quandaryqueen

[quandaryqueen]

(Refering to the reader beating the shit out of nogogglescible drabble) "lemme know if you want a fic" PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEAS PLEAS PLEAS PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEAHJ PLEADH PLEDSAF PLEADLS PLESRE-

Damn shawty OK! Here's a quick one!

CW: violence, masochism, dirty talk(?) It's no goggles cmon man

"Do whatever you can to beat it out of him." Is what Cecil told you before you came into the interrogation room. They had somehow subdued this version of Invincible and trapped him in dull room with only one giant one-way mirror, he was trapped and confined to a chair with giant technological confines caging his hand, as if his hands were through a cinderblock.

You were debriefed before you came here, you heard of the killing, how he behaved, naturally you were already wary of Invincible's strength, and this seemed like Cecil's worst nightmare. An Invincible that isn't on your side.

The 'Mark' with you right now had his head tossed back, leaning and lounging like this was a waiting room, he looked up; no goggles covering his dark eyes. "Oh, HeLLO!" He sat up, excited to toy with you. "I remember you!"

You ignored his rambling as you looked through a list. "Y'know, we used to bang in my world! Then you got emotional when I killed somebody and broke up with me. Total bitch behaviour in my opinion, but hey, the sex was— GUH?!"

You had reeled back your fist and swung it into his jaw as best as you could, watching him pant and groan as he readjusted himself. "Ooh! Oh you wanna play?! Fuck, I can't believe I felt that!"

"Where did you and your copies come from?" You started, eyebrows furrowed as his attitude was getting on your nerves. Mark paid no mind to your questioning.

"What copies? You think perfection can be made twice?! You wish there were mo— OUGH!" Another punch in the opposite direction, blood splattering past his lips.

"Answer my questions, why are you here?!"

"Get fucked, sugar♡" Mark grinned as he looked up at you, blood blending into his gums and soaking his teeth and lips, he wanted to piss you off.

You gritted your teeth in frustration, clenching your fists as you repeated the onslaught, his grunting and sputtering echoing in the room.

"Yes, fuck that's— GHK! YES! C'mon! UGH! Hit me again! Hit m—URGH! Oh fuck yes, harder! Harder!" He repeatedly tried to speak and yell at you to hit him harder, your knuckles growing sore and pained as he showed no sign of giving in.

You took a moment to breathe, hands reddened as your panting overlayed his groaning and moaning. "oooh baby... Hah... I know I'm invincible, but you hit like you wanna fuck me...!" His thighs parted further, bucking to get any friction. "Why don't you sit, huh? Gives you stability to beat the shit outta me!"

A cringe appeared on your features as he coaxed you on his lap, you could see a hardening beneath the fitted costume. This freak was horny.

"You're disgusting." You started while rolling up your sleeves, he could feel the arousal rush to his dick as he sat up, licking the blood of his lips.

"Yeah, c'mere baby— get mad at me! Hit me!"

The door clacked open as Cecil stepped in, his expression mirroring yours. "Alright, I can't watch this shit anymore, (Name). Hit the showers."

"I knew it! (Name)?! MY (Name) from MY world?!We were destined to fuck!" Mark announced excitedly while looking up at you. "Quit cockblocking, dickhead! Get out! I don't give a fuck if you cucks watch, just gimme 30 minutes alone here with—"

"You shut up! We'll deal with you later." Cecil watched you collect your things as Mark watched you like an abandoned dog, chest rising and falling. "Wh..?! Hey! Hold on! Not even gonna hit me bye?!"

You rolled your eyes, embarassed and angry by the interaction, you could hear him yelling as you left.

"Hey! Hey, come back whenever, sweetcheeks! Maybe I'll let you choke me while you ride me! You like that shit?! Fuck, you're just my type—"

The door slammed shut, you really hoped this ordeal would get sorted soon.

[quandaryqueen]

— NO GOGGLES MARK IS A N⛧STY BASTARD !

cw. +18, smut, minors dni, fem!reader, obsession, sadomasochism, body horror, pervert!mark, mark is freaky and kinda disgusting. mark is portrayed as an utterly depraved, unhinged, and feral menace with zero boundaries and no concept of morality.

No Goggles Mark who wants to live inside you. Not just be close to you, not just hold you—he wants to be underneath your skin, inside your muscles, crawling through your veins, living inside your bones. He tells you this while holding you close, his breath shaking, his hands trembling against your body, his eyes wild and desperate. He wants to tear you open and crawl inside your ribcage, wrap himself around your heart so he can hear it beating for him and only him.

No Goggles Mark who wears your panties as a mask. He steals them straight out of your laundry, rubs them against his face, breathes you in like it’s the only air he’s ever known. He wears them while he sleeps, fights, eats, touches himself—he wears them like a second skin, because he wants you against him at all times. If you ever catch him? He doesn’t stop. He just grins, drags his tongue over the fabric, and asks if you’re gonna take them off his face yourself.

No Goggles Mark who jerks off to your voice. It doesn’t matter what you’re saying—you could be scolding him, cursing him, telling him you hate him—it only makes him harder. He closes his eyes, fists his cock, and moans your name, imagining your lips whispering filth into his ear, spitting on him, degrading him, breaking him apart.

No Goggles Mark who licks your toothbrush after you use it. He doesn’t even hesitate—as soon as you set it down, he grabs it, shoves it in his mouth, moaning as he drags it over his tongue. The taste of your spit, the remnants of your breath—it’s better than any drug, better than any high, better than any orgasm. If you ever catch him? He just stares, grinning around the toothbrush, sucking on it like he’s trying to absorb every part of you into himself.

No Goggles Mark who wants to chew on you. Not just bite—chew. He wants to sink his teeth into your shoulder and gnaw, leave indentations, bruises, proof that he was there, that he marked you, that he tasted you. He fantasizes about it when he’s alone, his fingers in his mouth, pretending they’re your flesh, pretending he’s eating you alive, pretending you’re letting him.

No Goggles Mark who keeps your hair in his mouth. If he finds a strand of your hair? It goes straight between his lips. He chews on it, rolls it over his tongue, swallows it down so you can be inside him forever. He doesn’t care if it’s weird, if it’s disgusting—it makes him feel closer to you, like he’s absorbing a piece of you into himself.

No Goggles Mark who wants to cut you open just to see what you look like inside. He doesn’t want to hurt you—he just wants to know. He wants to see what your muscles look like when they stretch, what your bones feel like under his fingers, what your insides smell like when they’re raw and open for him. He tells you this while holding you in his lap, his fingers tracing over your stomach, his breath hot against your neck, whispering how beautiful you must be underneath all this skin.

No Goggles Mark who wants to replace the air in your lungs with his breath. He kisses you so deep, so desperately, so hungrily that he wants you to choke on him. He wants your lungs to be filled with him, wants every breath you take to be something he’s given you. He kisses you so hard your lips bruise, your jaw aches, your body trembles—because if he could crawl inside your mouth and live there, he would.

