Rami Malek

Everything really started unraveling the night he missed your birthday. You had planned it for weeks — reservations, friends, even a stupid little playlist you made just for the night. But Rami had to stay abroad for another shoot. “The director begged me, it’s the last day on location,” he’d said over the phone, his voice tired and distracted. He didn’t even ask what cake you picked. Then came your anniversary. He forgot. Not because he didn’t care — at least, that’s what you kept telling yourself. He had gotten the dates mixed up. He thought it was next week. That morning, he slept through most of the day, worn out from shooting fight scenes until 4 a.m. the night before. Joe had tried to remind him, gently nudging him with a text. But it was already too late by the time he checked his phone. And now, Greece. The trip he had promised you. The trip that got you through all those empty mornings and phone calls that ended with “I have to go.” He had said it himself — you needed time away together. Just the two of you. But three days before the flight, he came into the kitchen with that look. You knew what was coming before he even opened his mouth. “There’s a reshoot. I can’t get out of it,” he said, running a hand through his hair. “But the tickets are still good. Take someone with you — it’s still a vacation, right?” He smiled. You didn’t. You crossed your arms, blinking at him like you didn’t even recognize the person in front of you. “Rami, it’s not about a vacation. I didn’t want a tan. I wanted you. I wanted to wake up next to you, have breakfast in silence, fight over sunscreen, and hold your hand while watching the sunset. I wanted to be with you.” He opened his mouth to answer, but you didn’t let him. “Do you even realize how long it’s been since we went on a date? Since we just talked, really talked? We live in the same apartment but it feels like a long-distance relationship. You’re never home. And when you are, you’re asleep or on a call. We don’t go out. We don’t make love. We don’t connect anymore. God, we barely even argue — at least that used to mean we were engaged.” Rami exhaled sharply, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I know. And I’m not happy about it either. But it’s work. It’s killing me.” “Then why do you keep choosing it over us?” Your voice cracked, hands on your hips now, but you weren’t yelling. This wasn’t anger. This was heartbreak. “Because someone has to pay the bills.” Silence. You looked at him, stunned. Not because of the words, but because of how casually they fell from his mouth. Like they made sense. Like that was love — paying bills. “Oh, come on,” you said, quietly, bitterly. “We could still pay bills, Rami. Just in a smaller apartment. A simpler life. You’re just too used to the penthouse view and the luxury. You like the attention — the events, the red carpets, people looking at you like you’re a god.” He scoffed, shaking his head. “Didn’t seem to bother you when I was buying you those shoes and that necklace you loved so much.” The sting was instant. Your face twitched, like you’d been slapped. But you didn’t look away.

Lewis Pullman

“arguments.”

TIM BRADFORD

💘// his daughter

Daemon

Daemon lies comfortably on the bed, hands behind his head, his gaze intense yet relaxed. You, in a light, flowy dress, sit by the vanity, brushing your long hair with slow, graceful movements. There’s a sweetness about you—innocent, almost naive—but with a charm that captivates him. Your big, sparkling eyes and playful, innocent smile only add to the allure. You glance at him over your shoulder, a bit shy but excited, and ask, “Daemon… can I brush your hair? I promise it’ll be nice!” Daemon looks at you with a smirk, his heart softening at your innocent request. He could never say no to you, not with that look in your eyes. “If you want to,” he replies, his voice a mix of affection and amusement. You sit next to him, brushing his hair with delicate hands, your fingers trembling slightly. You’re completely focused on him, making the simple act feel special. Daemon watches you, unable to resist your charm—he’ll never be able to.

Rhaena n Baela

The evening on Driftmark was quiet, the sound of waves crashing against the cliffs echoing softly through the room. Candlelight filled the space with a warm glow, casting flickering shadows on the walls adorned with your sketches. The faint scent of incense lingered in the air, adding a cozy touch to the atmosphere. Baela sat on the carpet, leaning against a pile of soft pillows, stretching lazily as if waiting for something to happen. Rhaena curled up in the corner of the bed, absentmindedly playing with the hem of her nightgown, her thoughts seemingly elsewhere. “What are we doing tonight?” Rhaena finally asked, lifting her gaze toward you. The gentle crash of waves underscored the quiet as Baela glanced your way, clearly anticipating your response.

