unnamedrose

[unnamedrose]

Logan asks you out - Part 2

You said yes.

Of course you did.

And now Logan’s standing outside your door, knuckles raised like he’s been frozen mid-thought, mid-motion, mid-what-the-hell-am-I-doing. He knocks once. Then again. Then shoves his hands in his pockets like that’ll somehow keep him from turning and leaving.

He nearly does.

But then you open the door.

You’re not dressed up. Not really. Just you, soft around the edges, looking at him like you see him. And he forgets how to be nervous.

“You’re early,” you say, smiling.

“You’re worth showing up early for,” he replies before he can stop himself. Then clears his throat, like he wants to swallow the words back down.

But you don’t tease him for it. You just tilt your head a little, and he thinks maybe he’d say it all again if it meant you’d look at him like that one more time.

The restaurant is quiet. Warm. He holds the door for you and doesn’t say anything when your shoulder brushes his on the way in, but his eyes follow you to the table like it’s instinct.

You don’t talk much at first. He’s not good at small talk. But you don’t push. You just sit with him. Let him breathe. Let him get used to the fact that you’re really here, across from him, choosing this.

And eventually, he starts to speak.

Little things. The way the food reminds him of a place he barely remembers. The story behind the scar near his collarbone. The way you always tug your sleeves over your hands when you’re trying not to fidget.

He’s watching. He always watches.

But tonight, he lets himself look.

You catch him once. He doesn’t look away.

“Something on my face?” you tease.

He shakes his head. “Nah. Just making sure this isn’t some dream I’ll wake up from.”

The food comes and neither of you finishes it. The conversation’s too good. And somewhere between the last sip of water and the check arriving, something in his chest starts to settle. Like he’s not bracing for you to leave anymore.

He walks you home.

Not because he thinks he should, but because he wants to. The sidewalk is cracked and uneven, and when you stumble just a little, he reaches out. You don’t need him to, but you let him anyway.

At your door, you turn to him, soft smile still playing on your lips.

“I had a good time,” you say.

He nods once. “Me too.”

There’s a pause. One of those thick ones that hum with the weight of something unsaid.

“I’m glad I asked,” he says, voice barely above a whisper.

You lean in, just close enough for your forehead to brush his. “Took you long enough.”

And he laughs. A real one. Low, warm, a little disbelieving.

When you kiss him, it’s not rushed. Not desperate. It’s quiet. Steady. Like him.

Like something that matters.

And when you pull away, he doesn’t move, just watches you step inside, lips parted like he might say something else.

But he doesn’t.

Because he doesn’t need to.

You already know.

He wants this. He wants you. And now—he’s got you.

part 1

[unnamedrose]

𝐋𝐎𝐆𝐀𝐍 𝐇𝐎𝐖𝐋𝐄𝐓𝐓 𝐗 𝐕𝐈𝐋𝐋𝐀𝐈𝐍!𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐃𝐄𝐑

The rooftop’s quiet, the kind of quiet that hums. Down below, the city pulses—sirens, neon, life. But up here, it's just the two of you. You’re perched on the ledge like you own the skyline, legs crossed, eyes bright with mischief.

Logan doesn’t say anything at first. He just steps out of the shadows, jaw set, arms crossed like he’s already regretting being here.

“You always show up when things get messy,” he says.

You smile slowly, like you’ve been waiting for him. “You always show up when I do. Coincidence?”

He grunts. “Doubt it.”

You hop down from the ledge, boots hitting the concrete with barely a sound. Every movement you make is deliberate. Fluid. Dangerous. You close the distance between you and him until you can smell the leather of his jacket and something darker beneath—smoke and heat and him.

“You stalking me, Logan?”

His jaw tightens. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

You tilt your head. “Too late.”

His eyes flick over you once, fast, like he’s trying not to look. Like not noticing you takes effort. His hands stay at his sides, clenched just enough that you catch it. He’s trying to be good. To be still. To act like your presence doesn’t crawl under his skin in ways even he doesn’t understand.