No Goggles Mark who wants to be the only thing inside you. No food, no water, no air—just him. He wants you so full of him that you can’t think, can’t move, can’t exist without him. He wants his fingers, his tongue, his cock, his very existence buried so deep inside you that even if you tried to rip him out, you couldn’t.

No Goggles Mark who cums to the sound of your heartbeat. He loves pressing his head against your chest, feeling the rhythm of your pulse, knowing that your body is alive, that you are real, that you belong to him. And when you’re asleep? He jerks off to it. He strokes himself slow, groaning into your skin, matching his pace to the beat of your heart, imagining his cum soaking into your very existence.

No Goggles Mark who licks your sweat straight from your skin. He doesn’t care if you’re overheated, exhausted, drenched from the summer sun—he’s got his tongue dragging along your neck, your stomach, the dip of your spine. He groans against you, grinding his cock against your leg like a bitch in heat, smearing himself all over you.

No Goggles Mark who would shove his fingers into your mouth just to feel your teeth on him. He watches your lips wrap around them, his pupils blown wide, his breath coming out in shudders as he imagines those teeth digging into his cock, those lips sucking him raw, those soft noises muffled by his fingers pressing against your tongue.

No Goggles Mark who would fuck your thighs like a desperate animal. He doesn’t even need to be inside you—just the feeling of your soft skin, your warmth, your scent surrounding him, trapping him, ruining him—it’s enough. He ruts against you, his hands gripping your hips, his cock rubbing between your thighs, his moans loud and shameless as he fucks himself against you until he spills hot and thick all over your skin.

No Goggles Mark who would fuck himself with your underwear. If he can’t have you? He’ll make do with what he has. He takes your panties, wraps them around his cock, thrusts into them like a fucking maniac, his breath ragged, his moans broken, his eyes rolling back because the thought of your scent, your warmth, your essence surrounding him is driving him insane.

No Goggles Mark who wants to make you cry during sex. Not from pain, not from fear—from being so overwhelmed by pleasure, by love, by him. He wants to see the tears spill down your cheeks, wants to kiss them away, wants to feel them on his tongue as he whispers, “Shhh, shhh, let me take care of you.” But it only gets worse when you do—because seeing you so broken, so vulnerable, so utterly his? It makes him cum on spot.

No Goggles Mark who gets off on overstimulating you until you’re shaking. You say you can’t take anymore? He doesn’t care. He’s still touching you, still licking, still thrusting, still rubbing, watching as your body spasms, as your voice breaks, as you sob from the pleasure that won’t stop. He holds you down, pressing kisses to your ear, whispering how much he loves you, how good you are, how beautiful you look when you’re falling apart for him.

No Goggles Mark who would fuck you while you’re asleep. Not in a cruel way—but in a desperate, aching, worshipful way. He can’t help himself. You’re so warm, so soft, so perfect. He grinds against you, his breath shaky, his hips rolling slow, his cock pressing between your legs as he whimpers against your ear. If you wake up, if you catch him—he’ll only beg for more as he keeps moving, burying himself deeper, moaning about how he needs you, how he can’t live without this, without you.

No Goggles Mark who has a thing for your period. The second he catches the scent of it, his pupils blow wide, his breath stutters, his body shakes because he knows. He knows. He groans just thinking about it, about the way your body is raw, aching, open, needing him. He begs for it—pleads, whimpers, claws at you, his voice broken, desperate, because he wants it, needs it, craves it like he’s starving. If you let him? He moans against you, his eyes rolling back, his body trembling like he’s reached nirvana. He tells you you’ve never been more beautiful, never been more perfect, never been more his.

No Goggles Mark who wants you to hurt him. Scratch him, slap him, choke him—make him bleed, make him feel it, make him remember that he belongs to you. He laughs when you hit him, moans when you dig your nails into his flesh, shudders when you sink your teeth into his skin. He begs for more, begs for you to ruin him, begs for you to make him suffer because he wants it, he loves it, he craves it. If you ever whisper sweet things to him after? He breaks. He cries, shakes, whimpers into your chest like a ruined, pathetic thing.

No Goggles Mark who wants to drink your spit. He opens his mouth, sticks out his tongue, tells you to spit in it like he’s a dog waiting for a treat. He wants it, all of it, every last drop. He moans when he swallows, rolls it around his tongue, sighs like it’s the sweetest thing he’s ever tasted. If you ever call him disgusting? He just grins, licks his lips, and tells you that he’d drink your bathwater too.

No Goggles Mark who wants to be your personal punch bag. He wants you to use him, break him, push him past the point of no return. He wants you to drag your nails over his chest until it’s raw, bite his neck until it bruises, kick him away just to pull him back. If you punch him, slap him, spit in his face? He moans. He laughs. He grabs your wrist and shoves your hand back, begging you to do it again, harder, worse, meaner, because he loves it, he lives for it, he needs it.

No Goggles Mark who wants you to mark him. Not just hickeys or scratches—he wants scars. He wants to be ruined by you, wants to carry your violence like a badge of honor, wants to feel the sting of your love in every movement. If you ever cut him open, ever sink your nails deep enough to draw blood, ever slam him into a wall so hard he sees stars? He smiles, whispers ‘thank you,’ and kisses you like you’re his god.

No Goggles Mark who wants to be your favorite toy. Not your boyfriend, not your lover—your toy. Something to play with, to use, to throw away when you’re done. He wants to be on his knees for you, under your foot, bruised and battered and desperate, because he doesn’t want to be your equal—he wants to be owned. If you ever ignore him, ever tease him, ever dangle what he wants just out of reach? He whines, begs, claws at your clothes, presses himself against you like an animal in heat, because nothing is worse than being without you.

No Goggles Mark who wants to melt into you. He wants his skin to fuse with yours, his bones to dissolve into your body, his soul to entangle with yours so completely that you’re no longer two people—you’re one. He whispers this against your lips, his voice shaking, his body trembling, his fingers digging into your flesh like he’s trying to hold himself together, because the thought of not being part of you is worse than death.

Because you are his.

Forever.

— MASTERLIST ☆

— © luv-lock. Don't copy, repost or translate any of my works here or any other websites ☆

[quandaryqueen]

Random thought how good do you think each invincible variant would be at eating 😺 is there any of them who would be an actual munch

18+ explicit content

Sis, don't- it's not worth it...

Other variants under the cut!

Omnivincible is more skilled than most of them. I just feel like he's got a more mature approach and wouldn't just mindlessly delve in like some horny teenager.

He'd take his sweet time, enjoying himself without necessarily wanting something in return. In general he takes great pride in causing you pleasure. Is also pretty creative. After all his strenght allows him to eat you out in positions you didn't even know were possible.

Thought you can only come once at a time? He'll prove you otherwise.

Movincihawk constantly brags about his 'superior technique' but at the bottom line he's not all that good at it, sorry.

