoved your face in that cake. Funniest day of my life.”

You shook your head, hiding a smile. “You pushed me.”

“Details,” he muttered. He leaned his shoulder against your. “If the power stays out, we can keep laughing at our past. I mean, it is not like we are going anywhere.”

“I like this actually,” You said quietly. "of course you do, you're with me"

You rolled your eyes. “I don’t know how anyone put up with you.”

“You did.” He did not say it as a joke. Not at first.

You went silent for a moment, staring at the album. Years of bullshit. Years of fights. Years of figuring it out. Chad broke the quiet before it got too serious.

“Bet you fell in love with me right here,” he said, pointing at another picture where he had his arm around your shoulders and was flipping someone off again, you looked like just two average teenage boys. “The moment I touched you. You thought, wow, this guy is unbelievable.”

“I thought you were a total jerk.”

He sat back against the cushions. “And you loved it.”

His cocky expression faded slightly. Not gone. Just softened. The candlelight caught on his eyes. He looked at you the same way he used to look at trouble when he was younger. Like he wanted to get involved.

“You know,” he said quietly, “this is actually kinda romantic... Jokes aside”

You barked a laugh to break the tension. “Yeah, sure... all our food in the fridge is gonna spoil... super romantic”

He rolled his eyes but there was a smile in it. "Don’t start"

He closed the album and slid it onto the coffee table. Then he leaned toward you. “Still. Not bad.”

“What?”

“This. The candles. The quiet. You and me. Not bad.”

You swallowed. “Yeah. Not bad.”

He nudged your thigh with his knee. “You’re not telling anybody though, if anyone asks, I hated every second. I was bored. I was miserable. I wanted to go commit crimes.”

“You’re a hero now, you don't do that anymore.”

“Yeah. And it sucks.” He hooked his arm around your neck and pulled you into his chest like it was the most natural thing in the world. “But I guess the retirement plan isn’t bad.”

“You mean dating me.”

He pressed a quick kiss to your jaw. “I mean having my handsome boyfriend to come home to.”

You turned your head and kissed him properly. Slow. The candles flickered. The room stayed dark except where the two of you sat.

He smirked when you pulled back. “See. Power outage was the best thing that ever happened to you.”

“Shut up.”

He grinned like he won something. “No. You shut up.” Then he kissed you again.

[vacate-et-scire]

Feminine urge to cover myself in Vaseline before I shower

[vacate-et-scire]

I don't do this anymore btw guys....

[vacate-et-scire]

Heyyyy everyone, the books coming along great, updates on drabbles and fics here are going pretty slow because I ended up rewriting my entire book so I'm back on ch.4, hopefully I will start posting again on here but for now I am focusing on my work. I plan on posting the rough draft of my book here and on AO3 (if my house burns down I will delete my AO3 account)

love yall feel free to send in any reqs you want, they're open <3

[vacate-et-scire]

The Only Way Out - ENDING ONE [ROMANTIC]

If you're finding this on its own, this is part of a series, and please start at here <3

Morning drifts into the safe-house in timid strands of light, pooling across the dust-dulled floorboards and brushing the walls a pale gold. You wake first, legs folded beneath you on a couch that still smells faintly of gun-oil and yesterday’s adrenaline. Jason is slumped against the opposite armrest, one boot kicked off, brow eased in a sleep so deep it looks borrowed—like something he doesn’t quite remember how to own. For a long, private moment you study the quiet curve of his mouth and decide you’ve never really seen him asleep before, only unconscious: stitched-up, fevered, edged by nightmares. This is different. This is peace trying to take root.

When he stirs, his hand ghosts toward his holster out of habit before he remembers where he is—who he’s with. His eyes find yours, red-rimmed but warm, and the corner of his mouth lifts in something shy of a smile. Neither of you speaks; there is no hurry today, no siren in the distance pressing against the lungs of the city. Just the hush of two hearts that beat a little steadier in each other’s orbit.

Eventually you rise, padding across the room to put water on the stove. The kettle clicks; a soft, domestic sound that feels scandalous in a safe-house built for last stands. Behind you, Jason sits up, rubbing a hand across the scar that splits his hairline. He should look out of place here—he’s all leather and residual danger—but somehow the picture settles: bruised knuckles curled around a chipped mug, bare feet on cold parquet, the world narrowed to steam and silence.

“Should get you home today,” he murmurs after a stretch of quiet.

You turn, mug paused halfway to your lips. Home. The word blooms and aches in the same breath. “And you?”

He shrugs, gaze dipping to the tea swirling in his cup. “You know me. Can’t stay in one place too long.”

“Is that what you want,” you ask, gentler than it feels, “or what you’ve convinced yourself you deserve?”

The question lands between you, soft but seismic. Jason lets it rip through him without flinching; you can almost see the gears behind his eyes grinding against old, rusted convictions. When he finally looks up, there is a raw clarity there—exposed wiring, fragile and bright.

“What I want,” he says, voice rough with honesty, “is to keep waking up where you are and not have the sky fall because of it.”

Your pulse stumbles. The kettle whistles, sharp and startling, but neither of you moves to silence it. Instead Jason sets his cup down, stands, and crosses the room until there is no good reason to keep your hands from finding each other. He doesn’t touch you yet, only hovers, as though granting you the power to veto gravity itself. You reach first, fingers sliding into the space between his, and feel something unclench in both your chests.

“I don’t need a perfect version of you,” you whisper. “I just need the one who keeps choosing to come back.”

He exhales, a tremor of relief and fear mingled. “Then let me try staying.”