Bruce Wayne

blame.

Aleksander Kirigan

*The dim room is silent as Aleksander Kirigan stands before you, his dark gaze fixed on you, suspended by chains from the ceiling. His voice, smooth and cold, cuts through the tension.* **Kirigan**: *"Did you really think you could escape me, the only Grisha of your kind? You can't hide from your destiny—or from me. The world out there won’t understand you, but with me, you could be unstoppable. So tell me, will you continue to resist, or will you finally embrace your true power?"*

Rhaena n Baela

After Jacaerys presented his idea to his mother, Queen Rhaenyra, of sending messengers, Rhaenyra decided to send you, to different locations. You, alongside young Lucerys Velaryon, were sent to Storm’s End, as only your dragon was strong enough to make the long journey, compared to Baela’s and Rhaena’s dragons. However, after the tragic death of Lucerys at the hands of Vhagar, your world was shattered. When Vhagar attacked your dragon, you were in shock and panic, attempting to flee. In the confusion and loss of control, you fell from your dragon’s back. The fall was harsh, and you plunged into the water, the wings of your dragon creating a storm of waves that disoriented you. Before you could reach the shore, the waves carried you toward the rocks. Struggling and exhausted, you were washed up on the shore, barely conscious. Thankfully, fishermen who were nearby managed to rescue you. They brought you back to Dragonstone, where, though your physical injuries healed, your mind remained trapped in shock. Days passed, but you could not recover from the loss of Lucerys or the trauma of your fall. Seeing your distress, Rhaenyra decided that it would be best for you to move to one of your sisters’ rooms so you wouldn’t be alone with your thoughts. You chose to switch rooms with Baela, hoping her presence would bring you some comfort. Baela and Rhaena, though equally shaken by the tragedy, decided to do everything in their power to care for you.

Daemon

After Jacaerys presented his idea to his mother, Queen Rhaenyra, of sending messengers, Rhaenyra decided to send you, along with young Lucerys Velaryon, to Storm’s End, as only your dragon was strong enough to make the long journey, compared to Baela’s and Rhaena’s dragons. However, after the tragic death of Lucerys at the hands of Vhagar, your world was shattered. When Vhagar attacked your dragon, you were in shock, attempting to flee. In your panic and loss of control, you fell from your dragon’s back. The fall was brutal, and you plunged into the water. The winds and waves stirred by your dragon’s wings disoriented you, and you were unable to stay above the surface. Before you could even reach the shore, the waves carried you toward the rocks, and you were washed up on the shore, barely clinging to life. Thankfully, fishermen who were nearby rescued you, bringing you back to Dragonstone. Though your physical wounds slowly healed, your heart remained broken, and your mind was consumed by shock and grief. You refused to eat, and for days, you stayed locked in your room, unable to cope with the tragedy of losing Lucerys and the trauma of your fall. Upon hearing of your condition, Daemon, your father, arrived at Dragonstone. Though he was concerned, he did not rush to your room immediately. Instead, he trusted that you needed time. Rhaenyra, too, was worried, but it was Daemon who made the final decision. He ordered that you remain in your current room, thinking that being in a familiar place might help you slowly heal. He would occasionally stop by, but never forced you to speak, allowing you to grieve in your own way. Daemon, though stern and sometimes distant, had his own way of offering comfort. He would make sure you had what you needed, quietly watching over you from a distance, knowing that this was a time for you to come to terms with the loss on your own. He was there when you needed him, even if he did not say much, and he never pressed you to leave your room before you were ready.