It's not like he isn't skilled, but he's pretty selfish and impatient. Any kind of foreplay is not a priority for him in general, he likes to go straight to the point.

Fucks pretty well to make up for it though.

Sinister Mark acts like he's doing you a favor, but with how eager he buries himself between your legs it's evident to say he enjoys this as much - if not even more than - you.

This man pins your thighs apart and eats you out like a man starving. Your taste drives him fucking crazy, so yes it could happen that he bites down harder than he intended to.

Likes to eat you out on your period. No I will not elaborate.

Striped/Target Invincible is super vocal during the whole thing. His grunts and groans vibrate against your folds, he doesn't even notice the effect you have on him.

Hope you're ready for the whole range of dirty talk, mostly degrading but occasionally throwing in words of acknowledgement. Tells you how this is your place - beneath him, completely at his mercy.

Uses his fingers better than his tongue, but is fairly good at both. The combination will send you straight to heaven.

No Goggles Invincible is probably the biggest tease on the entire planet.

This man will push you to your absolute limits, reducing you to a whining, moaning, begging puddle of lust. But he's got no mercy, prolonging your sweet torture for as long as he can - you're only allowed to cum if he says you're done.

With him the thin line between pain and pleasure is blurred into a mixture of pure overstimulation, but goddamn it's worth it.

Viltrumite Mark isn't familiar with earth's customs of intimacy. In their culture, canonically, they solely have sex for procreation. Though we never saw Debbie complaining about Nolan either, so I'm confident he can learn.

Gets the hang of it pretty fast, and quickly grows insateable with this new form of closeness he never got to experience before. He's an absolute mess, almost breaking the bedframe as he pathetically humps the mattress, wanting more more more of you.

Needs lots of cuddles and to be told he did a good job afterwards, pretty please.

Prisoner Mark was in solitary confinement for over a year - prepare to be destroyed. R.I.P.

He'll dive in between your legs and won't leave this place until he's got his fill of you, which could take him a while so get cozy.

Not an inch of your body is left untouched, as if he intents to memorize every detail, just in case you'd slip from his grasp once again.

Be prepared to cum until your body gives up. Man's got to make up for the time he spent away from you.

Unmasked Mark is very gentle, almost cautious in his efforts as if you were a fragile flower one needed to properly care for or it'd wither. He still can't fully believe you're here with him, so he's extra anxious about doing something wrong.

You'll slowly and sensually be guided towards your orgasm, his eyes never leaving yours as he reverently observes your every reaction.

Expect some premium aftercare!

Fully Masked Invincible knows you inside and out, has memorized all the weak spots that make you sing for him. He is completely and utterly devoted to your pleasure, maybe even a little too eager in his efforts since he tends to forget himself in the process.

To him your body is a temple meant for worship, so you'd relentlessly get showered in praise and compliments while he explores your body.

Will initiate at every given opportunity, but never pushes it. He just wants to make you happy, really!

[quandaryqueen]

‧₊˚ INVINCIBLE VARIANTS' JEALOUSY HEADCANONS ‧₊˚

Invincible Variants x Reader

ft: Mohawk Mark; Sinister Mark; Unmasked Mark; Omnivincible; Striped (Emperor) Mark; No Goggles Mark.

(other headcanons here)

━━━━━━━ ⟡ ━━━━━━━❛

Mohawk Mark

Jealousy? Nah, he thinks it’s funny. Until it isn’t. He’ll laugh, tease you, throw an arm around your shoulders when someone flirts with you—but if that someone doesn’t get the hint? That’s when things get ugly.

 He turns possessive real fast. If another guy is flirting with you, he joins in—except now he’s the one whispering in your ear, tugging you closer, making sure everyone in the room knows who you belong to.

You’re his, and he makes sure everyone knows it. He won’t fight over you. He doesn’t need to. Because the moment he flashes that knowing smirk, that you can try, but you won’t win attitude, people back off real fast.

➽─────────❥

"You always come here alone?" The guy leans in, all charm and confidence.

You barely have time to react before a warm arm drapes around your shoulders.

"She doesn’t," Mark answers for you, voice dripping amusement. "She’s got me."

The guy tenses, barely masking his annoyance. "Oh. I didn’t realize—"

Mark grins. "Yeah, I figured. You seem real comfortable flirting with my girl."

You glare up at him, but he just winks.

The guy sputters, scrambling for an excuse. Mark doesn’t give him the chance. Instead, he leans down, lips just brushing your ear.

"You like the attention, don’t you?" he murmurs, smug. "That’s cute, babe."

You shove him off. His laughter follows you.

━━━━━━━ ⟡ ━━━━━━━

Sinister Mark 

He doesn’t get jealous. He gets insulted. Do they really think they stand a chance? He doesn’t just own you—he dominates every part of your life. Anyone trying to compete is laughable.

His presence alone is enough to send a warning. If someone gets too close, he doesn’t need to start a fight. One look from him is enough to make most people back off. If they don’t? Then they’re in for a very unfortunate fate.

If you’re the one making him jealous, he makes you regret it. He won’t yell. He won’t get visibly mad. But he’ll get quiet. He’ll get cold. And suddenly, you’re left wondering if you just made the biggest mistake of your life.

➽─────────❥

The café feels wrong. Too still. Too quiet.

You glance up—and your stomach drops.

Mark stands in the doorway, watching. Expression unreadable.

The guy in front of you is still talking, oblivious. You barely hear him over the sound of your own heartbeat.

Mark doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. But when your eyes meet his, you know.

You excuse yourself so fast it’s almost embarrassing. By the time you step outside, he’s waiting.

"Having fun?" His voice is smooth, almost amused.

You swallow hard. "It wasn’t like that."

He hums, tilting his head. "Wasn’t it?"

A gloved hand reaches up, tucking a stray strand of hair behind your ear. You shiver.

"You can do whatever you want," he murmurs. "But don’t forget where you belong."

━━━━━━━ ⟡ ━━━━━━━

Unmasked Mark

He doesn’t want to feel jealous. He knows it’s stupid. He knows you aren’t his. But seeing someone else make you laugh, seeing you give them your attention—it kills him.

He gets insecure. He wonders if you’d be happier with someone else. Someone normal. Someone who doesn’t have blood on their hands.

When he gets jealous, he withdraws. He won’t confront you. He won’t start a fight. But he’ll pull away—and suddenly, you’re the one chasing after him.

➽─────────❥

You find him on the rooftop, staring at the city.

"Mark," you breathe, stepping closer. He doesn’t turn.

"You looked happy," he says, voice distant.

You frown. "What are you talking about?"

He exhales, rubbing his face. "That guy. Back in the café."

Realization dawns, and you groan. "Are you serious?"

He shrugs. "It’s not a big deal."

"It is a big deal if you’re out here sulking about it."

That finally gets a reaction. He shoots you a glare, but there’s no real anger behind it. Just something tired.

"You don’t have to stay," he mutters.