You lift your fingers and trace just barely along the collar of his jacket. A whisper of contact. A challenge.

“You never did tell me what you think of me,” you say, voice like silk wrapped around something sharp.

He meets your gaze then. Steady. Burning. “Don’t need to.”

And still—he doesn’t move.

You lean in, breath ghosting against his cheek. “You’re fun when you’re pretending not to care.”

His voice is low. Tense. “I don’t play games.”

You grin. “Then what do you call this?”

Silence. His eyes say things his mouth won’t. Want. Restraint. Frustration. And maybe something deeper he hasn’t named yet.

Then, before he can say anything else, you’re gone.

One blink and you're back on the ledge, crouched like a shadow. A breeze catches your coat as you glance over your shoulder, eyes glinting under the city lights.

“You’ll see me again,” you say, like a promise. Like a threat.

And then you vanish, swallowed by the night.

Logan stands there for a long time, jaw set, fists curled.

Because he knows you’re right.

[unnamedrose]

Thank you to everyone who got me to 1000 likes!

This means so much to me that so many people enjoy my writing. I didn't think that my writing would get a lot of likes but I am grateful to anyone who enjoyed it.

Don't be a silent reader! A single interaction can mean a lot to any writer.

[unnamedrose]

Logan doesn’t ask the way other people do.

He doesn’t stumble over his words or make a grand gesture. He doesn’t rehearse a speech in his head or try to charm you with practiced lines. That’s not him. Never was.

He just waits.

Waits for the right moment, when the world goes quiet. When you’re beside him, not talking, just being. Maybe it’s after a long day, your shoes kicked off at the door, your body curled up on the couch like you always do. Maybe you’re laughing, head thrown back, sleeves pulled over your hands, and he’s watching like he always does. Like he’s memorizing it all for later. Because he is.

He doesn’t look at you when he says it. Not at first. His voice is low, rough around the edges like it always is, but there’s a softness threaded through it that only comes out when he talks to you.

“You wanna go out sometime? Just you and me.”

No nickname. No teasing. Just truth.

And when you glance up, brows raised, heart fluttering, he finally meets your eyes. Steady. Certain. There’s no smirk, no wry grin, just a look that says he’s thought about this. That he’s been thinking about this for a long time.

Logan doesn’t ask unless he means it. He doesn’t let himself want things, not often. But he wants this. You.

He shrugs a little, like it’s no big deal, like your answer won’t shake something loose in his chest.

“I remember you like that Thai place on Fifth. I figured we could go there. If you want.”

But you see it. The way his fingers curl slightly. The way his foot taps once against the floor. The tiniest tell. Because this matters.

Because you matter.

And he’s not asking just to take you out.

He’s asking because he wants to be the one who gets to.

Part 2

[unnamedrose]

He’s too close.

Or maybe you’re the one who moved. You can’t remember anymore. It’s late, the air between you warm and humming. His room smells like leather and smoke and the faint trace of your perfume—because you’ve been here before. Too many times. Not like this, though.

You’re standing toe to toe, both of you half-daring the other to make the first move. His eyes are on your mouth. They’ve been there for a while.

“You gonna keep staring,” you murmur, “or do something about it?”

His jaw tightens. He doesn’t flinch, doesn’t blink. Just looks at you like a man barely holding it together.

“Careful,” he says. Low. Rough. “You don’t know what you’re asking for.”

You take a step closer, chest brushing his. “Sure I do.”

You see it, the flicker behind his eyes. The hesitation. The heat. The line he’s been trying not to cross, cracking under his feet.

You tilt your head. “What’s wrong, Logan?” you whisper. “Afraid you might like it?”

That gets him.

