#patch headers

[sokouku]

if youre the risk, im gonna take it

[moe-broey]

Okay, I was almost tempted to make a poll, but. As fun as it is as an idea (yay! Group participation!), I think I already made my choice and didn't wanna disappoint anyone if I didn't pick the winning option LMFAO

So, instead, I just wanna walk you through my thought process! Book 3 is approaching, for my quotes blogs specifically I mean. This means I have to set up the evil-alfonse-quotes -- I mean, Lif quotes blog. For the Bit.

For Alfonse and Sharena, I picked out some FEH comic illusts that I think represent them well. Both of them being silly and sweet w Kiran on the header, and the icons! I wanted to capture them each, on a few dif fronts.

Like! Those are my friends! I know them! Alfonse, with an award winning sincere smile, but also! Putting on a good face. Best foot forward. He has an appearance to keep. He's also very charming! As for Sharena! OH THERE ARE SO MANY GOOD SHARENAS TO PICK FROM. You can take that same angle -- award winning smile, best foot forward, to the MAX with her. But!!! Out of all of the choices I could go with... this icon feels like something she would pick herself. It's silly, it's playful, it's cute! Even the more chibi style suits her perfectly, esp in contrast to Alfonse's look.

Okay! So, back to Lif. I already have the idea of making what I lovingly call the Askr Extended Family Photo Comic the header. Where Lif is spotted shuffling behind Gustav, in the background. It is just. EXTREMELY funny, to me. He's a fucking cryptid, to me. Rare Lif Sighting. And APPARENTLY. YEAH. RARE LIF SIGHTING FOR FUCKING REAL. As far as I know, dude has only shown up in THREE Day in the Life comics, including that one. Damn. Okay!

I did not know how dire the situation was, going into this. So I'm scouring the website and also looking through an archive. I have the header, but I need an icon! I come out with a grand total of... three. Options.

I gravitate towards this option first. Rare Lif, so early on it's not on the site (I could be wrong, but also I did flip through all the way back til I couldn't anymore! Cuts off on a Ranulf and Lethe centric comic). Okay, so, what's the deal here? Should be simple? Easy, done? Well... while it's a very nice illustration of him. He looks cool, brooding, threatening. It's a little... stiff. Like, I might as well pull from his in-game art! Which is ALSO really good, but, not what I'm aiming for. It's hard to explain, but art created for specific purposes has different vibes. You know. In-game art is meant to showcase The Art, and the best features of the character. Comic illustrations can get sillier! Or can focus on more personality based things. And capturing the personality, is what I'm going for! Also... because it's a rare Lif, and bc of the way this illust is drawn... it's not immediately clear this is a FEH comic panel. It might not even be clear that it's official artwork. As an artist myself, I'd prefer to stick to clearly official work for this! I don't want any confusion or concerns about uncredited art!

NEXT. I literally only have one other comic to pull from, now. And... Okay, hear me out. I love silly-ifying this man. I love goofing on this absolute DRAMA queen of a man. I love poking fun at him at every opportunity. There is a Reason why I named the blog something stupid instead of being straightforward. HOWEVER. While this is a fun, silly moment..... it just doesn't capture him in his entirety, you know? In fact, I'd argue this is a rare moment where he's directly contradicting his dark, brooding and tortured persona he's so carefully crafted (and well, the natural bits of it too. That came with The Trauma). To me, esp in the full context of him and Thrasir saying "Our work here is Done" Tuxedo Mask style, dumping the rest of the workload (of which, to be fair, was not in their jurisdiction) onto ANNA. You know, Commander Anna? The woman, while not the exact one, but the woman he used to work so closely with? His boss, his co-worker, his friend? Oh he is ABSOLUTELY doing that on purpose to fuck with her. This is a Lif zoomies moment to me. This is a Lif DEEPLY INGRAINED NEED to be A Jackass moment. To me. The type of jackassery that comes with being an older brother. Old habits die hard.

All of that said... it's a very good moment. It's also a very cute illustration. But it's too cute. Too playful. Too silly. It's a real and true moment from him that just doesn't fit the same way anymore. And definitely doesn't capture him in his entirety. This is my opinion, my verdict, with great regret and sorrow. Next!

Out of the illusts from this comic, really only two are usable as an icon. This is the other one. And..... HEAR ME OUT. It goes back to my thoughts of picking that specific illust for the header. Catching a Glimpse of the local cryptid haunting the place. The Ghoul Himself, lurking and shambling about. AND GOING BACK to my thoughts on why I picked those specific Alfonse and Sharena icons!!!!! To capture their personalities, and the faces they put forward to the world! How they see themselves, or want to be seen! Oh, Lif does NOT want to be Seen. This is one of two candid shots you were able to snap of him while all other attempts he's like Big Foot. Some blurry, glowy spectre who is going to get SO FUCKING MAD AT YOU when he catches you trying to catch Him. And!!! And!!!!! POKING FUN AT HIM. The comedy of seeing This Fucking Guy in broad daylight is unparalleled. He looks SO out of place, on a nice, clear, sunny day. Not so scary now, running errands for Commander Anna, ARE you, buddy? Huh?? Huh??? Oh god wait don't reach for your cursed sword I'M SORRY I'M SORRRYYYYY --

It's funny! Ironic! That the third one was a "I'll do it if I Have To", in my mind. I didn't want to use it. I did, very much, want to pick something Cooler. But no... that's not the Route....... do not be swayed by his objectively very cool appearance and his dangerous demeanor. Rule number one to being a Lif enjoyer is you HAVE to make fun of him. Rule number two, is that you have to make fun of him in a Lif-honoring way. You cannot solely focus on what makes him cool, what makes him tragic, and what makes him endearing, those rare moments of softness. No. You need to Hone In. LOCK IN. On what would make him want to punt you across the battlefield, full fucking force.

That's just how I feel, though! Thank you for joining me on this little journey! ☺️☺️☺️����💖💝💗💘💞💝💞💘💖💞💖💓💞💓💖💞💓💖💗💗💝💘💘💞💕💕💕

[seaofcobwebs]

this image did numbers on twitter how did i never post it here. happy pride month

[premamelody]

but what if i just rip out your throat and eternity slide right down the hole?

lore doc

[linksconverge]

🚂🚃🚃🚃🚃🚃🚃

[aroworlds]

[image description: three banners comprising five heart shapes made of five rows of crosses, akin to cross stitch. Each row is four crosses high. A single cross fills the space between the hearts, separating each from the next, while a row of crosses high extends across the banner above and below the hearts. The banners are coloured, respectively, to match three different pride flags: alterous (yellow/grey/pink/red), aplatonic (purple/blue/lime green/cream) and queerplatonic (yellow/pink/yellow/grey/black). Each banner is shown in two versions: one with a gradient background in matching flag colours, the other with a transparent background.]

Cross Stitch Heart Banners

Flags: Alterous, Aplatonic, Queerplatonic.