You grab his wrist before he can leave. "You don’t get to decide that."

His breath catches. Slowly, hesitantly, he looks at you.

You squeeze his hand. "I’m not going anywhere."

For the first time all night, his shoulders relax.

━━━━━━━ ⟡ ━━━━━━━

Omnivincible

Jealousy is irrelevant. Do you really think he’d let someone steal you from him? The thought is laughable. You are his. Not just in body, but in purpose. There is no scenario where he lets another take what belongs to him.

He doesn’t get angry—he gets amused. If someone flirts with you, he watches, curious, like an apex predator watching a clueless creature wander into his den. It’s entertaining.

That doesn’t mean he allows it. If they persist, his patience wears thin. His hand finds your chin, tilts your face toward his. Mine. It’s not a warning—it’s a statement. A universal truth.

He ensures you never feel unsafe. Not because he trusts the world, but because he has made sure no one dares to threaten you. Any potential threat—whether real or imagined—is removed before you even notice.

➽─────────❥

The guy across from you leans in, eyes flicking over your face. “Didn’t think someone like you would be here alone.”

You don’t get the chance to reply.

A shadow falls over the table.

Mark is standing behind the guy, arms crossed over his chest. Silent. Unbothered. His presence is total.

The guy doesn’t notice right away. “So, what do you say?” he continues, giving you a grin.

Mark clears his throat—not loud, not dramatic, just enough.

The guy freezes. Then, slowly, he turns his head.

Mark is watching him. Not scowling. Not glaring. Just looking. Completely composed, like he’s already decided how this ends.

The guy lets out a nervous laugh. “Uh… hey, man. You need something?”

Mark blinks at him. “You can leave.”

It’s not a suggestion.

The guy hesitates, glancing at you like maybe you’ll say something—maybe you’ll help.

You don’t.

His throat bobs as he swallows, then he stands, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah, uh… I was just heading out anyway.”

Mark doesn’t move until the guy is gone. Then, with a quiet sigh, he slides into the chair across from you, resting his elbow on the table, fingers loosely curled against his chin.

“You attract the worst kinds of people,” he murmurs, amusement flickering in his eyes. Then, after a beat, he smirks.

“…Good thing I got here first.”

━━━━━━━ ⟡ ━━━━━━━

Target/Striped (Emperor) Mark

Jealousy triggers his aggressive side. He’s quick to anger, and if he sees someone flirting with you, he doesn’t just get mad—he gets violent. His jealousy manifests as a fierce need to assert dominance, often leading to confrontations.

He’ll mock you when you’re with others. Calling you lowlife is part of his charm, but it’s also a power play. He relishes reminding you of your supposed weakness, and if someone else shows interest, he’ll amplify that mockery.

He’s loud in his jealousy. When he’s upset, it’s hard to ignore. His voice rises, filled with raw energy and irritation, and he doesn’t care who hears him. He expects you to fall in line—and he’ll make sure you do.

➽─────────❥

You’re laughing with friends at the bar when you spot Mark entering. His gaze narrows as he strides over, fists clenched.

“What’s so funny?” he snaps, eyes fixed on you.

You try to explain, but he cuts you off. “Those losers? Seriously?” His voice is loud, drawing attention. “You’re better than this, lowlife.”

“Mark, they’re just being friendly—”

“Friendly? You think they want anything but to take you from me?” He leans closer, intensity radiating from him. “You belong with me. Not them.”

He glares at your friends, making them back off, leaving you feeling trapped between his anger and their confusion.

“Let’s go,” he commands, grabbing your wrist. You don’t argue

━━━━━━━ ⟡ ━━━━━━━

No Goggles Mark

Jealousy leads to chaotic amusement. When he sees someone flirting with you, he can’t help but make a show of it. He might tease the other person, enjoying the absurdity of the situation and pushing their buttons.

He has a playful demeanor, but his mood can shift rapidly. If the flirter doesn’t back off, his tone changes, revealing a more serious side. He’s possessive and won’t hesitate to remind others of that.

His humor masks a deeper intensity. While he enjoys messing with people, the underlying threat is always present. He wants you to know you’re his, and he won’t tolerate anyone else thinking otherwise.

➽─────────❥

You’re chatting with a group of friends when you spot Mark leaning against the wall, arms crossed, a playful smirk on his face.

As one of your friends gets a little too flirty, Mark straightens up and walks over, a glint of mischief in his eyes. “Oh, look at this! A little flirtation party without me? How daring!”

Your friend laughs, but Mark’s gaze is locked onto the guy leaning in too close. “You really think you can compete with me?”

The guy chuckles nervously, trying to play it cool. “I’m just being friendly.”

“Friendly?” Mark leans closer, a grin still plastered on his face, but his voice drops to a low, serious tone. “Let me make something clear: if you don’t back off, you’re gonna find out how not friendly I can be.”

The shift is instantaneous. The guy’s smile fades, and he takes a step back, sensing the danger lurking beneath Mark’s words.

“Wow, dude, chill,” he stammers, retreating a little.

Mark straightens up again, returning to his playful self as he turns back to you. “See? I told you this would be entertaining.”

You shake your head, trying to hide your amusement. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Maybe,” he replies, a cocky grin on his face. “But I’m also serious when it comes to you. Let’s get out of here before someone else tries their luck.”

[quandaryqueen]

mark grayson | takeout misshap

summary: mark stumbles in, looking wrecked—bruised, bloody, barely holding himself up—but guess what? he still has a takeout bag. the paper’s stained red, but he just grins like an idiot and goes: "still hot." priorities.

(requested by one lovely anon <3)

tw: none! diabetes inducing amounts of fluff, mark gets all the hugs and kisses he needs for the traumatic shit he's been through, blood and bruises, mention of invincible events but no spoilers (also ik there's only two variants in the wasteland dimension but. but viltrumite mark survived bc he's my bby)

you love mark grayson. from the bottom of your heart, to the moon and back, through hell and back. you love watching him geek out about the new seance dog episode, because you don’t understand , they perfectly adapted this one bit from the comics, and the VA’s performance made it sooo much better. you love watching the small crease of his brows when he focuses on his algebra homework. for all his complaining, he’s a good student. 

you love invincible. you love watching mark suit up, coming up to him and adjusting his mask for him as his hands rest on your waist. you love watching him take off, flying away like it’s the most natural thing. and it is. he’s told you, fingers stroking your hair, that to viltrumites, it was like breathing. 

“i wish i could fly sometimes,” you had whispered, craning your head to look up at him. 

a soft peck on your forehead, on your eyelids - left, right. on your nose.

“i can take you flying, if you want.”

you had smiled.