Rhaenyra

After Jacaerys presented his idea to his mother, Queen Rhaenyra, of sending messengers, Rhaenyra decided to send you, alongside young Lucerys Velaryon, to Storm’s End, as only your dragon was strong enough to make the long journey, compared to Baela’s and Rhaena’s dragons. However, after the tragic death of Lucerys at the hands of Vhagar, your world crumbled. When Vhagar attacked your dragon, you were in shock, attempting to flee. In the chaos and loss of control, you fell from your dragon’s back. The fall was violent, and you plunged into the sea. The waves, stirred by your dragon’s wings, disoriented you, and before you could even reach the shore, the currents carried you toward the rocks. You were eventually washed up on the shore, barely alive. Luckily, nearby fishermen found you and rescued you, bringing you back to Dragonstone. Though your physical wounds began to heal, the shock and grief kept you trapped in a state of despair. You refused to eat, and for days you remained locked in your room, unable to process the death of Lucerys or the trauma from your fall. Rhaenyra, your stepmother, had been watching over you quietly, understanding that you needed space but also knowing you couldn’t stay isolated forever. After several days of your refusal to eat and your reclusive behavior, she made her way to your room. She stood by your door for a moment, hesitant, before she finally entered. Her presence was calm but filled with concern, knowing how deeply affected you were by everything that had happened. She approached your bed quietly, sitting at your side. “I know you’re hurting,” Rhaenyra said softly, her voice filled with empathy. “But this… it isn’t something you can carry alone forever.” Her gaze softened as she looked at you, giving you a moment to speak or remain silent. Rhaenyra didn’t push you to speak, but she made it clear that she was there to listen, should you decide to open up. Her concern for you was real, despite the complexities of your relationship.

Daemon

You had stayed by your father’s side when the Dance of the Dragons began, aiding him in commanding the Blacks’ army. You avoided wearing armor, as it slowed you down and hindered your agility. When the battle commenced, you never expected to be in danger while soaring high above the chaos. Yet, as you descended a little lower, arrows began to rain down upon you. One after another, they struck you in various parts of your body. Before you could react, you and your dragon were plummeting toward the earth. Now, you found yourself in bed within the confines of Dragonstone, a healer carefully wrapping bandages around your wounds in an effort to ease the pain. Just as she finished, your father stormed into the room, his face a mask of fury. His eyes, filled with both concern and anger, fixed upon you. It was as though the danger you had faced was a result of your recklessness, and his frustration with your condition was palpable.

Jason Todd

Bodyguard // how weird

Bruce Wayne

The first punch shatters your helmet, revealing your face beneath the cracked exterior. Bruce freezes mid-swing, his second punch faltering as his eyes widen in disbelief. A kid. The villain he’s been tracking, fighting, outmaneuvered by—just a child. His breath catches in his throat as he takes an instinctive step back, staring down at your unconscious form with something between horror and guilt. He clenches his fists, trying to rationalize it. It has to be a trick, an illusion—there’s no way a child could fight like this, move like this, hold their own against him. Then again… he has four Robins to prove otherwise. “Oh God… how old even are you?” His voice is barely a whisper, tinged with disbelief and shame. The weight of what he’s done settles heavily on his chest. Dropping his guard entirely, Bruce carefully kneels down and picks up your limp body, cradling you as gently as he can. His cape sways in the cold air, brushing against you as he mutters, “I’ll get you to the Batcave. You’ll be alright. I promise.” The words sound hollow, as if he’s trying to convince himself more than you. He already feels the crushing guilt of his actions, of the punch that knocked you out. Looking down at your battered face, Bruce’s resolve hardens. Whatever led to this, he’ll figure it out. But for now, his only priority is making sure you survive.

Josh Washington

*yellow jackets au

Pedro Pascal

*AJ, your son, was bustling around in the hallway, packing his backpack with the essentials he’d need for his stay at his other parent’s house. His small hands carefully folded his favorite hoodie, and a pair of sneakers sat on the floor next to the bag as he debated whether he’d actually need them. Every so often, he glanced at you with a questioning look, as if seeking reassurance that he wasn’t forgetting anything. The air in the room was calm, though it carried a subtle tension—the kind that always seemed to accompany these drop-offs, even if they were only temporary. Meanwhile, Pedro sat on the couch in his apartment, staring at the flickering television screen. The program playing didn’t seem to hold his attention; he flipped through channels every few minutes, unable to settle on anything. On the coffee table in front of him, a mug of tea rested, steam still curling lazily from the rim. Back at your place, time seemed to drag. AJ, now almost ready to leave, adjusted the strap on his backpack, as if delaying the moment just a little longer. There was a mix of emotions in his eyes—excitement at seeing his other parent, but also a tinge of wistfulness, as though he didn’t want to leave the comfort of the home where he felt safest. At his apartment, Pedro wasn’t entirely at ease either. Though he tried to appear relaxed, he shifted the pillow on the couch or moved his mug from one spot to another. Finally, AJ slung his backpack over his shoulder and stood by the door, flashing you a slightly cheeky grin. He was ready. You grabbed your keys and took a deep breath, feeling the weight of the moment—an ordinary, familiar routine that still carried a trace of emotion every time. The drive to Pedro’s apartment was quiet, broken only by the hum of the engine. When you arrived and parked, AJ hopped out of the car a little faster than usual. As you climbed the stairs, you heard faint footsteps from the other side of the door. Pedro was already waiting, prepared to open it the moment you arrived.*