All banners/stickers are available for free personal or non-commercial use with credit to one of my accounts. They are not available for commercial use.

For flag creator posts, please see @aroflagarchive.

[c4tto626]

since i'm already big into collecting sew-on patches, enamel pins and buttons i have decided to also start collecting velcro patches!! since i don't really have anywhere to actually put them got myself a neat little velcro booklet to keep them~ the only struggle is that so many velcro patches are like edgy military stuff which eh i don't exactly care much about (except one i have which is of a grenade with 'i pull out' text next to it lmao)

[firebuug]

in my wiregirl era (i changed my icon breadgy drew it u should commission breadgy )

[queer-ghosts]

made a sideblog for politics/activism: @tranny-anarchist

[osachiyo]

𝐖𝐄𝐓 ‘𝐍 𝐌𝐄𝐒𝐒𝐘 ! ꩜ .ᐟ dr zayne

⟢ tws: n/sfw content, fem!reader, p*rn w/o plot, 0.6k+ words, fingering, squirting, stress relief, messy, dirty talk, praise, zayne is mentioned to be taller than reader, overstimulation, reader is hinted to be chubby + more .. you must be logged in on twt to see the link!

⟢ note: i saw this video on twt and thought of zayne immediately helppp >< header art by @/rororo_mg on X <3

imagine this with zayne . . .

You could tell when Zayne didn’t have a good day at work. Especially when he had that one look on his face— glasses hanging low on the bridge of his nose and his hair messy, a frown etching on his lips and broad shoulders sagging as he entered through the front door. You lifted your eyes from the page of your book to your looming boyfriend, “bad day at work?”

Zayne only sighed deeply, shrugging his coat off and slinging it on the coat hanger near the door, “terrible.”

You slowly approached him, wrapping your arms around his neck, going on your tippy toes and pressing your soft lips to Zayne’s ear, “is there any way I can help, doctor?”

You felt a large hand wrap itself around your waist— pulling your body flush to his, something hard and hot poking your inner thigh as Zayne’s other hand lifted your chin up, his minty breath fanning against your lips as he spoke,

“If you insist, my love.”

..and that’s how you ended up in your current position. Legs pushed back and knees nearly touching your ears, pretty lacy panties pushed to the side and the fabric absolutely drenched with your arousal as Zayne’s precise fingers worked themselves in and out of your cunt.

“Stay still,” he grunted, taking his fingers out of your hole and rubbing your puffy clit with fast strokes— making your head loll back onto the pillow. “Nnngh— ‘s too much-!” You mewled, fingers desperately scratching the soft, linen sheets underneath as Zayne continued to torture your poor clit. “Nonsense.. I know you can take it, love,” he muttered under his breath, and you whined because you knew he was right— Zayne knew your body like the back of his hand, and he wasn’t afraid to use that knowledge to his advantage.

It should’ve been unfair how good he was at it job— he knew all the ways to make your pussy gush, and he was doing exactly that. You wailed once he shoved his fingers back into your sticky hole, your plush hips arching off the bed at the overstimulation. But Zayne wasn’t having any of it, he scoffed in annoyance before using his free hand to push down on your soft tummy— securing your body to the mattress as he continued abusing that one rough patch in your velvety walls.

“Fu— fuck, Zayne—!” You threw your head back, kicking your legs but to no avail, he only pressed on your tummy harder, increasing the pressure settling in your lower abdomen. Your cunt gushed out juices with each rough thrust of his hand, successfully soaking his wrist down to his entire bicep. The rolled up sleeves of his button up practically drenched with your delicious slick. Oh and his watch. His expensive watch that probably costed an arm and a leg now soaked with your precious juices— and Zayne couldn’t help but groan at the sight.

It wasn’t long before you came hard around his fingers with a high pitched squeal, pussy juices streaming out and absolutely drenching the man before you. “What a good girl, did s’well for me,” he moaned, slowly pulling his fingers out of your cunt with a lewd ‘pop!’ before sticking them in his mouth and humming in satisfaction at the taste.

You could only watch as your eyes grew droopy and tired, your head plopping back onto the pillow with as you sighed. You closed your eyes, ready to doze off before you heard a soft clinking noise and lifted your gaze in confusion to look at the man in front of you.

Your eyes widened as Zayne’s heavy cock slapped against your soft tummy— the head dripping with precum as he spread your legs even further to get comfortable. You parted your lips to speak before he cut you off, “Zay—” “What? You didn’t think we were done, did you?”

His eyes darkened, gaze dropping to eye his cock resting on your stomach— the tip reaching right over your belly button, fuck he was huge.

“We were only getting started, snowflake.”

@𝐎𝐒𝐀𝐂𝐇𝐈𝐘𝐎 — ᴀʟʟ ʀɪɢʜᴛꜱ ʀᴇꜱᴇʀᴠᴇᴅ. ᴅᴏɴ'ᴛ ᴄᴏᴘʏ/ꜱʜᴀʀᴇ ᴏʀ ᴛʀᴀɴꜱʟᴀᴛᴇ ᴍʏ ᴡᴏʀᴋ ᴀɴʏᴡʜᴇʀᴇ.

[sqgeism]

Sage sage imagine dueling w Phainon and he gets distracted by reader and loses to them, and while reader is packing up their weapon to head to home, Phainon follows them around like 🧍🙂 waiting for kisses bc apparently they're supposed to kiss his pain away (he's a lil delusional and really in love)

𓎟𓎟 a sweet request from an angelic anonnie 𝄞 a love letter signed with phainons initials 𓂃𓈒

ℒ.ove mail ┈ 🍒 ꫂ are we ignoring the fact the header is a tot card? yes we are ! hi again its me 🐥 i remember when id write 5 fics in one day. or 11 people in one post.. where does my motivation go, i wonder. does it stay dormant till triggered by an event or what? okay bai :p

sparring with you is the closest thing to ecstacy that isn't.. ecstacy. phainon's addicted to it, not the rush of battle, but seeing that determined look in your eyes. each slash of your blade, every time your fists made contact with his body, and the moments where you threw him to the ground.. call him obsessed, cause he is. your display of strength has always been attractive to the hero, and he'll be damned if he isn't into it.

"i yield." he says breathlessly, face first on the floor and disarmed as you hold his arms behind his back. "aha! i win!" you always do, most of the time was a fair fight—but this was one of the times he let you get the upper hand. mostly because he wanted to partake in a little bit of *shenanigans afterward.

you watch from the corner of your eye as phainon stands there, smiling sweetly despite the cut on his lip, his bruised eye, and probably an aching body that's all done by you. although you know that the boy could be thrown into four different buildings and ask you to do your worst on the fifth—this was usually the time he.. patches himself up. not watch you put your stuff away like an eager puppy.

"phai, shouldn't you start... you know, fix yourself up?"

if your earlier statement of him being a dog was true, you're sure his ears and tail would've drooped low the moment those words left your lips. "i wanted you to take care of me." he huffed, leaning down to press his forehead against your shoulder, damn near whining.

you roll your eyes at him, lifting him up by his cheek as you meet his gorgeous, sapphire eyes. he was always too pretty for is own good.