He closes the distance in a breath—quick, clean, deliberate. One hand settles low on your hip, firm and steady; the other slides up, fingers threading into your hair at the nape of your neck. His grip isn't rough, but there's no softness either, just control. His eyes lock onto yours, sharp and unreadable, like he’s daring you to flinch first.

“I will like it,” he says, voice dark, almost dangerous. “That’s the problem.”

Your breath stutters. You don’t back down.

“Then stop pretending you don’t want to.”

There’s a beat—just one—but it stretches long and sharp between you. A second where he could pull away, let this moment pass, pretend again.

He doesn’t.

His lips crash into yours, hot, unforgiving, nothing held back. He kisses like a man used to restraint, finally letting go. His grip on your waist tightens. You gasp against his mouth as he kisses you deeper.

There’s no sweetness in it. Just heat. Tension. Weeks, maybe months, of stolen glances and interrupted touches finally snapping into something real.

He pulls back just enough to speak, breath ragged, eyes still on your mouth.

“Still want me to stop?”

“Not a chance.”

[unnamedrose]

𝐁𝐑𝐈𝐀𝐍 𝐌𝐎𝐒𝐄𝐑 who looks at you like you’re the only constant in a world that’s always shifting beneath his feet. Not with softness, not with easy warmth — no, it’s a look that’s sharper than that. Like he’s peeling back every layer you wear, reading the scars you don’t speak of, and weighing them against the pieces of himself he’s been trying to bury.

Brian who looks at you like you’re the answer to a question he’s been too afraid to ask. His eyes don’t just see you — they search. For something real, something unbreakable. The way he studies the curve of your smile, the way your eyes flicker with that quiet defiance, it’s like he’s memorizing you, holding on to the parts of you that don’t crumble under pressure.

Brian who looks at you like he’s trying to understand how someone like you can stay standing when the world’s been nothing but a battleground. Like you carry a kind of strength he thought was lost to him forever. And maybe, just maybe, in that look, he’s begging you silently not to disappear.

Brian who looks at you like you’re the one place where chaos doesn’t touch him. Where the dark passenger he fights inside him don’t feel so loud. It’s not love — not the kind he’s ever known. It’s something rawer, something quieter. A tether. A lifeline. A wordless promise that maybe he doesn’t have to be alone.

Brian who looks at you like you’re both the question and the answer, the darkness and the light, the danger and the calm. Like every glance is a reckoning — and he’s both terrified and certain that you’re worth the risk.

[unnamedrose]

we need more brian moser from you🙏🙏you write so beautifully

Thank you so much xx

I'm happy you enjoyed it! It really means a lot.

I'm definitely in my Brian era right now, I've got a few in my drafts right now that I'm hoping to post today. Stay tuned!

[unnamedrose]

𝐁𝐑𝐈𝐀𝐍 𝐌𝐎𝐒𝐄𝐑 who watches you more than he speaks. Not in the obvious way. Not like the rest of them. It’s quieter than that. Like he’s memorizing your patterns. How your mouth moves when you’re thinking. The way your hands fidget when you're lying. He doesn’t call you out. He just watches. Stores it.

Brian who always seems to show up when you need him. Before you’ve even said a word. A call you didn’t make. A knock on the door when the silence was becoming too loud. You wonder how he knew. He shrugs. Says something deflective. But you catch that look in his eyes—a flicker of something raw. Maybe he understands loneliness better than he lets on.

He’s careful with you. Which is strange, because you’ve seen how careless he can be with others. Effortless cruelty behind a calm smile. A predator wearing a lover’s voice. But never with you. With you, his touch is deliberate. Slow. Like he’s afraid of breaking something he never thought he’d be allowed to hold.

Brian who doesn’t believe in soulmates—until you. He doesn’t call it that, of course. He’s too logical, too damaged, too aware of what he is. But there’s a look he gives you sometimes. After the laughter fades, after the masks slip. When the world is quiet and there’s nothing left but the two of you breathing in the dark. That look says if anyone could be meant for me, it would be you.