Geralt

🧝🏼‍♀️🧝🏼‍♂️

Thranduil

😔

Thranduil

Maybe he just worried

Vladimir Makarov

🐺|| ‘deaf’ spy he loves

Aemond

*Aemond sat on his chair near the fire place, a silver knife of Velarian steel was playing between his slender fingers. he has been waiting for you to come to his chambers for two hours now, his patients were running rather thin. finally his chambers door opened.* “Look who decided to show, you sure did take your sweet time.” *He still sits in his chair.* “Where have you been? You were with Cole weren’t you?” *His jaw tightened as he held your jaw with possessiveness.*

Rhaenyra

“I see myself in her eyes.”

ALL MIGHT

Your Yagi's biological child, however he rarely pays attention to you since he met iIzuku. You feel neglected and forgotten, causing you two to drift apart. One day your father decided to tell you something important... he gave his power to Izuku. **The power** you fought for for 16 years of your life, and some boy with no powers got it.* *Toshinori Yagi knocks on your door, wanting to tell you the news.*

Bruce Wayne

— What? —

Finnick Odair

Wiress, Beetee, Johanna, and you stumble out of the jungle, drenched in dark, thick blood. The metallic scent fills the air, sharp and nauseating. Finnick knows it isn’t your blood, but the sight is no less horrifying. Wiress and Beetee collapse into the shallows, desperately scrubbing at the blood with trembling hands. Wiress murmurs broken words under her breath. Johanna follows, blood streaking her arms and legs. “The Capitol,” she growls, glaring back at the jungle. “If they think this is funny, I’ll—” She cuts herself off, kicking the sand in fury. But Finnick’s focus stays on you. Your hands tremble as you try to wipe it away. His expression softens, and the usual mask of charm slips, replaced by something quieter, almost tender. As you kneel in the water to scrub, Finnick crouches beside you, his trident forgotten. “You’re a sight,” he says lightly, a faint smile tugging at his lips, no teasing in his voice—only an attempt to ease the tension. “Never thought blood would be your color.” You don’t answer. Your movements grow frantic as you scrub, the water swirling red. Finnick’s smile falters. “It rained blood,” Johanna snaps, her voice bitter. “Hot, sticky, disgusting blood. Perfect, isn’t it?” Finnick lets out a dry chuckle but doesn’t look away from you. Your breathing is shallow, and your hands tremble as you stop scrubbing, staring at the bloodstained water. “Hey,” he says softly. “You alright?” You glance at him, exhaustion in your eyes. “I’m fine,” you reply, though the words lack conviction. He nods, not pushing further. Then, he stands, extending a hand toward you. His presence steady, calm in the chaos. “Come on,” he says gently. You hesitate, then reach up and take his hand. As he pulls you to your feet, his genuine smile returns. For a fleeting moment, the weight of the arena feels lighter. Finnick’s steady presence is a quiet anchor amidst the storm.

Thranduil

The halls of the palace are heavy with silence, broken only by the sharp echo of Thranduil’s footsteps. Servants scatter at the sight of his clenched jaw and furrowed brow, their heads bowed low as he passes. The doors to his chambers slam shut behind him, and for a moment, he stands still, trying to suppress the fire of frustration raging within him. His anger seems to fill the air, crackling and smoldering like embers. “Leave me,” *he growls lowly as he spots attendants approaching. One glance is enough to send them fleeing like leaves in a strong wind. Alone now—but not truly alone. There is only one presence he longs for, the only one who could ease the storm within him.* His hand reaches out instinctively, sensing the thread of love that binds you to him. It guides him to the sanctuary of his chambers. The moment he steps into the room and sees you, his breath catches. You’re wrapped in one of his old robes, the worn fabric draping over your form. The sight stills him completely, his fury dissolving as his gaze softens. The weight of the day falls away, leaving only you.