"ange—mmhn.." he never gets sick of you shutting him up with your mouth, he'd talk for *hours if it meant you'd eventually get sick of it and he does this routine over and over.

he has hearts in his eyes when you pull away, licking his bloodied lip before chuckling. "happy?"

"oh, simply euphoric."

© sqgeism or wtv (^_^;)

[darkmatilda]

𝐭𝐨𝐮𝐠𝐡 𝐜𝐚𝐬𝐞 | 𝐬.𝐫𝐞𝐢𝐝

𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: while working on the case and watching a certain profiler with pretty eyes and a well-tailored coat, you overhear some local cops badmouthing him — and before you know it, you decide to put them in their place.

𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐬/𝐭𝐰: spencer reid x diva!chemist reader, unpleasant comments about spencer’s looks and behavior, diva is so diva he should marry her right now fr and hold my hand while i say this and don’t panic joke about morgan's baldness...

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝𝐬: 1.8k

𝐚/𝐧: request | i was too much of a lazy bitch to make a header sorry i hope his pretty face makes up for it xx

“How are you feeling out in the field?”

Morgan addressed you with his arms loosely crossed over his chest and a slightly teasing expression on his face. You slowly shifted your gaze to him.

“Absolutely fantastic,” you replied flatly, adjusting your grip on the handle of the umbrella resting against your side. Through the tree canopies spreading above your heads, patches of gray clouds broke through, now and then releasing a few drops as a warning of the real downpour to come. “I love nature.”

He nodded ironically, clearly unconvinced.

“Of course,” he said. “Do you love the mud on your boots too?”

Almost exactly as those words left his mouth, several large raindrops tapped against his FBI jacket, followed immediately by more, falling with even greater intensity. Your friend raised his eyes to the sky, pressing his lips together in displeasure. Rainy weather always made working at a crime scene harder—securing the body and protecting biological and chemical evidence. And collecting the latter was already challenging given the location: a truly remote, densely overgrown spot in the forest, impossible to access by police vehicles. Those had been left at the end of the forest path, as far in as they could get, and you’d been led to the exact place where the latest victim of the serial killer had been found by local officers.

“I’m about to have mud on my boots,” you remarked, already imagining what would happen to the already damp ground after even just a few minutes of such heavy rain. The conditions you encountered had been predictable, so you had chosen footwear suited to them—stylish boots that also perfectly complemented the rest of your outfit. But then again, that was nothing unusual. Even if you had to evacuate during a volcanic eruption, you’d grab something you wouldn’t be ashamed to have melted into your skin by lava.

You opened the umbrella, which had until then been resting with its tip on the ground. Derek took a step toward you, premature gratitude written all over his face—so you stepped back instead, the corners of your mouth curling up mischievously.

“What? Worried about your hair?”

Morgan shook his bald head from side to side, sighing.

“You little witch—”

“Morgan!”

Hotch’s voice called out to you from a not particularly great distance. Even he—who normally never parted with his suit—was now wearing a brown fleece with a high collar and was currently overseeing the setup of a police tent over the recovered body to protect it from the rain.

Derek gave you a nod in farewell, ending the brief chat, but you didn’t even follow him with your eyes. Your gaze remained fixed in Hotch’s direction—or more precisely, on the member of his team who had just approached him. What immediately caught your attention was that Reid was wearing a very well-tailored coat (a detail that made you purse your lower lip in approval, because well tailored coats did have something about them), and he had just begun explaining something, as usual gesturing animatedly with his hands—now covered in blue rubber gloves, lightly dusted with dark soil.

Focused on whatever fascinating theory or analysis he was sharing, he seemed completely unaware of at least half of his gestures, absentmindedly rubbing his chin with the dirty glove in concentration—naturally leaving a mark on his skin.

You rolled your eyes at the sight, but there was something surprisingly gentle in that gesture. You turned the handle of the umbrella in your hand, which also rested on your shoulder—and then the corner of your ear caught a scrap of conversation happening behind your back. Even without turning your head, just by slightly focusing your hearing, you could tell it was coming from two of the local officers also present at the scene.

“Where do you think they even dug him up from?” asked the first male voice mockingly.

“Which one?” the second sounded confused, but a moment later let out a derisive snort. “Alright, don’t even tell me. I already know who you mean.”

Laughter. Real kings of comedy, truly.

“I wonder what he’s even doing in the FBI. I mean, they’ve got to have some kind of fitness tests, right? What’s a beanpole like that even good for?”

“I’ll tell you what he’s good for—pissing everyone off with his babbling. Just look at the other guy’s face.”

Following the suggestion, you looked at the other guy’s face. That, of course, meant Hotch’s face—there was no doubt who the first part of that pathetic, taxpayer-funded conversation had been about. You studied the BAU chief’s expression more closely and didn’t detect a hint of irritation or weariness at whatever Spencer was explaining to him. Hotch simply looked like Hotch.

Your observation was interrupted by the approach of one of your team members, the hood of her raincoat pulled tightly around her head and her glasses nearly completely covered in rain.

“We’re going to have to go back to the car for the equipment,” she informed you, adjusting her glasses on her nose with a sigh the moment she looked toward the path you had come from earlier. That meant quite a bit of walking through muddy terrain, carrying rather heavy items—always packed in sturdy cases for safety reasons.

A certain thought popped into your head, and with a smile creeping onto your lips, you calmed Olivia with a wave of your hand.

“Don’t worry about it,” you said. The woman frowned suspiciously as you turned over your shoulder toward the two men behind you. “Gentlemen, could I ask you for a favor?”

They stared at you for a beat too long, then at each other—and then eagerly stepped forward to fulfill the favor, whatever it was.

“Of course...”

“Anything you wish...”

You cleared your throat.

“You’ll go and bring back the case with number two on it,” you instructed.

Olivia furrowed her brows and parted her lips to protest, but you silenced her with just a look.

“But you need to be extremely careful,” you continued smoothly, “so, very slowly. Ideally, carry it together—for stability.”

The men listened with rapt attention and visible determination to follow your directions. Which, of course, were nonsense—one person could easily carry it alone. But trying to do it as a pair would stretch the trip out nicely in all that rain and mud. Then, well, they were gone, like children you’d promised candy to.

It was so very typical of the kind of men you made use of—just as typical as their pitiful little sense of being useful, irreplaceable.

You watched them vanish between the trees, and when your gaze met Olivia's again, her face showed both surprise and a certain intrigue.

“But we need case number three,” she pointed out, correctly.

You opened your mouth in exaggerated disbelief.

“Really…? Oh, Olivia, why didn’t you say so earlier,” you sighed, making it clear that the whole thing had been a game from the start.

The woman stayed silent for a moment, genuinely trying to figure out your intentions. She gave up shortly after, shaking her head with a sigh.