The city shifts beyond the thick curtains: car engines, distant birds, an ordinary Wednesday dressed in crime and coffee. It will keep spinning whether or not Jason Todd decides to stand still, but right here, in the hush of this hidden room, he decides anyway. The promise is not sealed with grand declarations or desperate kisses; instead he leans in, presses his forehead to yours, and closes his eyes—a vow made in the soft currency of nearness. You stay like that until the kettle’s cry fades into a quiet sputter, until the chill of the floor seeps through your socks, until the fear that once dictated every movement loosens its grip and slips away like night retreating from dawn.

When you finally gather your things, he moves around you with a care that feels reverent, sliding weapons into holsters, double-checking every lock, every sightline, but there’s a lightness braided through the choreography now. His hand finds the small of your back as you step outside, guiding you down the stairwell, and once on the street you realize he is walking at your pace—not half a stride ahead, scouting threats, but beside you. Together.

You return to the apartment near dusk. The window he abandoned days ago is still cracked open, curtain fluttering like a white flag. He pauses beneath it, fingertips brushing the sill.

“Gonna have to find a front-door key,” he says, voice wry and soft.

You smile. “We’ll get you one.”

He steps into the familiar room and for the first time doesn’t look as though he’s already leaving. Instead he shoulders off his jacket, drapes it on the back of your kitchen chair, and lets the quiet settle. There are no more words necessary tonight; the air is thick with them already. You straighten the cushions, he flips the deadbolt, and nothing about the motions is small. They are declarations in disguise, louder than any confession.

Later, when darkness folds the city into itself, you lie awake listening to the twin rhythms of breath—his on the couch, yours in the bedroom. The space between is not a gulf anymore; it is a hallway you can cross whenever you’re ready. And just as your eyes slip closed, you hear the soft scrape of blankets, a quiet curse, then the faintest creak of the floorboard outside your door. You smile into the pillow. He doesn’t have to knock; you already left the door ajar.

Outside, Gotham mutters and growls, unconcerned with promises or second chances. Inside, Jason pauses in the threshold, caught in the hush of a choice he’s finally willing to make. He steps through, the door stays open, and for the first time since you met him, you both let morning belong to tomorrow.

[vacate-et-scire]

Back to the Window

If you're finding this on its own, this is part of a series, and please start at here <3

He starts moving like he used to again.

The limp fades. The bruises shrink and vanish beneath his shirt. The bandages don’t need changing anymore. He still winces when he stretches too far, but he stops flinching when you brush against him in the kitchen.

That’s when you know he’s getting ready to leave.

It happens in the quiet moments — reorganizing his gear, checking your fire escape at night, leaving his boots just a little closer to the door each day. He never says it out loud. He doesn’t have to. You can feel it in the air between you — taut, careful, almost fragile.

And still, you don’t ask him to stay.

Not really.

It’s a Tuesday when he lingers too long at the window.

He’s dressed like he’s halfway out the door — mask off, jacket zipped, gloved hands twitching at his sides like his body’s already decided, even if the rest of him hasn’t caught up. The window’s cracked open, the night air curling into your apartment like smoke.

You watch him from the kitchen, heart half-caught in your throat.

Jason doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak.

Then, like it’s costing him something, he turns to you.

“Thanks,” he says. “For all of it.”

It should be enough. But it’s not.

You lean back against the counter, arms crossed — not defensive, not quite. Just tired. “Is that supposed to be goodbye?”

Jason blinks.

“I didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t have to.”

There’s a beat of silence. The kind that stretches too long, like a held breath that never gets released.

He tilts his head. “You mad at me?”

You scoff. “Why would I be mad?”

“I don’t know. You tell me.”

His tone’s not sharp, but it’s tight — tight in that way he gets when he's expecting a hit, or bracing for disappointment he swears he doesn’t care about. You hate when he does that.

You push away from the counter, pacing now — half to move, half to keep from saying something worse.

“I just think it’s funny,” you mutter, “how you come here bleeding, stay long enough to stitch yourself back together, and then vanish again the second you feel steady on your feet.”

Jason’s jaw sets. “So what, I’m freeloading now?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t have to.”

That stings. Not because he’s wrong — but because you did mean it, a little. And because he knows you meant it.

“I’m not your problem, alright?” he adds, more defensively now. “I didn’t ask you to patch me up. I didn’t ask for any of this.”

“No,” you say softly. “You just keep showing up like you did.”

The words hang in the air like smoke. He shifts his weight, something colder sliding behind his eyes.

“Right,” he says, almost like it’s a curse. “Won’t happen again.”

You look away first.

He doesn’t say goodbye.

By the time you glance back, the window’s empty.

Gone.

He’s gone for five days. No calls, no texts, not even one of those half-assed notes he sometimes leaves behind like a poor man’s apology. Just gone. You tell yourself it’s fine — this is what he does, what he’s always done.

He shows up, broken and bruised, carves out space in your apartment like he owns it, then disappears the moment he can walk without limping. This is the pattern. You knew that from the beginning. You just didn’t realize how loud the silence would feel after.

You’re still convincing yourself that letting him leave was the right choice when someone breaks into your apartment.

It happens fast. The sound of glass shattering yanks you out of sleep, followed by boots pounding across hardwood and the rough sting of a hand yanking you upright by the collar. You don’t have time to think — just act. You fight back. Not gracefully, not with precision, but with desperation. Clumsy elbows, kicks, clawed fingers — anything to make them stumble. You don’t know how many there are. Two, maybe three. They smell like smoke and old leather, and one of them grabs your face and hisses, “Should’ve thought twice before cozying up to Red Hood.”