“yeah. i’d like that.”

it was easier, back then. when all you had to worry about was making it into college. three years later and you’re both twenty-one, with the weight of the world on mark’s shoulders. viltrumites are wolves. no sheep’s clothing needed to hide themselves - nolan grayson had been a predator through and through, his glacier blue eyes cold enough to cut you down to your marrow. 

you’re lucky you’re still alive and breathing. you’re lucky you get to see mark come home to you, bloodied, broken, bruised, but alive . it’s messy, sometimes. there’s blood on the carpet, stains ingrained in the fabric, unwilling to leave. there’s exhaustion. frustration on both your parts - you want. you want to enjoy a lazy morning in your boyfriend’s arms without that bastard cecil stedman’s call ripping him away from you. he wants to be there for you. that’s why you both rent a small little flat - hero work had him dropping out of college, and he couldn’t bear to watch you deal with it alone.

so you make it work. it’s not perfect, it’s messy - mark’s eyes are growing sadder and sadder, bags deepening under his eyes until he breaks down under the weight of it all. 

(he came to you. after thraxa. after levy. after his variants. after conquest. he came to you, bloodied, half-mad with grief, a feral dog seeking its master’s tender touch. you’re no master of his, but your hands are the gentlest things he knows, so he buried himself in your arms and let himself break , knowing you’d pull him back together.)

you make it work. 

doesn’t mean you’re still not eyeing the clock, frowning a little. you’ve rummaged around in your closet until you found the outfit, changed said outfit because it was too much for a date at that small, homey italian restaurant that mark organised, then changed it back because it was too casual. you are not spending your three year anniversary in your hoodie. well, mark’s hoodie. finders keepers.

so here you are, pacing back and forth in your living room under the watchful, curious gaze of nero, one feline eye half-opened on the couch. an hour passes. two. you settle on the couch and run your fingers through nero’s fur, the cat purring as he settles on your lap. three hours and all restaurants are closed. three am stares you straight in the eyes, the clock on the wall ticking away minute after unforgiving minute.

mark is late. 

you’re not mad at him - dammit, he’s a superhero. that’s his job, and you’re proud of him for it. you are mad at cecil for not allowing him to rest after sending him on four back to back missions in a week right after he almost got stranded in a sordid wasteland dimension with three of his other variants.

a rasp at the window. 

you jump on your feet, immediately dashing to the window to open it. in stumbles mark. blue and yellow suit in shreds, bloodied, bruised, one broken arm hanging limply at his side, two teeth missing, the plexiglas of his broken goggles having dug in his skin, a small shard embedded under his eyelid. 

in his free arm, takeout. 

the bag’s stained red from the blood coating his hand, slowly seeping into the brown paper.

he looks at you with a little smile - a little hiss escaping him when his split, swollen lips stretch painfully.

“hey,” he croaks, floating towards you, feet brushing the ground. “happy three years to us.”

then, after looking at the bag:

“still hot.”

you sigh fondly, cupping his face, watching as he melts into you, nose brushing yours. priorities. gently, you manage to dig out the small plexiglas fragment, earning a mournful sigh from him.

“m’sorry, m’staining the carpet again.”

“fuck the carpet.” you gently peck the spot under his ear, the only patch of skin left unbruised. “i’m just glad you’re alive.”

“mm. managed to snatch take-out at the italian before it closed. ordered your favourite.”

“aw, baby… you’re an angel.” 

you peck his nose, lips a soft breeze over the crooked slope of it, taking the bag from him and setting it on the coffee table. nero purrs, tail rubbing over mark’s calf. mark is watching you, mask in hand, gaze soft. he makes a move to drape himself over you and stop, wordlessly looking at you, big brown eyes imploring.

“don’t wanna mess up your outfit.”

your heart melts .

“fuck my shirt. c'mere.”

your fingers close on his valid arm and you pull him towards you, giggling as he effortlessly slides in the air. mark thinks he’s never seen you look this beautiful, eyes sleep-soft, love pouring out of your heart straight to his. you’re happy, he realises. happy that he gets to come home to you. to come home at all. 

he drapes himself over you, chest to your back, still careful not to put blood on your shirt- oh , you’re pulling him closer, craning up your neck so your cheek brushes against his. his hand rests on your waist, fingers hesitantly laying on the silk of your shirt until you press your hand against his, until he feels the warmth of you blooming under his palm like his blood on your shirt.

“love you,” he mumbles, pressing a soft kiss to your neck.

“love you too, baby.”

you feel him against you, body relaxing, melting into you as you pull out the clothes he’s laid out for himself before heading out, six hours ago - black slacks, black shirt. he eyes his limp arm, his shattered knee, and bite back a groan, forehead pressed to your nape, sweat-slick hair brushing the sensitive skin. not having both hands for that will suck. unless-

“look inside the pocket,” he mumbles.

you hum, intrigued, and comply, reaching for his pocket - you freeze when your fingertips brush the corner of something small. 

you pull out a small velvet box, eyes wide. 

“mark?”

he smiles, reaching out from behind you to open it, taking advantage of you holding it. 

“yeah.”

gently, he takes the box from you and floats in front of you, half-kneeling, smile bloodied and unbearably soft.

“marry me?”

you think you’re crying. you might have tackled mark into a hug, then profusely apologized as you effectively crushed his bruised ribs. nero meows, confused.

“yeah. yeah, mark.” you kiss him. "i wanna marry you."

tagging: @tokoyamisstuff @gaiasmight

[quandaryqueen]

Psycho Sweet

Sub No Goggles Mark Grayson X Dom Reader

🔞 Minors DNI

Pet play, knife play, edging, Dom/sub dynamics

Mark stayed still like the good boy he prided himself as. Situated in your bed, the headboard sporting dents and chips from his misbehavior and lack of control, he didn’t need to be handcuffed, nor tied anymore.

His strength, he can control. Though his patience waned, he promised to remain behaved. His whines and whimpers, however, he could never get a grasp on, not even gags could muffle this little fucker. He has come a long way from being a rabid little thing. It gives him comfort and pleasure to know that he was being good to his owner, the reward was a bonus. You deserved the best, after all, and he would be damned to give you anything less. Such a good, disciplined pet he was. A sham of a Viltrumite, yet the thought does not cross him with guilt, no, he wore it like a badge of honour.

The situation before him had him panting like a dog, penetrative gaze refusing to stray from you. The wanton noise held from the back of his throat slips out when the light catches to the kitchen knife you held, glinting dangerously, oh so deliciously in your possession. Not allowed to touch himself, he fisted the sheets under him to assuage the inferna in his body.

“What are gonna do t’me, master?” he pleads, thighs pressing against one another. “Make me bleed on the sheets? Give me new holes for you to fill up? Stuff me with the knife?” Those, he said with utmost yearning, as suggestions. “O-or, I can stay quiet and let you do the work, master.” He added meekly, like a puppy tilting its head down after being kicked, pathetic brown gaze wielded methodically, designed to fawn.

“That’s a good boy,” Mark perks up upon hearing your voice, beaming further when you place yourself on his hips, right where you belong. He must have given you one of the most pathetic looks of wanting in his life that you sighed in a relenting manner, “What do we say?”