“And what kind of sadist are you playing today?” she asked.

“You’ll see,” you assured her.

The officers returned, lugging the wrong case and looking like wet dogs, their hair plastered to their foreheads from the rain, which had only intensified since they’d left. They set it down in front of you and Olivia, both sheltered under the umbrella you were holding, visibly relieved they hadn’t dropped it.

You waited a few seconds, during which they stood silently, clearly expecting some kind of eternal gratitude, before raising an eyebrow.

“I said case number three.”

They exchanged a look.

“Um, I’m pretty sure you said the one with number two on it.”

“Um, sounds like you’ve got a hearing problem,” you snapped, sharper than you’d intended, the words slipping out before you could stop them

It wasn’t something you’d planned from the start, and for a second, you were secretly surprised at yourself. But since sharpness and spite had apparently chosen you today, you decided to stick with that version of events and made sure your face reflected the proper level of displeasure.

Olivia glanced sideways at you for a long moment, then nodded with faux certainty.

“Yeah, she definitely said case number three. You must’ve misheard. Not your fault, maybe it was the rain,” she offered in a more sympathetic tone, though still fully backing your story.

The men exchanged confused looks, now with a flicker of doubt that maybe it had been their mistake. So, off they went again—to return the wrong case and fetch the correct one. When they finally disappeared, you gave Olivia a small, grateful smile.

Only to immediately wipe it off your face as the dumbasses reappeared, and declare:

“And what about my handbag? I told you to bring that too.”

And what amused you the most was that the two of them only started showing any suspicion or doubt after their third trek through the rain and mud. Frustration flashed in one of their eyes as he handed you your handbag.

“Was this really necessary for working the case?” he asked through clenched teeth.

Unbothered, and with their eyes still on you, you calmly reached into the bag for your compact mirror and lipstick, touching up your makeup with the faintest swipe.

“No,” you replied, snapping the mirror shut. “But at least you were useful for something. There’s no intellectual work here for two such empty heads, so you might as well make use of those muscles.” You gave them a critical once-over with that last word—because honesty, their physiques weren’t all that impressive either.

They stared at you in complete stupefaction before walking off, muttering something under their breath about a crazy bitch. Well, you had no intention of wasting another word on them. Another thing you had no intention of doing was explaining the entire ordeal to the clearly intrigued Olivia. And the main reason for that was the fact that you hadn’t fully rationalized it to yourself. Maybe you were just running on a higher than usual dose of spite that day.

Maybe there was another reason entirely.

Shortly afterward, Reid approached you, preoccupied with peeling off his latex gloves, only glancing at you with brows furrowed in curiosity.

“Is it just me, or did you send these guys to the cars three times?” he asked.

You merely gave a slight shrug.

“That’s what happens when you have trouble following instructions,” you remarked simply.

And before walking off to rejoin your team, you reached up and wiped that smudge of dirt from his chin with your thumb—the one you'd spotted earlier—leaving him, to put it mildly, completely stunned.

[ilygetou]

sucking satoru’s cock through his plaid pj’s </3

C/W: slight submissive satoru if you squint, he finishes fast (whoops), satoru cums in his pants, cockdrunk! reader, attempts of dirty talk, the rest is just so filthy & nasty.

NOTE. repost since tumblr decided to be my biggest opp and take it down, didn’t even bother changing the header just made a slight change to it😒

PART 2.

gojo would be sitting on the couch, leg sprawled out his arms wrapped around your body while his other hand was busy holding his phone for him. And you, you were busy eye-fucking his dick print, the outline of his thick dick resting between his thighs was way too visible you couldn’t take your eyes off of it.

So, here you are, in-between your boyfriend’s legs as you looked up at him, begging him to let you suck him off. “Pretty please? Please ’toru, want your dick in my mouth” gojo gave you a smug look, blue-eyes still focused on his cellular device. A pout curved on your lips, frowning as you decided to cup his cock from above his pants. Catching satoru slightly off guard, his eyes moving from his phone to you.

Satoru couldn’t help but anticipate your next move, turning off his phone and throwing it next to him. His whole focus was finally on you.

You couldn’t help but smirk, squeezing his dick as you felt it slowly hardening between your hands.

You watched as his cock twitched in his pants, begging to be touched & you couldn’t help but slightly drool at the sight. His dick print showing off his thick cock, made you want to push satoru’s pants down and shove his dick in your mouth. It was tempting, you wanted to suck on it already but an idea popped up in the spiral of the moment, making you pause for a second.

You looked up at satoru to meet his eyes, eyes threatening to shut, breathing was heavy and his face flushed a light shade of pink.

“suck it already” he murmured, voice low n’ whiny. You smirked–holding his cock as you wrapped your lips around his clothed tip. Sucking on it so messily and sloppily. Satoru gasped, not expecting you to pull something like this, something so vile, so nasty. But he liked it anyways.

You were drenching his pants with your saliva, his head thrown back as you stopped sucking on his tip and started licking his whole length from above his pants. You looked so good underneath him, licking & sucking on his fully clothed cock–“who knew my pretty girlfriend liked to suck dick s’much?” he breathed out, you paused your movements to look up at him once again.

“since forever? Always loved sucking your dick & only yours,” A lazy smirk made it’s way on satoru’s face–his thighs trembling as you went back to sucking his tip, pre-cum kept spilling & staining his pants–making a huge mess between gojo’s legs. A huge wet patch forming that was just spit, drool and his pre-cum.

“mmfph ’toru, wanna have your dick in my mouth already” you sighed, rubbing his length from above his slacks. “Nah, keep doing it like this, makin’ me feel so good baby” he patted your head & you nodded in obedience despite the obvious pout on your lips.

You squeezed his dick again, rubbing his tip with your thumb and giving his shaft long licks, your kneaded the tip with your thumb so fast and rough, not giving the white head any time to process the pleasure he was receiving.

Satoru grips your hair and rolls his head back, fast and low moans leaving him as his cock twitched and pulsated in his pants–his thighs shaking as he came undone in his pants. Staining the fabric even more with his gooey, thick cum.

Satoru stared down at you with a hazy look in his eyes and mouth slightly apart, “can i suck on it now? for real this time?” you asked with a sheepish smile on your face. Satoru rolled his eyes, and pushed you off of him before plopping you down next to him.

“no, i got something better in mind,” it was now satoru’s turn to get on his knees, spreading your legs apart and pulling down your pants. You tilted your head in confusion, “what’re you up to?” gojo only snickered–pushing his face against your crotch and taking a long sniff from your clothed pussy. You gasped, finally understanding his intentions.

“G’nna eat you out through your panties, Ya’ okay with that angel?”

[dior-luxury]

HIYYA :)! i’ve been very into the childhood!best friends to lovers, so could i ask for that with: the itoshi brothers, karasu, and yukimiya. thanks so much :))

Childhood Friend To Lover

( ✧ ) ────── boyfriend stories . fluff - gn!reader .