Brian who shares pieces of himself he’s never named aloud. Not all at once. Just flashes. A memory, a story, a bloodstained fact. Testing you. Pushing. Will you run? And when you don’t—when you stay—he watches you like you’ve done something impossible.

There are days when he disappears. Leaves without warning. Comes back with tired eyes and that familiar scent of something metallic trailing behind him. You never ask. He never lies. And in that silence, there is trust.

Brian who doesn't know how to be normal. But with you, he tries. He learns your coffee order. He remembers the names of people who hurt you. He buys you a book you mentioned once in passing—dog-eared from his own reading of it. He doesn���t say “I love you.” He says, “I’ll take care of it.” He says, “Don’t worry about them.” He says, “You’re safe with me.”

And somehow, with him—you believe it. Even if you know you shouldn’t. Even if your heart beats faster not out of fear, but something far more dangerous. Something that feels like falling, like surrender, like letting the monster in.

Brian Moser who doesn’t understand redemption. But if there’s a piece of it in this world, he thinks it might look like your smile.

[unnamedrose]

Logan Howlett who remembers everything about you.

Who notices the way your eyes shift when you're overthinking, who can tell the difference between your real smile and the one you put on to be polite. Logan who doesn’t say much but listens—soaks in every offhand comment, every quiet confession you didn’t think he’d care about. Who remembers your favorite kind of tea, the book you were reading last winter, the way you like your eggs in the morning. Who noticed when your hoodie sleeves were too long that day and made a mental note to fix it before you even asked.

Logan who doesn’t forget the little things—what you wore on the day you first met, the way your voice trembles when you're excited, your favorite constellation in the sky. He won’t say it aloud, won’t make a show of it, but when you find your favorite snack tucked in the side pocket of your bag, or a song you love quietly playing in the background when you walk into his room, it’s him. Always him.

Logan who remembers because you matter. Because he wants to.

Logan who pretends not to care but has memorized every single thing about you like it’s carved into his bones.

Logan who holds you like you’re a memory he refuses to lose—because for once, he wants something to stay.

And god, he hopes you do.

[unnamedrose]

I have no holy words to say about Brian Moser

[unnamedrose]

"Jesus, love, did anyone ever tell you what a bloody pain you are?"

"Then why are you even here?" you snap, whirling around to face him. Your voice is sharp, your jaw tight. It has been days since you had a good night sleep, one eye open during the night incase Homelander or one of his minions would come bursting through the basement.

But clearly, Billy Butcher has other priorities.

He smirks, that beautiful stupid smirk, my god it makes your blood boil sometimes. That familiar glint in his eyes like he’s enjoying every second of your fury. Probably gets off from it.

"Maybe I’m a masochist," he says, head tilting slightly as his eyes lock on yours — too steady, too knowing. And then they begin to trace down the line of your body, like he’s memorizing the shape of you to think of later.

The air between you tightens, heavy and charged. It hums in your ears, that electric buzz that always seems to spark when he's near — a tension coiled so tight you’re not sure if you want to punch him or pull him closer.

"You know what I think?" he says, voice low and rough, like gravel soaked in honey. He steps in, just close enough to make you feel it — the heat of him, the weight of his presence. "You mouth off like you want me gone, but your eyes? They’re sayin’ a whole different story, sweetheart."

You scoff, crossing your arms like armor. "You're delusional."

But it feels weak, even to you. Especially when he leans in a fraction more, his breath ghosting your skin — warm, tinged with whisky and smoke.

"'Cause I reckon if I touched you right now," he continues, his tone almost a whisper, "you’d forget whatever it was you were pissed off about."

And god, maybe you would. You hate that you don’t back away. That part of you — the part he always seems to see right through — wants him too close. Wants the crash and burn.

"Butcher—" you start, voice rough with warning, or maybe need.

"Yeah?" he murmurs, eyes searching yours now, not just teasing, but waiting. Daring. "Say the word and I’m gone. Swear on me Nan."