You don’t remember how it ends. Just the chaos, the sharp smack of your head against the wall, the world tipping sideways. Someone must’ve called him. Maybe it was you. Maybe you blacked out halfway through and he was already watching, already on his way, because when you open your eyes again — mouth bleeding, shoulder throbbing, limbs trembling — he’s already there.

You try to sit up, try to say something, anything, but he’s crouched beside you in an instant, checking your pulse, your pupils, the bruises on your neck with hands that won’t stop shaking.

Jason had stormed through your door like a loaded weapon there's a scuffle and next thing you know you're outside you're apartment, everything blurred together.

“Get in.”

“Jason, I’m—”

“Get in the damn car.”

His voice is low. It scrapes like gravel, all tension and panic hidden under a thin layer of anger. He doesn’t yell, but it’s worse than yelling — it’s cold. It’s controlled. The kind of cold that makes you realize he’s furious not at you, but at himself. And maybe the world. And definitely whoever left blood on your floor.

You don’t argue. You get in the car. It took you a moment to even realize it was your car he was driving. How did he get your keys? Doesn't matter.

The drive is quiet, tense. His grip on the wheel is white-knuckled, and his jaw clenches so tight you can see the muscle tick in his cheek. He doesn’t look at you once. Doesn’t speak. Just drives like he’s being chased by something he can’t fight. You don’t know where you’re going until the car slows in front of a nondescript building tucked into the corner of a dead-end street — one of the countless safehouses he never talks about, the ones he probably thinks you’re better off not knowing.

He ushers you inside without a word. Draws the curtains. Locks four different deadbolts. Checks every window, every shadow. You sit on the couch and watch him pace, still bleeding from your lip.

“I’m fine,” you say, your voice soft.

He doesn’t stop pacing. “You could’ve been killed.”

That hangs in the air like smoke. You flinch. He finally stops moving, but he still won’t look at you.

“I’m fine,” you repeat, more firmly this time.

He laughs once — bitter and humorless. “Don’t do that.”

The silence that follows isn’t warm, like the ones you used to share back at your apartment. This one itches. It bites at your skin. It’s full of everything you haven’t said, everything you’re too scared to say now.

You rise from the couch. He stiffens.

“Why do you keep coming back?”

He doesn’t answer.

“When you leave like that,” you say slowly, carefully, “it’s like none of it mattered. Like I didn’t matter. You show up bleeding, sleep on my couch, let me clean you up, and then disappear the second you can stand on your own again. So what is this, Jason? Am I just a convenience to you?”

He turns to face you. His expression is unreadable, but something shifts behind his eyes — something sharp, something wounded.

“Don’t you dare do that,” he snaps. “Don’t twist it.”

Your voice rises. “Then tell me what it is!”

His hands are fists at his sides now. “You think I don’t want to stay? You think I don’t— Every time I leave, it’s because I’m trying to protect you. Because people like me don’t get to keep things that matter. We lose them. Or we destroy them.”

You shake your head, swallowing the ache in your throat. “Well clearly, I wasn’t any safer without you.”

That stops him cold. You see it land — the guilt, the realization. He looks at you like you just pulled a rug out from under him and he’s still figuring out how to hit the floor.

“I was attacked, Jason. In my own home. Because someone thought I meant something to you.”

His voice, when it comes, is barely audible. “You do.”

“What?”

His shoulders fall. His voice loses its edge. “You do mean something to me.”

He takes a step forward, slow like you might vanish if he moves too fast. “I come back because I can’t stay away. Because I hate myself less when I’m around you. Because when I’m bleeding and angry and messed up, you don’t look at me like I’m... I- I don't know how everyone else does.. Like I'm messed up- ruined.. always making the wrong angry decision without thinking-”

You blink. There’s too much noise in your head to think clearly.

“Then why leave?” you whisper.

“I didn’t think I deserved to stay.”

The silence stretches again, but this time it’s softer.

He sits beside you, like if he doesn’t, he might fall apart. His hand brushes yours. Just a graze. He doesn’t pull away. You don’t either.

You don’t kiss. You don’t confess. But you sit there on that awful couch in that anonymous safehouse, two bruised people sharing breath in the quiet, and it feels like something real is finally beginning.

Not loud. Not dramatic. But solid.

And maybe, this time, he won’t leave.

[vacate-et-scire]

welcome to heartbreak city, population: us.

If you're finding this on its own, this is part of a series, and please start at here <3

It’s been four days.

You check the window more often than you’d admit. Not because you’re worried. Not because you care. Just… force of habit. You always keep the couch clear. You restock the mustard he pretends to hate. You wash the spare sheets.

And then on the fourth night, you find the note.

It’s sitting on the kitchen counter, just inside the window. Folded once. Creased. You didn’t hear him come in. You didn’t see him leave it. Just:

“Didn’t want to wake you. Still alive. Don’t worry. —J”

That’s the whole thing.

You crumple it in your fist.

He comes back two nights later.

You wake up to the sound of coughing — real, ugly coughing — and when you walk into the living room, Jason’s already collapsed halfway onto the couch, bleeding through his shirt.

“Jesus— Jason.”

He tries to wave you off, but the motion sends him off-balance. You catch his arm before he hits the floor again. Up close, you see it: the split in his lip, the gash on his temple, the bruises that are too clean, too surgical. The kind of bruises that aren’t from a brawl — they’re from someone taking their time.

Your stomach twists.

“What the hell happened to you?”

“I’m fine.” His voice is rough. Not in the usual gravel way — stripped, like it was taken from him. “Just— got sloppy.”

“You don’t look fine.”