- [𝐜𝐡.] sae . rin . karasu . yukimiya

- [𝐩:𝐬] emotional isolation . parental neglect . fame pressure . angst . unspoken love . kissing . family conflict . emotional withdrawal . self-doubt . loneliness . injury . trauma

Note: This scenario with them is so cute 😭I can imagine them falling in love with someone from their childhood (Especially Rin & Sae). And them falling in love with you even more during Blue Lock when they're away from you is just- ugh 😔.

Sae Itoshi

You and Sae had been inseparable since you were kids. Your houses were right next door in the quiet suburbs of Kanagawa, and your days were filled with scraped knees, shared snacks, and endless soccer matches in the park with Rin trailing behind like a determined shadow. Sae was calm and sarcastic, even back then — a little aloof, a little too smart, but he always waited for you. Always passed the ball to you first.

He was your best friend. Not in the silly, fleeting way kids say it, but the kind of best friend who snuck out to watch meteor showers with you at 3 a.m., who came to your room when his parents fought, who said nothing but always made you feel better. He always noticed when you were off — always read your silences. You never had to say much. Sae just got you.

You were the only one who saw him cry when he got selected for Spain. He looked at you like the world was ending. “I want to go,” he’d whispered, “but I don’t want to leave you.”

So he left — and didn’t look back.

For five years, you didn't speak. He didn’t answer your texts, didn’t come home during the holidays. Rin got colder. You moved on, or at least tried. But Sae was a phantom presence in everything — in the sound of the wind at night, in the rhythm of a soccer ball bouncing on concrete. You never stopped wondering what you did wrong.

And then one summer evening, he returned.

You heard his voice before you saw him — deeper, a little wearier. “You still suck at headers,” he said from behind you on the field. And there he was, tall, handsome, different — but with the same sharp eyes and infuriating smirk. Your chest ached. You hated him. You missed him.

The first few weeks were awkward. You didn’t know how to act around him, and he acted like no time had passed. He still remembered your favorite ramen order, still teased you in that infuriating, gentle way. But sometimes his gaze lingered a little too long. Sometimes he touched your wrist and didn’t let go. You caught him watching you like he was searching for the version of you he left behind — or maybe falling for the one you’d become.

One night, during a storm, you found him outside your window, soaked to the bone.

“I don’t want to be alone anymore,” he said, voice cracking. “Not in Spain. Not here. Not anywhere.”

You let him in.

Sae kissed you like he’d been waiting his whole life for that moment — desperate, slow, reverent. All those years of silence and missed moments melted into one long, trembling kiss in the dark of your bedroom.

“You waited for me?” he asked, forehead against yours.

“I never stopped.”

Rin Itoshi

You and Rin Itoshi were neighbors in a sleepy coastal town, where soccer balls thudded against concrete and cicadas buzzed like background music. You met him before the world broke him, before Sae left and shadows curled beneath Rin’s eyes.

As kids, you’d race your bikes to the beach, dig your toes into the sand, and talk about your future. Rin always wanted to be better than his brother. Always. But he was softer then—shy, thoughtful, and surprisingly funny when he let his guard down. You were his person—the one who’d read manga with him, patch up scraped knees, or drag him out for ice cream when his parents argued about Sae’s rising fame.

When Sae left for Spain without a word, Rin shattered.

He withdrew, colder, sharper. Soccer became war, and every smile became a rare relic. But not with you.

You were the only one he didn’t push away.

He’d show up outside your window at night, bruised knuckles, sweat still clinging to his collar. He wouldn’t talk. He’d just sit, knees pulled up, letting the silence wrap around him like armor—until you offered a blanket or held his hand under the stars.

In high school, you noticed how his eyes lingered on you longer. How he’d get strangely protective, narrowing his eyes at anyone who flirted with you. How he looked at you like you were the last safe place he had.

But Rin didn’t believe in love. Not really. Not when he thought everything he cared about left him. Soccer was the only thing that made sense. Until you.

When Blue Lock called, he told you through gritted teeth. “I have to go.”

You didn’t cry. You just handed him a small photo—your favorite picture of the two of you from the beach, back when he smiled more easily.

“I’ll be waiting.”

He didn’t reply. Just nodded, jaw tight, and turned away.

But he wrote. Every week. Long, messy letters with doodles in the margins and awkward attempts to describe his days. “I got MVP. Still doesn’t feel like much.” “Missed your dumb seaweed riceballs today.” “Saw the ocean and thought of you.”

When he returned, taller, sharper, eyes colder—you were still there.

And when he saw you on that same beach, holding the photo he left behind, Rin cracked. Dropped his bag. Pulled you into a hug so tight it hurt.

“You waited,” he whispered.

“I told you I would.”

And under that fading orange sky, he kissed you—gently, almost like he was afraid you’d disappear. His hands trembled. But you held him like always.

Now, years later, every time he scores a goal and lifts his eyes to the stands, he looks for you. The one who never left. His first friend. His last love.

Karasu Tabito

Karasu Tabito wasn’t exactly a “good kid” when you met him. You were both nine—him with a black eye, a split lip, and a crooked grin that said, “yeah, I got into a fight again.”

He got into trouble before he got into soccer—always the one with smart remarks, messy hair, bruised knuckles, and a grin that didn’t quite match the pain in his eyes. You were the quiet kid, the one who read too much and liked watching clouds. Total opposites. Yet somehow, you ended up being his anchor.

Maybe it started because you were the only one who didn’t treat him like a delinquent. Or maybe it was the day you shoved a bandage into his hand after yet another brawl, mumbling, “Stop bleeding all over the classroom, idiot.”

From then on, you were his person.

Every rooftop lunch. Every call after a terrible day. Every silent moment where he could just be without pretending to be cool or invincible.

Karasu was chaos—but around you, he calmed.

He got into soccer on a dare. Typical. But he was good, terrifyingly so. His reflexes were sharp, instincts sharper. He played like he lived—unpredictable and fast. He got serious about it in middle school, and you were the first person he told.

“I wanna go pro. Is that stupid?”

“No,” you’d said. “It’s the first thing I’ve ever seen you care about.”

By high school, Karasu was popular, loud, magnetic—but no one knew him like you did. They didn’t know how he called you every night when his parents fought. How he’d show up at your house drunk off energy drinks, just needing someone to talk him off the ledge. How he watched you when he thought you weren’t looking—like you were the only thing that kept him tethered.

And yeah, maybe you started to feel it too. That flutter. That ache when he leaned too close. The way your name sounded different in his mouth than anyone else’s.

But Karasu was scared. Love wasn’t something he trusted. So he flirted with others, acted like it was nothing—but never crossed that line with you.

Until one night—your last summer before Blue Lock, when he climbed up to your window at 1 AM, eyes wide, adrenaline crackling in the air.

“I got in,” he whispered. “Blue Lock chose me.”

You hugged him, heart racing. “I’m proud of you.”