The silence stretches. Long. Loaded.

Your lips part — to push him away, to tell him off — but nothing comes. He sees it. Of course he sees it.

And that damned grin returns.

"Knew it."

[unnamedrose]

𝓘𝓷𝓽𝓻𝓸𝓭𝓾𝓬𝓽𝓲𝓸𝓷

Hello welcome to my blog! My name is Rose and I write from time to time when given enough motivation. I usually write one thing for multiple characters so anybody can read it but feel free to request for just one person (or more)!

I am multifandom and I am part of too many fandoms to count but the main ones are The Boys, Marvel, Hannibal, Game of Thrones, Justified, Killing Eve, The Witcher, You, The Walking Dead, Arcane etc..

Constructive criticism is always welcome but if you have nothing else to say then please kindly go read something else.

𝓡𝓮𝓺𝓾𝓮𝓼𝓽𝓼 𝓪𝓷𝓭 𝓓𝓶𝓼 𝓪𝓻𝓮 𝓪𝓵𝔀𝓪𝔂𝓼 𝓸𝓹𝓮𝓷

[unnamedrose]

"How dare you come back, you think you can just stand here like nothing happened after everything you've done?" You glare at him, tears threatening to slip from your eyes. You cannot give in, you remind yourself for the fifth time that night. Not again. How could God possibly expect you to not give in?

He looks at you. Just looks.

His eyes aren’t cold—no, that would’ve been easier. They’re soft, almost tender, and that makes it worse. Like he’s trying to memorize you. Like he missed you.

Your hands curl into fists at your sides. You want him to speak. You want him to explain, to fight, to do something—but he doesn’t. He just stands there, that familiar silence between you, thicker now, heavier than it ever was.

“Say something,” you snap, voice shaking. “Say anything.”

He doesn’t. His jaw tightens, just slightly. That’s the only thing that moves. His eyes stay on yours, unwavering.

You laugh, bitter and breathless. “Of course. That’s what you’re good at, right? Standing there while everything falls apart around you.”

Still nothing.

You swallow hard, tears burning now. “You don’t get to look at me like that. Like you’re sorry. Like you ever felt anything.”

His eyes flicker—just barely.

Then he moves.

One step. Then another. And before you can stop him, before your mind can even catch up, his arms are around you—tight, warm, anchoring you in a way that shatters every wall you’ve tried to build.

You stiffen. But only for a second.

“It’s okay, love,” he whispers into your hair, voice low, rough with everything he hasn't said. “I’m here.”

And that’s when the tears fall.

Because damn him— He still feels like home.

[unnamedrose]

When he kisses you, the world slows, melting into the background like a half-remembered dream. His lips, rough yet impossibly gentle, press against yours with a hunger that speaks of longing, of quiet nights spent wanting. His calloused hands, cradle your face like you’re the most fragile thing he’s ever touched.

There’s something raw in the way he kisses you—something unspoken, a promise wrapped in the heat of his breath. It’s desperate, like he’s afraid this moment might slip through his fingers, like he needs to memorize the taste of you, the way you sigh into his mouth. There’s something unique about him, something that makes your knees weak and your heart stutter in your chest.

And when he pulls away, just barely, his forehead resting against yours, his thumb tracing lazy circles against your cheek—you swear you can still feel him everywhere. Like a ghost, like a fire, like something you never want to let go of.

[unnamedrose]

I feel like as someone who has countless fictional/celebrity crushes there is always at least 1 or 2 that will always stick with you. Like, as you go through different phases of movies/tv shows that you are currently in, there is always a centerpiece but at the end of the day your love for one will just never flatter or stop....just me? ok.

[unnamedrose]

ate up my exams so now I can go back to my home--Tumblr and Billy Butcher

[unnamedrose]

everyday I am grateful that I am from the same country as karl urban and antony starr