“May I put my hands on you, master?”

“You may, pet.” Not waiting to be told twice, Mark had his hands on your hips the instant words left your lips. Thumbs smoothing over your hipbone, he peers through his lashes like a flustered schoolboy when you chuckled at his display of eagerness. That earns him a hearty headpat, which he leans into, he would purr if he can.

“To answer your previous question, no, nothing too intense today,” you rumbled, words punctuated with a hypnotic twirl of a wrist as you admired the handiwork of the knife. One could see in his eyes that he almost deflated, but then you added something that made him perk up. “Maybe later.”

Poising the tip of the blade on his bare chest had Mark's breath lodged in his throat. The hammering of his heart accompanied his shallow breath, almost craving for the rise and fall of his chest to touch the point and poke him. He couldn't help but notice the knife's handle being his colours, your attention to detail impeccable as always.

Mark chants under his breath, a cry for relief. "I'm not fragile, I'm not fragile, I'm not fragile, you know that. More, more, more—"

The cold metal glides along his chest, dull-part against his skin, much to his disappointment, and impatience. He wanted his blood pooling in his skin, streaming down your sheets, staining your hands. But he knew to behave in the midst of anticipation. Gratification is tangible if he was on his best behaviour. It traces around his nipple, the cold colliding against sensitive flesh causing them to pebble at the contact. Letting out a pitiful moan, his back subconsciously arches to meet the sharp tip.

"I'm going to cut you now."

The knife trail upwards, grazes his skin, the first taste of pain sending him reeling fow more. The first cut drift from his sternum to his collarbone. A shallow incision akin to a kitten's scratch, beading with pricks of blood that remained stationary on the tiny cut.

"More, please." Mark breathes out, fingers digging into your hips, before apologetically smoothing his thumbs upon it with circular motions.

The second cut was made, applied with a little more pressure, from the expanse of his left collarbone to his shoulder, a pattern of spirals against his skin. This time, ample amounts of blood began to drip from the wound. Mark was breathing in the coppery miasma drifting in the room like his personal supply of drug.

Then another, under his rib on his left flanks where you wrote your initials. That had further tipped him on the precipice. Y/N'S. His master's pet. Just a little more...

"Mark," his own body corrects him, straightening up at the sound of chiding reprimand of your tone.

He swallows thickly, unaware of the drool dripping from the corners of his mouth. "Please... Cover me with your name. With... With hearts. Pretty, pretty please?"

In the haze of his pleasure, he found your smile the most heavenly of them all. Like the comforting, reassuring gesture of an angel. He will get what he wants.

His body was littered with your name in varying depths. Mark wished they could scar permanently, but on the bright side, you could always rebrand him. On his chest, arms, abdomen. Marks breath hitched when your knife approached his shaft after you carved your name on his hip bone. He bucks his hips forward eagerly when your gaze settled to his, in a imperceptible manner of assessing his reaction.

"Y-you can," he whines. "Let them know this cock is yours."

[quandaryqueen]

RUNNING INTO INVINCIBLE VARIANTS DURING THE WAR ft. mohawk!mark, viltrumite!mark, nogoggles!mark w/ gn!reader

— you were special to them, in another universe... — in which reader is not with the mark in the main universe, but has history w/ the other variants

the news said to stay inside. couldn't they have broadcast just 10 minutes earlier when you weren't in your car on the way to work? heroes resembling invincible were wrecking cities and taking lives left and right, and you were stuck in a traffic jam, trucks and vans crammed against your doors.

you climbed over the center console into the backseat, squeaking in surprise when the car rocked you off balance. some idiot decided to bulldoze through the traffic carelessly.

"fuck." you cursed, hurriedly opening the sunroof, climbing out and sliding down the hood. unfortunately for you, before you could even get off your car, you were stopped by—

MOHAWK!MARK

a joyful whoop made your head snap towards the incoming missile bulldozing through the congested traffic, trampling cars, snapping bodies in half, toppling buildings over onto the highway.

he flew right past you, bumping your car over to the side. your eyes were stuck on the building that was teetering closer and closer to tipping over. the resonating crrrreak sealed your fate as it came crashing down—

this is how i die. you let your eyes fall shut.

they were promptly forced open a second later when invincible crashed into your stomach, throwing you over his shoulders as he bolted out of the area of impact.

"holy shit!" he stopped in the air, holding you up proudly. "y/n!"

"wait!" you gripped him tightly, nails digging into his skin. you coughed when the dust plumed upwards, the fallen building settling against the broken road.

he hissed at the sensation but laughed; laughed like he was a kid in a candy store. "don't worry, i won't drop you. you trust me, don't you?"

"i..." you gasped, catching your breath as you studied him. he looked crazy, but after what he just did, looks wasn't where the insanity stopped. "i don't know who you are."

he frowned momentarily, holding you against him by your waist. "really? this world's me is lamer than i thought. i mean, look at you." he leaned in close, burying his face into the crook of your neck. "you smell the same. god, i missed this." he inhaled deeply, crushing you in his embrace.

you flattened your hands against his chest and pushed him back a little. "what are you—?"

"hey. i saved you. can a guy get a thank you?" he playfully scolded you, but with him, you couldn't tell if he was actually joking or not.

your eyes trailed over the calamity beneath you. thank you? as bewildered as you were, you played into his hands.

"thank you," you mumbled, a small smile spreading on your lips for good measure.

"you're welcome." he grinned, flying over to the top of an untouched building and setting you gently on the roof's surface. you stumbled onto the concrete until his hand steadied you.

"you say you don't know me. but i know you. and we are so good together, baby." mark said softly, backing you onto a wall. for all the blood on his suit, he handled you so gently. "what d'you say? let's get reacquainted."

VILTRUMITE!MARK

your breath caught in your chest as mark shot down from the sky, sending ripples through the asphalt road. you screamed as your vehicle floated in the air for a split second, enough time for your heart to skip a few beats too many.

mark sped over to you, stopping abruptly right in front of your car. the impact of his sonic boom made your car shoot backwards, sending your back into the windshield mirror with such a force that the glass broke under you.

you didn't even have time to blink before he grabbed your wrist and yanked you towards him, dangling you in front of him like a child inspecting a toy.

"you look just like them." he mumbled under his breath, brown eyes narrowing.

you just stared at him dumbly, horrified by the splatters of blood over his otherwise pristine white uniform.

in stark contrast to the barbaric way he introduced himself, he collected you in his arms and floated away from the disaster on the ground.

"wait—" you protested weakly, but he cradled you closer to his chest.

"dad said you'd come around. that after we took over the planet, i could keep you and you'd eventually stop fighting me." he sighed, heavy. "my mother did. she eventually stopped fighting my dad."

your eyes were wide and vulnerable, unable to tear away from who could be your murderer. what was he talking about?

his grip tightens involuntarily. his jaw clenches. why aren’t you reacting the way you should?