And then—you pulled back, eyes locked, and suddenly, it wasn’t pride buzzing in the air—it was years of tension, laughter, comfort. And he kissed you. Not soft or sweet—desperate, like he’d wanted to for years but never dared.

“I don’t know how to do this,” he whispered against your lips. “But if I figure it out—I want it to be with you.”

He left the next morning with a crooked smile and a promise.

Now, whenever he scores a goal, he still mouths your name. Still sends you blurry pictures and dumb jokes. Still calls you when he can’t sleep.

Because even when the world calls him unpredictable—you were always his constant.

Yukimiya Kenyu

Yukimiya Kenyu was beautiful. Not just in the model-boy, camera-ready way—but in how he moved, how he spoke, how he existed. You knew him before the world tried to sculpt him. Before the illness. Before the fame.

You were his next-door neighbor in Kyoto. From childhood, you saw the boy who pressed flowers in books, cried at sad manga endings, and whispered prayers at the shrine on his way to school. He was fragile, even then. Asthma. Weak lungs. A shadow that always loomed—but he never let it stop him.

He loved soccer even when it hurt. Even when it meant collapsing on the field.

You were always there—at the edge of the pitch, with your backpack full of inhalers and water bottles and unwavering belief.

As you both grew, so did your bond. He was gentler than the other boys. Sensitive, graceful. But behind that softness was steel. Yukimiya wanted it. Badly. To prove he wasn’t weak. To become more than his illness. More than the pretty boy.

“I don’t want people to look at me and only see fragile,” he told you once under a cherry tree in spring. “I want to be limitless.”

And you believed him. Every step of the way.

Then came the diagnosis. His vision—going. Not yet blind, but the edges were starting to blur. He told you in a whisper, like a secret shame.

You cried. He didn’t.

“Don’t look at me like that,” he said. “I’m still me. I’m still going to play. Even if it kills me.”

When Blue Lock summoned him, he hesitated. Not out of fear—but because he didn’t want to leave you behind.

So you kissed him.

Right there, by the train station. Years of buried feelings blooming like wisteria.

“I’ve loved you since we were thirteen,” you said. “Go. I’ll be here. I’m always here.”

And he went. With tears in his eyes, clutching your confession like armor.

In Blue Lock, he fought with elegance and fury. Not just for a goal—but to deserve you. To be strong enough for love.

Now, he still calls you when he has flare-ups. Sends you photos of sunsets he can barely see. Draws you in his notebook, even as his lines grow softer, blurrier.

When he makes the national team, he finds you in the crowd. He can’t see your face clearly anymore—but he feels you.

And in his arms, after the match, he says, “Even if the whole world fades… I’d know your heartbeat anywhere.”

[remuslupingf]

sticky gloss

JJ had thought it would be a nice day to take you out on the boat. His cute little best friend, wearing a tiny bikini. You brought a cooler full of nice treats for you and him! you made sandwiches and brought lots of fruits and popsicles.

jj had stopped in a secluded spot for you two to swim and tan. He wanted a day alone with you. He never got you to himself anymore. He almost started drooling when he saw you on the docks this morning. You always looked good but thinking about getting to be alone with you made him hard as hell. He got to stare at you all day long while you were oblivious.

After you two ate and swam a little, you pulled out a cherry popsicle. so excited, you were saving this treat all day. You pop the treat in your mouth, sucking on it lewdly without noticing. jj had to stand behind the wheel to hide his growing boner. He just about lost it when he saw you rub the red popsicle on your lips.

"look jj! its like a lip gloss! hehe i wish i could find a lipgloss this exact shade." you pout to yourself.

jj zoned out and didn't hear a thing you said. "Yeah exactly." he said, trying to seem like he was listening.

He was fixated on your lips, watching how you took the popsicle in your mouth, trying to taste the whole thing. He couldnt believe you were giving him this free show. Not that you knew how he was staring. He could see your pussy lips pressing against your bikini bottoms. He thought he saw a little wet patch. fuck he needed you so bad.

"you wanna swim again princess?" he asked as he took his shirt off, ready to jump in the water.

"yes!! just give me a sec to finish this jj." you say happily and finish the treat as fast as you can, sucking harder. JJ suppresses a moan. He jumps in the water to hide his boner. Fuck, he had been hard all day, waiting for a chance to touch you.

You jump in the water after him and he grabs you around the waist, pulling you to him. You squeal, not expecting him to grab you from behind.

"come here angel. been wanting to feel you all day." he mumbles in your ear. he pulls you closer to him so you can feel his cock on your ass.

you gasp, "jj what are you doing?" you mumble, confused.

"I just want to touch you a little okay? its your fault y'know. showin me how much you like that popsicle huh? your sticky lipgloss?" he says, condescendingly.

you end the day bouncing on his cock on the boat as the sun sets around you. not a bad day way to spend the day with your hot best friend.

dividers by https://animatedglittergraphics-n-more.tumblr.com/post/693033910796419072/cherry-blossom-headers-n-dividers

[ahqkas]

“YOU HOLD ME WITHOUT HURTING ME — jason todd.

PAIRING! jason todd x fem!reader

SYNOPSIS! you show jason it’s okay to bleed sometimes

WORD COUNT! 3.1k

WARNINGS / TAGS! wounds, mention of blood, fluff, reader’s hair mentioned, kissing + lmk if more found

NOTES! i tried to base this on that one tasm1 scene of peter and gwen where she patched him up , header below belongs to @/v6que !

© ahqkas — all rights reserved. even when credited, these works are prohibited to be reposted, translated or modified

THE SOFT HUM OF THE CITY OUTSIDE YOUR WINDOW HAD QUIETED TO A RARE WHISPER TONIGHT, a lull in Gotham’s usual chaos that felt like a blessing. Sirens, so common they were practically part of the soundtrack of your life, had faded into distant echoes, while the occasional honk of a car horn or the rush of tires on wet pavement seemed farther away than usual. It wasn’t complete silence—Gotham never truly slept—but it was as close as the city could get, a fleeting moment of stillness.

Inside, the warmth of your room cocooned you in a comforting contrast to the winter outside. The radiator hummed softly in the corner, its gentle heat mingling with the faint scent of cinnamon from the candle you’d lit earlier to help you focus. The flame flickered now, casting shadows that danced along the edges of your desk and walls, though the main light came from the golden glow of the lamp beside your bed. It bathed everything in a soft, inviting yellow light, the kind that made you want to sink deeper into your blankets and let the night carry you away.

But there was no time for that—not tonight. Your bed, usually your sanctuary, had become a battlefield. Textbooks, notebooks, flashcards, and stray pens were scattered like the aftermath of an academic storm. A bright pink highlighter sat capless somewhere near your elbow, while a pile of dog-eared textbooks loomed over you, threatening to topple if you so much as shifted the wrong way. You were surrounded on all sides by the evidence of your late-night cram session, the weight of the information you were trying to absorb pressing down on your already heavy eyelids.