“You should see the other guy,” he rasps, like it’s a joke. But there’s no smile. Not even a flicker.

You help him sit, one hand braced against his chest, and you can feel him flinch before he masks it. There’s a long, fresh scar under his ribs — still seeping.

“Off,” you say, tugging at the edge of his shirt.

“Later.”

“Now.”

He caves under your tone. You peel the ruined shirt away carefully, and your throat tightens at what’s underneath: purple-black bruises around his wrists, lashes across his back like someone meant to make a point.

You go still.

“Jason.”

“Don’t.”

He doesn’t look at you. His hands curl into the cushions. His jaw’s locked tight. He looked like he was taut, a wire pulled tight.

You say his name again — quieter this time. And that’s when he closes his eyes and exhales, slow, like he’s trying not to crack in half.

“…It was him, wasn’t it?”

He doesn’t answer. But that's says enough. He'd spoke of his time when he was robin with you, how he'd been taken, tortured... died and came back. You didn't believe him at first, thought he was crazy, but the longer you've been around him the crazier things you've seen so you believe him.

You press a bandage a little too hard into his ribs.

He doesn’t flinch.

You don’t let him leave.

Not that night, not the next day, not the one after that.

The first time he tries — half-drunk on fever and painkillers, still limping, half his ribs wrapped in gauze — he makes it to the doorway before you’re standing in front of it, arms crossed, expression steel. He doesn’t say anything at first. Just stares at you like he’s trying to figure out if you’ll really stop him. Like maybe you’ll flinch. You don’t.

He mutters something about needing to check on something — vague, as always — but you just tilt your head toward the couch. Silent. Waiting.

And eventually, like a storm shifting just out of reach, he sighs and lets himself fall back into the cushions again, jaw clenched tight like surrender tastes bitter on his tongue.

The second time, he doesn’t get as far.

By the third, you’ve hidden his boots.

After that, he stops trying.

You put him on bed rest, or couch-rest, technically, though he treats it more like a sentence than a mercy. His gear stays piled near the window like a dog waiting to be let out. His jacket never makes it onto a hanger. And still, you make him tea in the morning and soup at night, carry ice packs to his aching joints like you aren’t terrified of how close he came to dying.

He rarely eats more than a few bites.

You never comment on it.

The bandages have to be changed twice a day. His body is healing, but slowly — bruises like ink spills crawling down his sides, the kind of wounds that weren’t meant to kill him, just punish. Your hands are steady when they press gauze to skin, but your breath never is. You work in silence, and he watches you the whole time, saying nothing.

At night, you leave the bathroom light on. Always have.

You turn off the rest of the apartment with slow, careful hands, make a little more noise than usual, so he knows where you are. So he doesn’t think you’ve left. You pull the door to your room half-closed, not shut. Not locked.

He thinks you’re asleep.

But you lie still on your side, one arm curled beneath your head, and listen.

The quiet cough first. Then the rustle of fabric, the small shift of weight on the sofa cushions. And then the nightmare hits — sudden and sharp, like something snapping inside his chest. His breathing stutters. He curses under his breath, too soft for anyone else to hear, the words tangled and ugly, like he’s trying to scrape them out of his lungs before they root deeper.

You can hear the scrape of his palms across his face. The sharp inhale. The silence after.

He cries — just once.

And it’s not loud. It’s not broken. It’s quiet in the worst kind of way, like he's trying to smother it with his own hands. You don’t move. Don’t breathe.

You stare at the wall until your eyes burn, fists twisted in your sheets.

And you don’t go to him.

But you want to

[vacate-et-scire]

TIMELINE - JASON TODD x READER

Synopsis: This is a little idea that popped into my head, this is a pick your ending fic by clicking on the links. You are able to get four separate endings depending on the choices you make, which are sadly limited because I didn't want to make this project any longer <3

The window’s open again.

That’s all the invitation he needs, not that he really ever waits for one. He never has, never will. No. Not with you

You don’t hear him land onto your floor. But the soft clatter of boots on wood, the quiet creak of your windowsill, the faint scrape of something metal against frame — those are sounds you’ve learned to recognize. They mean he’s home, or at least in your house, it's not his home.

Jason doesn’t say anything at first. He never does. Just stands there in your dim kitchen, the glow from the streetlight catching on the red of his helmet, making him look more machine than man.

Then he exhales.

“Don’t ask.”

His voice is low, gritty. Like it hurts to talk. Like it’s been a long night and for all you know it probably has been, when is it ever not a long night nowadays with the Joker out of Arkham again constantly needling at Jason's time.

The helmet comes off a second later, fingers tugging it loose like it’s a weight. You see the sweat-slick hair, the blood at the corner of his mouth, the bruises already blooming along his jaw, for everything that helmet does he still gets hurt. He doesn’t meet your eyes as he drops the helmet onto your counter, the sound dull, familiar.

“Food,” he mutters, already sinking into the sofa like he’s earned it, like it belongs to him now. His knuckles are raw — blood dark and sticky even through the tears in his gloves — and his shirt looks like it lost a fight with a switchblade. But he doesn’t look ashamed, you've certainly seen him worse, so it's almost hard to make him ashamed at this point.

“Make me a sandwich?”

You cross your arms, lean against the kitchen doorway. He's gotten awfully demanding lately, but you know there's pleading in his tone when he actually asks instead of just giving you one word to work from.

“You’re bleeding all over my couch.”

Jason tilts his head toward you, a lazy smirk threatening the corner of his mouth, but he can't seem to manage it right now.

“Yeah, but it’s a nice couch. Comfy. Great absorbency.”