"don't you recognize me? or does the invincible of this world direct his... affection somewhere else?"

mark can feel himself getting frustrated by the look of confusion on your face. you didn't recognize him and it makes him want to kill the invincible of this world even more.

on his world he went to earth to conquer it by his father's side. he didn't expect to ... fall in love with you. love is what his father told him he was feeling, a human emotion that he could only have for something small and harmless. like a pet.

"mother will like you," he muses to himself. "it's been a while since she's seen someone from her home."

"i don't—"

"shhh." he softened as he looked at you, a ghost of a smile on his face. "i'll take care of you like i promised. it'll be just like before. we'll be so happy together. right?"

something told you to nod your head if you wanted to live.

NOGOGGLES!MARK

"boo!" mark touched down right in front of your car, a wild grin plastered on his face. this bitch looked insane, the wide-eyed delight he had on his face from causing the carnage around him.

you screamed and slapped him impulsively, a loud crack echoing around you. oh fuck. holy shit, i am so dead.

but he laughed. he giggled all giddy and massaged his jaw. "holy shit, you've got a good arm on you. do it again."

"huh?" you spluttered, scrambling up the hood of your car away from him.

"wait," he frowned, grabbing your ankle and pulling you back down the windshield. "i said do it again."

as frightened and perplexed as you were, you couldn't stop your mouth from running. "you... want me to hit you?" what the fuck?

"i'm not gonna ask again." his eye twitched imperceptibly. "c'mon, give it your best shot. it'll be fun!"

when you continued to hesitate, he jerked forward. you flinched, sending your knee into his nose.

"haha!" he beamed, swiping at the trail of blood underneath his nose. "this is more fun than the heroes. you're so..." he gripped your shoulders, squeezing experimentally. "small but—"

your hands curl around his biceps in an attempt to deter him, your nails digging through his suit. he hissed, clicking his tongue as he laughed lowly.

"ughh it sucks that i've gotta go kill some heroes now..." he said under his breath, unmoving as you squirmed against him.

mark leaned back, stretching his arms like he hadn't just been breathing down your neck. "you're lucky I'm in a good mood." he tilted his head, as if reconsidering. "or maybe you’re unlucky. guess we’ll see, huh?" he huffed a laugh, his expression wild.

he took your hand gently, almost sweet, lifting it up and pressing your knuckles against his bruised jaw.

"go on," he whispered. "give me one more for the road?"

© invoncible

[quandaryqueen]

I love Donald so much, I wish he got more love from the fandom. Can I request general dating headcanons for Donald? Both SFW and NSFW (if you want, no pressure if you're not comfortable!)

Donald X Reader hcs (sfw and nsfw)

I'll put a warning for Nsfw dw!

super short lol... thank you for the request!!

Hcs under the cut

Sfw

Donald is a total dweeb ngl

Like he's not too good at handling himself in social situations without being an aloof government assistant

he really likes the song "government hooker" he finds it absolutely hilarious

a weirdly good dancer

but white man dancing, don't get it twisted

does a little shimmy iykwim

like to twil you for fun

this mf is so phineas and ferb coded what the fuuuuuuuck

Type of man who, in casual circumstances, is wearing a short sleeve button up OVER his tshirt

probably with some nice fitting cargo pants or darkwash jeans or something

but honestly he wears the suit so much he probably just sticks with that

probably has a watch collection

his dad had one so ofc he has one

Call you "dear" but in the exact same tone he says "sir" or "ma'am" like very matter-of-fact like it's either your name or your title

When he's trying to be sweet he'll wrap his arms around your waist and lean over and be all "I love my wife/husband/spouse" and then you'll be all "I love you too" and he's all "Bitch I was talking about my PARTNER who are you?"

but he's just being silly and then he kisses you

Likes to get brunch with you

idk why he seems like he'd fuck up some eggs Benedict

Or some bacon

definitely a savory food person

He likes it when you order for him, he has to handle so much in his day-to-day that his love language is acts of service

His love language to give to you is definitely physical touch

gives great massages

gives AMAZING hugs (its okay I'm fat too I can say that)

used to love the terminator movies

now it's just a little too weird

same with teen titans

Super into Back to the Future and is so bummed he never gets to figure out time travel

plays boardgames with you whenever he can

that's his ideal date

board games

that or an escape room

Nsfw

Type of man who is bouncing between extremes

unlike Cecil who is always temperate and chill, Donald flips between being too busy/stressed to have a sex drive to jumping your fucking bones

he eats you out idc

He's a robot, his stamina is "yes"

why would he not?

He's a FIEND for lingerie or really just... cute intimate pajamas

Loves it when you wear his t-shirts and just underwear to bed

He's a solid 5 inches, but thick as hell

it's all in the technique

HEY WAIt- do you think the guy who has to rebuild his dick is weird about it? like... that's gotta be weird

Cecil refuses to let Donald change his appearance as a cyborg so he doesn't fracture his sense of self beyond repair

which is fair but Donald's still mad about it

Donald is a panter

doesn't make a lot of noise but he breathes super heavy, which is hot in its own way

like, he's over here breathing HEAVY because he's using all his muscle and attention to fuck you into this mattress

Struggles to put on jeans sometimes bc of his stomach and you just watch in AWE as he wiggles into his jeans

On that note he wears dark gray briefs exclusively

the socks stay ON in bed

he's weird about feet

like babu it doesn't matter you're a robot

andthen no sex bc he's having a crisis about being a robot again

poor guy

Really good with his hands

accidentally bites WAY too hard when giving you hickeys

fucking obsessed with your stomach and the way it feels and looks

big, round, flat, midsize, abs, he's obsessed it doesn't even matter

not even sexual but also it turns him on when you wear croptops

or when he can see your stomach when you lift your arms in a slightly too short shirt

ugh he's a freak fr

no he's not he's a totally average dude who wants you carnally

its just life lmao

[quandaryqueen]

Riddler strikes again!

Batman Unburied Edward Nygma X Reader

Hiii, just a little something inspired by my time writing in my college's departmental newsletter uwu

Thursday of April 11, 2024— Edward Nygma aka The Riddler strikes once again, hijacking Gotham Broadcasting Company (GBC) live on air, interrupting the feature segment of Y/N L/N, holding them hostage.

- by Vicky Vale

More at page 5

It was funny, really. Edward couldn't help but to chuckle in amusement as he kicked his feet up, his arm hanging limply off his cell bed. He didn't expect the college reunion, but there it was... Documented live on TV. Front and center, front page, the Riddler making goo goo eyes at the hapless journalist. And had an article written by their colleague at work.

Slay, chase that clout, sister.

Once upon a college, was Edward Nygma, disillusioned by everything. Academic burnout was real, they didn't lie about that part. It wasn't that he could not grasp information, it was the workload, the mountains of research, not to mention, juggling a day job to get by.