The soft cotton of your oversized sweater brushed against your arms as you adjusted your position, tucking one leg beneath you and letting the other dangle off the edge of the bed. You propped your chin in your hand, squinting at the same sentence for what felt like the hundredth time. The words blurred and swam on the page, merging into an indecipherable wall of text as your brain fought against the exhaustion creeping in.

Your eyelids drooped again, the soft weight of exhaustion pulling them down as if gravity itself was conspiring against your efforts. You blinked hard, shaking your head slightly to snap yourself out of the haze creeping over your thoughts. The neat black ink on the page swam in and out of focus, words smudging together in a taunting blur. Focus, just focus. But no amount of repetition could make the phrase "mitochondria: powerhouse of the cell" feel less like a mantra from a far-off dream.

“Powerhouse,” you muttered again, your voice low and groggy, as if repeating it would anchor your wandering mind. “Powerhouse of . . . ugh.” You tossed the pen down onto the bedspread with a soft thud and buried your face in your hands, groaning into the quiet sanctuary of your room.

Your head sank forward, pressing against the cool surface of the open textbook. The faint scent of paper and ink tickled your nose as you let out a long, frustrated sigh. The night had started with so much ambition—a cup of coffee you swore would keep you awake, a meticulous plan to conquer this section of the syllabus—but now? Now, all you could think about was how soft your pillow looked, just a few inches away from your outstretched arm.

At least it was quiet tonight. Quiet enough that you could hear the rhythmic hum of your radiator and the occasional groan of the building settling. The sounds wrapped around you like a soothing melody, a rare lullaby in the city that never stopped moving. There was no blaring of police sirens, no shouting from the streets below, no low thrum of distant helicopters scanning the skies. It felt almost unnatural, this stillness, like the city was holding its breath.

But it was a welcome kind of calm. For once, there were no distractions, no sudden noises to pull your focus away from the monumental task at hand. You adjusted your position on the bed, the mattress creaking softly beneath your weight, and let yourself soak in the serenity. Just you, your books, and the glow of the lamplight. Quiet enough to think, to study, to—

A faint creak echoed outside your window, cutting through the silence like a needle dragging across a record. You froze, your hand halfway to turning the page, and lifted your head slowly, ears straining to catch any further sound. The fire escape of your apartment didn’t creak like that, but you knew the noise well. It was the sound of weight shifting against metal, deliberate and steady, and it was coming from outside.

Your pulse quickened, and you instinctively turned toward the window, where the dark glass reflected nothing but the warm glow of your room. Shadows danced faintly against the curtains, swaying with the breeze outside, but nothing seemed out of place. You frowned, brushing the thought away as paranoia. Maybe a branch had fallen or some stray cat had climbed up the fire escape again.

Jason wasn’t supposed to visit tonight. You’d both agreed on that earlier in the day, a mutual understanding that life—his, out on the snowy streets of Gotham, and yours, buried in exams and deadlines—was too demanding right now. He had patrol; you had textbooks. It was supposed to be a quiet night for both of you, separate but enduring, each fighting your battles alone.

So when you heard the soft scrape against your window, you froze, heart leaping into your throat. It wasn’t loud enough to be an accident, too deliberate to dismiss.

And there he was.

Jason stood there on your fire escape, the shadow of his imposing figure framed by the glow of your bedside lamp spilling through the curtains. Snow clung to the edges of his black and red suit, catching in the mess of his dark hair, the frosty crystals melting into droplets on his skin. His helmet was gone, his bare face illuminated in the low light, and for a fleeting second, you could almost convince yourself he looked shy, hesitant. But no—Jason Peter Todd didn’t do shy. Not really. He was here for a reason, even if it wasn’t the one he’d planned.

Your breath hitched as your gaze dipped lower. His jacket was torn along one sleeve, the fabric shredded, and beneath it, a wound marred the pale skin of his arm. Fresh blood seeped through, staining the snow-dusted fabric and dripping slowly down to the black of his gloves. The edges of the wound were jagged, raw, like it had been inflicted during a fight—one that he’d won, no doubt, but not without cost.

You were on your feet before you realized you’d moved, the fortress of textbooks and notes forgotten in an instant. “Jason,” you whispered, his name barely audible over the rush of your pulse. He wasn’t supposed to be here tonight, wasn’t supposed to need you like this, but here he was, leaning against the window frame as though standing upright was an effort.

Your fingers hovered near the lock on the window, hesitating for only a moment before you slid it open. The cold night air rushed in, biting against your skin and making you shiver, but Jason barely seemed to notice. He stepped inside with a deliberate slowness, his broad shoulders slumping slightly as he moved past you and into the warm glow of your room. His boots left faint, wet prints on the floor, the snow melting quickly in the heat.

“You’re bleeding,” you said, the words tumbling out instinctively, your voice tinged with worry. It felt stupid to say—it was obvious, painfully so—but seeing him like this had your mind scrambling to keep up. “You weren’t supposed to—what happened?”

He didn’t answer immediately. His lips quirked into a faint, almost sheepish smirk as he glanced down at the wound on his arm, as though it wasn’t worth mentioning. “It’s nothing,” he muttered, brushing it off in that gruff, nonchalant way of his. But the way his hand pressed against the injury, as though to stem the bleeding, told you otherwise.

You crossed your arms over your chest, fixing him with a look that you hoped conveyed both your concern and your impatience for the truth. Because nothing didn’t leave his suit ripped to shreds and blood dripping onto your floor.

“Jason, sit down,” exclaiming, your voice was firmer than you thought it would be. Worry surged through you as you closed the window behind him, sealing out the chill. The warmth of your room clashed against the icy snow clinging to his battered suit, the droplets melting and dripping onto the floor. You barely noticed. All you could see was the wound on his arm and the way his jaw tightened like he was trying to pretend it didn’t hurt.

“I told you, it’s fine,” he muttered, brushing past you with a tired shrug, his usual swagger diminished by the faint limp in his step. He leaned against the edge of your desk, scattering a couple of your neatly stacked flashcards with the motion. His gaze flicked to you then, softening just slightly, like he knew exactly what you were about to say and was already bracing himself for it.

“It’s not fine.” You stepped closer, reaching for his arm. He tried to pull it back, but you were quicker, your fingers ghosting over the torn fabric and the angry gash beneath. His muscles tensed at your touch, but he didn’t stop you. Not completely. “You’re bleeding all over my floor. At least let me—”

“Later,” he interrupted, his voice low and firm, but soft for you. “I’ll deal with it later. It’s just a scratch.”

Your eyes narrowed at his deflection. “Jason—”

“[Name],” he countered, your name falling from his lips like a warning and a plea all at once. He reached for you then, his uninjured hand brushing against your wrist and tugging you closer with gentleness that contrasted starkly with the blood dripping from his other arm.