You toss him a look that’s equal parts exhausted and concerned, but he’s already let his eyes fall shut. His head leans back against the cushion, exposing the long line of his throat — vulnerable, despite everything. His chest rises and falls like he’s been running for miles just to get here.

You don’t ask where he’s been. You’ve learned not to. It's just better that way, the one time you'd let him talk about what had happened in an attempt to comfort him, he'd gotten really awkward and excused himself, apparently the mission had been a personal one.

Instead, you move to the kitchen, hands already finding the bread, the jar of mustard he insists he hates but always finishes. Your movements are automatic now — a ritual born of habit, survival, unspoken trust. It’s not domestic. Not really. But it’s something.

He watches you from the couch, eyes half-lidded.

“Y’know,” he says, voice quieter now, “it’s weird. Every time I crawl through your window, it still feels like the first time.”

You glance at him over your shoulder, you don't exactly know what he means by 'the first time' so you just raise a brow waiting for him to explain.

He shrugs. “Guess I keep expecting you to lock it.”

You don’t answer.

By the time you hand him the sandwich, barely toasted, meat piled a little too high, the way he likes it, he’s sitting up, legs spread, elbows on knees. He takes it with a grunt of thanks, the silence stretching comfortably between you as he eats like he hasn’t all day. Maybe he hasn’t. He's always on the go when it comes to the rough patches like this

He finishes fast, wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. You catch the way his eyes flick to yours again, like he wants to say something. But he doesn’t. Of course he doesn’t.

Jason stands. You expect him to leave, maybe. But instead, he pulls off the outer layer of his brown leather jacket and drops it by the couch. He unclips his holster and sets it beside the helmet. Then he slumps back onto the cushions again, quieter this time.

You pause in the doorway, just watching him carefully.

“Are you staying?”

His eyes are already closed.

“…For a bit.”

He means yes.

You leave the bathroom light on for him anyway.

You think about waking him. About saying something you’ll regret. But instead, you just stand there in the dark, watching the slow rise and fall of his chest, wondering how many more nights like this you’ll let yourself have.

You don’t mean to fall asleep.

But the quiet hum of the city outside your window, the weight of the day behind you, and the fact that Jason is here, breathing the same air for once, pulls you under faster than you expect. You drift, curled under the thin sheet, the air a little too warm, the silence a little too sharp.

You wake to the sound of the floorboard near the window creaking.

It’s always that one. He knows it too, but it’s habit. Or maybe he just doesn’t care anymore.

Your eyes flick toward the hallway, your room still dim in the early hours. The light from the living room leaks under your door — faint, soft, but enough.

Jason’s silhouette shifts past the frame. You can hear the soft click of his gear, the slide of his jacket as he pulls it on. He moves slow, quiet. He’s trying not to wake you.

You stay still.

You don’t ask him where he’s going. You don’t call out. You don’t make it harder than it already is.

You just lie there — not blinking, not breathing — as he pushes open the window and disappears back into the dark.

You wait a minute after he’s gone. Then two.

Then you roll over, press your face into the pillow, and pretend like this doesn’t happen every time.

[vacate-et-scire]

🎤 𝐃𝐄𝐀𝐋 𝐖𝐈𝐓𝐇 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐃𝐄𝐀𝐃

You should’ve been on cloud nine.

The encore had gone perfectly. The lights, the fans, the trembling in your hands when you hit the final note—your note, the one critics called your “signature,” like it belonged to you. The screams afterward were deafening, flashing lights painting your vision white. Even the pain in your chest—tight, burning—had felt like something worth bleeding for.

But now it was quiet.

Too quiet.

No footsteps from the others. No stylists rushing in. Just the scent of sweat and hairspray still clinging to your skin, and the shattered compact mirror lying open on the makeup table, spiderweb cracks blooming from the centre like something had struck it too hard.

You didn’t remember dropping it.

And yet… there it was. And your reflection?

Gone.

Just black.

Like something had swallowed the glass whole.

Your throat dried as the temperature dropped—not subtle, not slow, but like stepping into a walk-in freezer. Your breath visibly curled from your lips, and somewhere in the back of your mind, the thought came:

He’s here.

You turned.

He stood in the far corner of the dressing room, half-shadowed, like he’d always belonged in the silence. A figure draped in flowing black, silk rippling though no wind touched him. His hat was pulled low over silver hair, but you could still see his eyes—glowing faintly, as if reflecting some unseen flame.

Not fire.

Not warmth.

More like the smoldering of funeral incense.

“…You,” you breathed, unsure why your voice didn’t shake more. “What are you?”

He tilted his head slowly, like a curious animal. His eyes never left yours. “Not quite a god. Not quite a ghost.”

Then, stepping forward, “Call me a Jinu Saja. Or call me the thing that answered.”

You tried to swallow, but your throat stayed locked. “Answered what?”

But you knew.

You remembered now. The words you’d whispered in the alley behind the venue weeks ago, hands bloodied from training blisters, back bruised from being shoved into place during choreography drills. You’d been crying. Furious. Scared.

“Just let us make it. Let us stay on top. Please—I’ll give anything. I swear.”

“I didn’t think anyone was listening,” you said quietly, voice hollow.

“I was,” he said. “And you meant it.”

He was in front of you now, too fast to follow. One moment across the room, the next—just there. You didn’t move, didn’t breathe, while his gloved hand reached up, gently brushing a strand of hair from your face.

“I don’t collect right away,” he murmured. “I’m not a monster. I let you taste it first. Let you enjoy the fruits of your desperation. The applause. The adoration.”