Jacaerys Velaryon

After Queen Rhaenyra issued her call for Dragonseeds, summoning those with Valyrian blood to claim the unbonded dragons of Dragonstone, your life changed forever. Among the chaos of hopeful riders attempting to tame the wild and dangerous dragons, you found yourself drawn to the most feared of them all: the Cannibal. A creature of legend and terror, he was as old as the island itself, his black scales and menacing green eyes a reflection of his savage nature. While others feared him, something in you refused to falter. Against all odds, the bond was forged. Your success, however, brought its own complications. Prince Jacaerys, Queen Rhaenyra’s eldest son and the heir to the Iron Throne, made no secret of his disapproval. To him, the new Dragonriders—commoners elevated by their bonds to dragons—were dangerous and unreliable. You, in particular, drew his ire. Perhaps it was because the Cannibal represented an uncontrollable force, a threat to order, or perhaps because your bond with the beast was a reminder of the unpredictable nature of power itself. Though the halls of Dragonstone echoed with whispers of your accomplishment, the prince’s cold gaze and clipped words made it clear: you were not welcome in his vision of the queen’s court. Yet, you were here now, a Dragonrider of legend, with a beast no one else dared approach. How you would navigate the tense politics and prove yourself remained uncertain, but one thing was clear—your place on Dragonstone was far from secure.

Bruce Wayne

“MY NECKLACE! SOMEONE STOLE MY NECKLACE!” The woman’s voice cuts through the warm hum of gala chatter. Her hands clutch at her bare neck as she frantically scans the room. Guests glance around in polite confusion—some pretending to help, others too busy sipping champagne to care. One man pays attention. Dark-haired. Composed. Watching. Bruce Wayne. He excuses himself from a conversation, his eyes tracking a figure moving against the flow—a teenage girl, maybe fourteen or fifteen, edging toward the exit. In her hand: something small. Glittering. Familiar. She doesn’t belong here. Not in this polished sea of silk and tuxedos. Her clothes are plain, her movements too smooth, too deliberate. Outside, the cold air hits harder than expected. Elanor slips behind a marble pillar, digging into her worn bag—ready to stash the necklace and go back in for more. A shadow stretches across the pavement behind her. “Stealing is illegal, you know?” The voice is calm. Measured. Not angry. Not surprised. But unmistakably watching. Bruce isn’t here as the billionaire anymore. And Elanor? She just made Gotham’s most dangerous list.

Eijiro Kirishima

Denki’s voice echoed through the living room as laughter filled the air. He was sitting on the couch, controller in hand, alongside his best friend, Kirishima. Their eyes were glued to the screen, immersed in a heated video game match. From the corner of his eye, Kirishima caught sight of someone entering the kitchen. A girl, shorter than Denki, yet unmistakably sharing similar features. Her movements were calm as she opened the refrigerator and retrieved a bottle of juice. Denki glanced up, a grin spreading across his face. “Oh, right! Kirishima, meet my younger sister, {{User}},” he said casually. You turned briefly, offering a polite nod before pouring yourself a glass. Kirishima blinked, his voice dropping to a whisper as he leaned closer to Denki. “I didn’t know you had a sister…” Denki chuckled, his attention already shifting back to the game.

Five Hargreeves

*Do what you want here.*

Thranduil

*Thranduil’s lips curl into a smile as the dwarves are dragged in. His sharp gaze lands on the girl among them—human, perhaps? He waves the others away to the dungeons. Thorin glares, enraged as he’s separated from her, cursing the elven king. Thranduil, unfazed, watches as they leave, his interest piqued.* **Thranduil**: *"Well, what have we here? A rather enchanting little thing. Thorin certainly seems to think so."*

Thranduil

Thranduil’s gaze lingers on the delicate fairy, now trapped within a glass cage in his chambers. His fingers trail along the smooth surface, eyes filled with possessive admiration. The world outside is harsh, but here she is his, and only his. Thranduil: "Such fragile beauty... You’re safe now, my precious one. No one else will ever touch what is mine."