The shift was dizzying, pulling you from worry to something softer and harder to resist. You opened your mouth to protest, but before you could get the words out, he leaned down, his forehead resting against yours. His breath was warm against your cheek, and the sharp edges of his usual bravado softened in the intimacy of the moment. “I didn’t come here so you could play nurse,” he murmured. “I just . . . needed to see you.”

Your heart clenched at the quiet honesty in his voice, but you refused to let him distract you so easily. “You needed stitches,” you shot back, trying to keep your resolve, though the way his thumb traced slow circles against your hip wasn’t helping. “Jason, you can’t just—”

Whatever you were about to say was lost as he kissed you. His lips captured yours with a sudden intensity that left no room for argument, silencing every worry you’d been about to voice. His fingers trailed from your neck up, landing on your cheek with a gentle caress, anchoring you to him, and for a moment, all you could do was melt into his touch. You felt his tension ease slightly, the weight of whatever he’d been carrying fading just enough as he pressed closer, as if kissing you was the only medicine he needed.

When he finally pulled back, his forehead still resting against yours, you opened your eyes to find his staring back, dark and unreadable but softened by something raw and unguarded. “See?” he whispered, his voice low and rough. “I’m fine.”

You sighed, shaking your head, your hands instinctively resting on his chest. “You’re impossible,” you muttered, though your voice lacked any real bite.

“Yeah, but you love me anyway,” Jason teased, that cocky grin returning even as the blood continued to drip from his arm.

You groaned, pushing lightly against his chest. “Fine. But I swear, if you pass out on my floor because you were too stubborn to let me help, I’m drawing on your face while you’re out.”

His laughter was quiet but genuine, and for a moment, the tension in the room seemed to dissipate. You didn’t give him the chance to argue this time. Grabbing the first-aid kit from your bedside table, you set it down on the desk beside him with a decisive clatter. Jason raised an eyebrow at your determination, the faint smirk still tugging at the corners of his mouth, but you were too focused to care.

“Jacket off,” you mumbled, your tone leaving no room for debate.

He sighed, tilting his head back slightly like he was preparing for a lecture, but he complied without protest. With a grunt, he shrugged off the battered leather jacket, hissing slightly as the movement pulled at the torn edges of his suit. You caught the flash of discomfort in his expression, but he said nothing, tossing the bloodied jacket onto your chair.

“And the top half,” you added, gesturing toward the suit. Your voice was softer this time, less demanding but no less insistent. His hands hesitated briefly at the hem of the torn fabric before he pulled it up and over his head, revealing the pale, scarred skin of his chest and shoulders. The gash on his arm looked even worse without the fabric covering it, the torn skin deep and angry. Blood smeared across his bicep and dripped onto the floor, and you had to swallow the lump in your throat at the sight.

Jason glanced at you, the teasing light in his eyes dimmed now, replaced with something quieter, more vulnerable. “It’s really not that bad.”

“Jason, it’s bad,” you countered, shaking your head as you grabbed a clean cloth and antiseptic from the kit. He didn’t argue this time, watching you silently as you tended to his wound. The warmth of his skin under your fingers was a reminder of how human he was—how breakable, despite the armor he wrapped himself in every night.

The first dab of antiseptic against the wound made him flinch, a soft hiss escaping through his teeth. “Sorry,” you murmured, glancing up at him.

He shook his head. “Don’t be. Just do what you need to do.”

And so you did. Your hands moved with careful precision as you cleaned the wound, biting your lip in concentration. Jason stayed still, his muscles tensing under your touch but his expression relaxed—at least outwardly. You knew him well enough to see the subtle shifts, the way his eyes darted occasionally toward your face, as if he were studying you just as much as you were tending to him.

“Why didn’t you do this yourself?” you asked softly, breaking the silence. “You have supplies at your place. You didn’t have to come here like this.”

He was quiet for a moment, the question lingering between you like smoke. Then, finally, he sighed, his voice low and rough. “Didn’t want to be alone tonight.”

The simplicity of his words made you pause, your hands stilling briefly before resuming their work. You didn’t press him further; you didn’t need to. Jason never came out and said it, but moments like this told you everything you needed to know. Beneath the sharp wit, there was a part of him that needed the quiet comfort of your presence, even if he didn’t know how to ask for it outright.

“Well,” you said gently, wrapping a bandage around his arm with practiced care, “you’re not alone now.”

His gaze softened, green eyes meeting yours with an intensity that made your breath hitch. He reached out with his uninjured hand, brushing a stray strand of hair behind your ear, the touch lingering longer than it needed to. “Thanks,” he whispered, the word heavy with meaning.

You smiled faintly, finishing the bandage and tying it off securely. “There,” you said, leaning back to admire your work. “Good as new. Or, at least, good enough to stop bleeding all over my room.”

Jason chuckled, the sound low and warm, and you felt the tension in your chest ease slightly. “You’re wasted on studying,” he teased and with that, his smirk returned. “You could make a pretty decent field medic.”

Rolling your eyes at him, you packed up the first-aid kit neatly. “Yeah, well, let’s not test that theory any further tonight, okay?”

As you turned to put the bloodied gauze and scattered supplies away, Jason’s hand wrapped gently around your wrist, stopping you mid-step. His grip wasn’t firm, but it was enough to tug you back toward him, enough to make your heart lurch at the vulnerability written across his face. You froze for a moment, your eyes meeting his. The usual sharpness in his gaze was softened now, dulled by exhaustion, pain, and something quieter—something unguarded. His bravado, the cocky smirk and dismissive sarcasm that so often served as his shield, was gone. He looked at you like he was searching for something, something only you could give.

“I mean it,” he said, his voice low, almost a whisper, but steady enough to hit you square in the chest. “Thanks. For . . . this. For being here.”

The words felt heavy, like they carried more weight than just tonight. They weren’t just gratitude for the bandages or the antiseptic or the quiet space you’d made for him in your small room. It was more than that. It was for the safety, the warmth, the acceptance you gave him so freely, no matter how broken or battered he was when he came through your window.

Your breath caught, and for a moment, you just looked at him, your throat tightening at the raw honesty in his eyes. “Jay,” you murmured, your voice trembling slightly. You didn’t know what to say—didn’t know how to put into words how much it meant to you that he was here, that he trusted you enough to let his walls down like this.

Instead, you slid your hand over his, the one still wrapped around your wrist, and gave it a gentle squeeze. You leaned down slowly, your fingers brushing against the edge of his jaw as you pressed a soft kiss to his forehead. His skin was warm beneath your lips, and you lingered there for a second longer than you meant to, closing your eyes as a quiet promise settled in the space between you.

“Always,” you whispered, your voice barely audible but filled with every ounce of certainty you had.

When you pulled back, his eyes followed you, still searching, still vulnerable. His hand shifted slightly, his thumb brushing lightly against your pulse point like he was grounding himself in the feel of you. For a man who was usually so composed, so quick to hide behind sarcasm, he looked achingly human in that moment—like he wasn’t Red Hood, wasn’t Gotham’s vengeance, but just a man who needed someone to remind him it was okay to bleed sometimes.

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