His fingers dipped, pressing lightly to the centre of your chest.

And gods—your heart stuttered.

“Then,” he said, voice lower now, as if meant only for you, “I come for what’s mine.”

You wanted to flinch. Run. Scream. But you didn’t.

He smelled like winter and old paper. Like rain on dry earth. He wasn’t warmth—but he wasn’t coldness either. He was something else.

Something ancient. And your body, traitorously, leaned toward him. “Will it hurt?” you whispered.

His smile was devastating. “No. Not for you.”

He leaned closer, and you could feel the pull of him, like gravity. “I’ll come for you gently.”

Then, he was gone.

The cold vanished. The lights flickered back on. And behind you, the mirror sat whole again, your reflection staring back at you like nothing had happened.

But it had.

You’d made a deal.

And now—he was watching.

[vacate-et-scire]

“Again?!” – Part 1

Tony Stark x Civilian!Reader

Synopsis: You spilled your drink on a stranger. Then you Googled him.

Warnings: [None I hope, pure fluff and kinda awkward situations] [foriegn reader you are not from the states in this <3] [fem reader]

w.c 1.8k

You’re gonna be late.

Not fashionably, not charmingly. Actually late.

You’d planned to be early. You needed to be early. Your first day at your first job since landing in the country—everything about it made your heart pound a little too fast. You’d practiced your introduction three times in the mirror this morning, brushed imaginary lint off your blazer until it pilled. You couldn’t afford to look like a mess. Not today. Not when you’re already nervous that every mistake you make will be noticed harder, judged faster, weighed heavier.

You don’t want to be the immigrant they talk about behind closed doors. You want to be invisible. Or better: impressive.

But no. Your subway stalled, your walking directions turned you in a circle, and now, to top it all off, your English is trying to abandon you under pressure.

You shove into the nearest café, praying the line is short. It’s not.

You order fast. “Matcha, cold, uh—ice. Please. Tall. I mean… medium?”

You’re not even sure what you just said, but the barista takes your card and you move to the pickup counter, clutching your phone with the directions still open. 9:12 a.m. You need to be in the building by 9:30. It's a ten-minute walk. You're cutting it close.

So when your name is called, you grab the cup too fast. Turn too sharply. And crash right into someone waiting behind you.

The drink goes flying.

The ice arcs like shrapnel. Matcha explodes across an expensive grey button-up, dripping down in streaks of soft green horror.

You freeze.

“Oh no,” you blurt, already lunging for napkins. “I didn’t—oh god, I didn’t see, I wasn’t—!”

The man takes a stunned step back, blinking down at himself. The drink has fully committed to soaking him. There's a single cube of ice clinging to his collarbone like a final insult.

You reach out helplessly with a napkin, then freeze halfway, not wanting to actually… touch him. Not now. Not like this.

“I’m sorry,” you say, too quickly. “I am late, I—first day, new job, I was not—my hand slipped, but I pay for shirt, I clean, please don’t—don’t be mad.”

Your words trip and tangle with your accent. You hate how it makes you sound so unsure.

To your shock, the man doesn’t yell. Doesn’t flinch. In fact, his mouth quirks upward like this is funny. Like this—you—are funny.

“Well,” he says, shaking out the front of his shirt like he does this sort of thing on the regular. “That’s one way to make a first impression.”

You flush. “Please don’t be angry. I don’t want to lose my job. I already… it’s already hard.”

His eyebrows tick upward. The grin softens.

“I’m not angry,” he says. “Trust me, I’ve had worse mornings.”

You frown. “You are… very calm.”

“Yeah, well. You look like you might actually cry,” he says, tilting his head. “Didn’t want to risk making you the one who ends up comforting me.”

You let out a helpless, mortified little noise and try to mop a bit of matcha off the counter. “This is so bad. I am so late now. I was trying to be professional.”

“Mm. How’s that going?”

You glare at him, but there’s no heat in it. “I will cry. Don’t test me.”

He laughs at that. It’s warm. Easy. The kind of laugh that makes you feel like you’ve already won something just by making it happen.

You glance at the barista, who’s biting her lip behind the counter, eyes darting between the two of you like she’s watching a scene from a romcom.

“Here,” she says finally, sliding a fresh matcha toward you. “No charge. And… maybe next time don’t drink and drive.”

“That is not funny,” you mutter, cheeks burning.

The man takes the extra napkins she offers and dabs at his shirt without much concern. You watch a splotch of green sink deeper into his lapel.

“I’ll live,” he says. “Though if I turn into the Hulk, I expect a formal apology.”

You furrow your brow. “That’s not how Hulk works.”

He pauses. Grins. “You’d be surprised how often I hear that.”

You don’t have time to ask what that means. Your phone buzzes in your hand: 9:17 a.m.

You curse under your breath and look up at him one last time, guilt gnawing at your stomach.

“I really am sorry,” you say again. “You were just… standing there. I wasn’t watching. It’s my fault.”

He shrugs, stuffing soggy napkins into a nearby trash bin. “You were in a rush. I get it. Maybe I should’ve worn green.”

You smile, despite yourself. “Thank you. For not yelling. Or suing.”

“Maybe I’ll save it for next time.”

“There will not be a next time.”

He just hums. Like he knows something you don’t.

And before you can ask his name—or offer yours—he waves a lazy hand and slips out the door, sunglasses already on, like this was all just another Tuesday.

You're left with your second drink, a ruined timeline, and a weird buzzing in your chest like the day just veered off script.

The second time you see him, your heart doesn’t race.

It stops.

You’re halfway out the same café—new drink clutched in hand, head down, feet steady—when someone steps aside to hold the door for you. You glance up.

It’s him.

No spilled drink this time. No crowd. Just him. Crisp charcoal suit, clean today. Casual expression. That same slightly lazy posture, like he has nowhere urgent to be despite the fact that he’s clearly the kind of man who always has somewhere important to be.

You freeze.

For a second, you consider backing away and pretending you forgot something. Or leaving the drink behind. Or vanishing.

But he speaks first.

“You made it to work alright, then?” he asks.

His voice is calm. Dry, but not mocking. Like it’s a question he genuinely wanted to ask, even if he didn’t expect to get the chance.

You nod once, too quickly. “Yes. I was… not too late.”

“That’s good,” he says. “Didn’t want to ruin your first day. That’d be a hell of a reputation to start with. ‘Green-shirt girl who cries and runs.’”

You don’t laugh. You barely even breathe. Not because you’re panicking—more because your body is trying to figure out what the right emotion is. Embarrassment? Suspicion? Wariness?

You settle on something closer to cautious politeness.

“I didn’t catch your name,” you say quietly, shifting your weight.

He reaches for his drink from the counter behind you, then glances back. “Tony.”

You nod. “Nice to meet you.”

“You too,” he says. And that’s it. He gives you a small nod, steps aside, and lets you walk past him like you’re strangers again.

You exit the café like a normal person. Even wave a little, because you’re trying to seem polite. Calm. Unbothered.

It works—until you get halfway down the block, and the name Tony sticks in your head like a splinter.

Tony.

Something about it itches at your memory. Not the name itself. Him. His tone. His face. The way people had been glancing at him inside the café. That weird moment when the barista caught your eye and gave you a look—like how does she not know who that is.

You walk faster.

You wait until you’re inside the breakroom at your new job, alone, your paper cup sweating in your hands, and then you unlock your phone. Open a browser. Type just Tony —then delete it, realizing how stupid that is.

You try again.

Tony suit glasses goatee.

You scroll. Nothing.

You bite your lip.

Then finally, you try what you should’ve started with:

Tony New York.

You were expecting some lawyer. A CEO. Maybe an author. Something mild.

What you get is headlines. Dozens. Articles. Photos. Entire pages of search results that feel like someone just grabbed the edges of your reality and tugged.

"Tony Stark Re-Emerges at Stark Industries Gala""IRON MAN Makes Surprise Statement on Midtown Innovation Project""Billionaire, Philanthropist, Superhero—and Now, Bachelor Again?"

You scroll. Scroll again. Then stop.

There’s a picture.

It’s him.

It’s him.

Wearing a different suit, yes—but the same face, same smirk, same stupidly expensive sunglasses perched in his hair.

Your chest feels tight. Not like fear. More like… the ground moved, and now you’re not sure where your feet are.

You remember holding a crumpled napkin out to him like a child.

You remember telling him you didn’t want to lose your job. That it was already hard.

You remember offering to pay for his shirt which was probably worth more than your years worth salary.

You lock your phone and stare at the wall for a full sixty seconds.

You walked away from Tony Stark like he was just some annoying guy in your way.

You wonder if this is the kind of story people laugh about at parties—"this one time, some foreign girl dumped matcha on Tony Stark and didn’t even recognize him."

You wonder if he's told anyone yet.

And across town—

Tony is lying on a sleek leather couch, changed into a new shirt, and grinning like a man who just had a religious experience.

He has no idea what your name is. No way to find you. And that is, frankly, unacceptable.

“You should’ve seen her, F.R.I.D.A.Y.,” he says, tossing a balled-up napkin into the trash across the room. “Didn’t know who I was. At all. Looked me dead in the face like I was just another guy.”

“Unthinkable,” the AI deadpans.

“And then the drink!” he says, raising his hands up up like it was a magical moment. “Most people notice me before running into me head on and making a mess.”

“She seemed… distressed.”

“She was honest,” Tony says, pointing. “You know how rare that is? No fawning. No social climbing. Just genuine gult. I haven’t seen that in years.”

“She did say she didn’t want to lose her job. Perhaps you should let her go.”

“Oh no. ” Tony leans back again, fingers steepled.

“What would you like me to do?”

Tony taps his temple. “Find her.”

F.R.I.D.A.Y. hums in a way that sounds suspiciously like disapproval. “You don’t even know her name.”

“She bought a matcha. Around 9:15 a.m. from that coffee shop on 43rd. Cross-check her transaction with security footage. Filter for panicked young women with very good hair and poor aim.”

“You’re really doing this?”

“Listen,” he says, folding his hands over his stomach. “You get doused in iced green sludge and walk away with a crush," He says the word mockingly childish "You ignore the universe. I’m not that guy.”

He doesn’t say it out loud, but he’s thinking it: She didn’t look at me like Iron Man. Or someone to suck up to. She looked at me like a mess...She was kinda right.. very right.

And he wants more of that.

To Be Continued…?

[vacate-et-scire]

hiya, i’m really sorry to bother with asking this, but are you alright with minors interacting with non-18+ posts? i know in your bio it says mdni but i really like your fluff writing (◞‸ ◟ᵕ)

Hello sorry for that late reply work has been kicking my butt, but ofc you can interact, I mainly post fluff and the mdni in my bio is just to warn about the few nsfw things I have posted <3

This of course applies to anyone who was wondering, I do not enforce the mdni it's simply there, so people are aware of the nsfw themes on my blog!!!

[vacate-et-scire]

The sheets are damp when you wake. Not from you.

You blink slowly, eyes adjusting to the blue-gray shadows pooling in the corners of the room. There’s no sound, but your body knows. You reach across the bed and find only cold.

Then, the creak of the floorboards—bare feet pacing. A whisper of movement near the window.

He’s standing there, half-silhouetted by moonlight, back tense and unmoving. The kind of stillness that comes from holding something in.

“Bucky?”

He flinches. Doesn’t look at you.

You sit up, blankets pooling at your waist. “Same thing again?”

His jaw twitches along with his hand.

You wait.

It takes a moment, but he turns just enough for the light to catch his face. Hair mussed. Eyes wet along with his lashes but he wasn't crying. Sweat still glistening at his hairline.

“I shouldnt’ve…” He starts. Shakes his head. “…shouldn’t be here.”

Your brows pull. “Why?”

He stares past you. Not at you. Through you. “It’s not safe.. I'm not-”

You get up quietly, steps soft against the wooden cold floor as the rain pattered outside quickly against the window.

“I woke up thinking I’d—” His voice cracks. “That I’d done something to you.”

“You didn’t.”

“I could’ve.”

There’s coldness in his voice, but it’s not aimed at you. It’s curled inward, barbed and venomous. You reach out—slow, like you’re taming something skittish. Your fingers brush his forearm, cool metal under your touch.

“I’ve killed people,” he says. Barely above a whisper. “Good ones.”

You don’t pull away. Your thumb traces the seam where skin meets metal. "I know.."

His gaze finally meets yours. And it’s not a look meant for comfort. It’s a warning. A plea.

“I could hurt you without even knowing it.”

You step in closer.

“You haven’t,” you say.

His breathing stutters. “Not yet.”

And that’s the heart of it, isn’t it? Not guilt over what he’s done. Fear of what he might do. Not remembering the nightmare—believing it.

You wrap your arms around him. His shoulders stay rigid.

“Bucky,” you say gently, forehead to his chest, “if you were going to hurt me, you wouldn’t be standing here trying not to breathe too loud.”

He doesn’t move. But something flickers.

“You think I deserve someone like you?”

That gets you.

You pull back enough to look at him. “I don’t want someone perfect, Bucky. I want someone who chooses to be better. Even when it’s hard. Even when it hurts. I want someone good, I want you.”

You reach for his hand—flesh and bone this time—and press it to your cheek. “You’re not your nightmares.”

He doesn’t say anything. But his thumb moves. Barely. Soft as breath.

“I should sleep on the couch,” he mutters.

“No.”

His eyes widen slightly as he paused to stare.

“You’re not pushing me away because of something that hasn't even happened,” you say, tugging him gently toward the bed. “And I’m not letting you fall asleep alone with that thought in your head.”

He lets you.

No more words. Just the weight of him sinking in beside you. The way he tenses when you curl into him, then slowly—painfully—relaxes. The sound of his breathing evening out, not quite steady, but close.

You don’t sleep, not for a while. You just stay awake. Letting him sleep first, making sure you didn't fall back asleep while he laid there struggling. So you waited till he drifted off before closing your own eyes.

[vacate-et-scire]

Sorry everyone I've been GONE off the face of this earth, I started writing an actual book!!!!! I'm going to publish it!!!! YAY!!!!!! But I will come back home to fanfiction and drabbles soon because tumblr is my baby momma of writing and I can't leave without paying child support in the form of emotional income tax

[vacate-et-scire]

JUST A BITE

You learned quickly that Bucky Barnes had the tastebuds of a man who’d survived decades of rationed food and army chow—because he could eat anything. And not just anything… but pain. Pure, fiery, tear-inducing, sweat-on-your-brow spice.

You, on the other hand, would combust at a medium salsa.

The first time you’d gone out to eat together, he’d asked if you wanted to try a bite of his dish. You’d said yes, stupidly trusting. And when you took a mouthful of his flaming Thai curry, it was like your soul left your body for a moment.

Tears streaming, hiccuping, you’d waved wildly at him while gulping water, and all he’d done was laugh. That rare, deep laugh that lit up his entire face and made your heart flutter despite the actual hell in your mouth.

From then on, it became a silent agreement. You’d order something gentle—creamy, sweet, or mild. He’d get something that could probably strip paint. And no matter what, halfway through the meal, you’d each push your plates halfway across the table.

“Wanna trade a bite?” he’d ask casually, like this wasn’t a weekly ritual by now.

You’d glare at him every time. “One bite. One. And a small one.”

He’d just grin, breaking off a piece of your naan or scooping a bit of your pasta with practiced ease. You’d do the same, trying to find a pocket of his dish that didn’t look lava-adjacent. You never succeeded.

Tonight was no different. You were at a cozy little Indian place you’d both grown fond of. You had your creamy butter chicken with fluffy rice, and Bucky had some devil-red vindaloo that made the air around it spicy.

You exchanged bites like clockwork.

He hummed happily when he tasted yours. “God, how is this so good?”

“Because you can taste it,” you countered, taking the tiniest possible bite of his. “Oh my god—nope, still evil. Still so evil.” You grabbed your mango lassi like it was holy water.

He snorted into his water glass. “You’re so dramatic.”

“You’re a spice masochist.”

“Maybe I just like flavour, doll.”

“That isn’t flavour.. it's... it's- I dunno but it hurts”

Still, you tried it. You always tried it. Because for some reason, part of you loved the way he smiled when you did. Like he was in on a private joke with you. Like he liked knowing you’d brave the fire for him, even if it made your nose run.

And maybe… you liked feeding him a bite of yours, too. Watching his eyes flutter shut just a little at the sweetness, the softness of it.