Also, he was arrogant to think he could take more that thirty units a semester. A boy, did he collect majors like Pokémon. He was too prideful to admit that he was struggling. He was Edward fucking Nashton, for Christ's sake, of course he would have more than thirty units with mixed and matched minors and majors, plus a couple of foreign language studies, why not? Any excuse to not go back home for the holidays and breaks.

Of course he had to take student assistant for the fuck of it, extra income, right? Less leverage financial leverage from the family, too. The position had certainly made him more informed about others, it helps that he knows something from the inside. One of his task as professor's assistant was marking papers.

That was when he stumbled upon you. Well, not really you. Your name on the paper, haphazardly scribbled at the back of the A4 document, you probably forgot to put your name on it before printing it. Happens to everyone, he supposes. There, he got the sense of your character through the paper alone.

Basic discourse analysis, Edward picked up the fact that you like reading, with your usage of flowery words and metaphors. In the era of copy+paste+print, you certainly took the time to write yours down. Well-structured, coherent, a good fucking piece that was worth a thorough read than a simple skim. No doubt if it were the professor marking papers, he'd just briefly scan his eyes over it and give you the same grade as the others. Others, being the co-eds with half-assed works (though he can't really fault them, a point is a point.)

You got a high mark because of it.

Then, when he attached a face to your name, it was during Ethics. Recitations, the dreaded index card drawing and asked to recite. That was when your name was called and Edward had immediately perked up from whatever sleep deprived funk he was in.

Maybe it was hindsight talking... But that was when his life changed. At the moment, he was just seated on his desk, looking over his shoulder trying to look as though he was listening and that he was not about to fall asleep. And then there was the side of him that was wee curious whether your writing prowess were also applicable to speech.

He wished he could say what he thought about you back then, that fated ethics period. But he was just nodding off. Looking back, with what he knows now, you were enchanting.

At that present, he was nonchalant. Uninterested even, you were just another gifted kid destined for burnout in college... But he did recognise how useful you were when it comes to group activities. When the time came, he immediately called dibs on you.

"What belongs to you, but other use it more than you, what am I?"

"Um..." You were stumped, but before you can answer, he holds a hand out, which you instinctively took and shook.

"A name," he says. "Edward Nashton, compelled to meet you."

A small, sheepish smile lights you features.

"Y/N L/N." You replied with curt nod.

I know, he wanted to say, but didn't want to risk establishing his first impression as a creep. Aahh, back when he possessed tact.

"Coffee after class so we can talk about our report?" You asked. "I know a place."

Initiative... sexy.

"Flirting with me already?" He raises a brow and he watches your face flush. Edward couldn't help but to chuckle at the sight, so precious. "Teasing, teasing..."

His gaze bore within yours. Sleep deprived like any other co-eds on campus, he noted. Your eyes were just like any other, but yours begged to be explored in depth.

"We're gonna be good friends."

Edward believed that impressions do not last. However, you were an exception to that.

Coffee shop. He could still remember how cheap and overbrewed their chais were. But he was not about to complain, you did pay for it. Notebooks out, brainstorming for the assignment. He remembered how articulate you were with the assigned topic. Eloquent and thoughtful with every word, you were a brilliant conversationalist he could go back and fourth with.

Naturally, the exchange flowed to where you discussed your own personal lives. Which high school you graduated in, your majors, why you chose said majors, what you wanted to do once you graduated...

"Mom wanted me to be an engineer," Edward says, watching you from the rim of his cup. "Dad wanted me to be a policeman. Grandma wanted me to be a doctor. Ya know, just Asian family things."

"And you ended up going with your major... BS IT?"

"Stereotypical, I know," Edward rolled his eyes, feigning annoyance. "But I do love myself some codes and technologies. Besides, it's all the rage, these days. Lot of job opportunities. Might take up computer engineering too..."

"How did they react?" You asked.

"Like any other families in a collective society, shaming and guilt tripping." Edward shrugged nonchalantly. Though his tone was casual, his demeanour wasn't. "Ya know, just... Being subtle about it, like a jackhammer. 'Where did I go wrong?', 'Look at your cousins!', 'You're going to fail'!" He chuckles sardonically. "The most attention I received from them, to be honest."

"I'm sorry..."

"Don't be." Edward chuckles. Not the first impression he hoped that would last... Immediately, he pulls himself back together, brazen smile plastered on. "Well, I hope my baggage won't put you off. Am I still cute in your eyes?" Eyelashes bat coquettishly, lips puckered as he held his cup with both hands.

You couldn't help but giggle at the act, that brought a glimmer in Edward's eyes, his chest thumping harder than usual. Back then, he thought it was ye olde heart palpitations from the excess caffeine consumption.

"Well? I'm getting nervous," he probes, resuming to act coyly.

"Yeah, you're..." You gestured at him with a sheepish smile. "You are."

"Are what?"

You couldn't help but laugh, that cute little smile of yours... "At this point, you're just fishing for compliments."

The pair of you spent the afternoon at the café, having been productive with your activity and insightful with one another's perceptions. It was inevitable that you part ways, though exchanged contact information on your way out. Edward initially thought it would strictly be for the activity for your Ethics class, or just for academic purposes in general.

But he was a professional yapper who liked asking questions only to answer them. He found you to be intriguing enough that he allows you to answer as well. Now and then, he found himself popping in the chat box to say hi.

He almost always found himself texting you in the dead of night when he's done with studies, professional crammer that he is.

"Burning the midnight oil, I see." He wrote when he noticed you've yet to log off.

It didn't take long for you to receive and see the message. He felt a twitch on his lip when he saw your icon bob along as you wrote a correspondence.

"Nah, I wish I were that putting that much effort in acads," you wrote back. "can't sleep."

"Don't have a hunk warming up your bed?" He couldn't help but snort upon sending, already envisioning your response. That cute flushed face, scowling, furrowed brows, nose scrunched.

"Nah. Just my pet hogging the bed." Ah, playing it cool, huh? He could work with it, he reckons you were burning up at the other end.

"Little baby pics tradesies?"

"Bet."

You sent yours first, a photo of your adorable little guy in bed, the excited fur child obscuring the entire frame. Edward could make out your cheek outstretched with that very familiar smile, in the blurry background behind your pet.

You told him their name, how you got them. How they are... Adorable really, Edward made a note not to get delusional and meet your pet one day once you invited him back to your place.

Edward sent back a photo of his cat, a short-haired black kitty who has the audacity in life in general. It was worth it to find an apartment that allows pets in the building, even if he needed to walk and extra mile to uni.

"This is Meow Meow. Creative, I know,"

“Why Meow Meow?” They wrote back, he could swore he can hear the incredulity in his head.

“Well, my dear, the onomatopoeic name stuck because I wasn’t referring to her by her name, but communicating with.” Edward replied, his thumbs darting swiftly against his phone’s keyboard. “Ergo, the name stuck.”

“It’s adorable.” His sole light source was his phone, but the smile on his face could lit up an entire room. “What are they like?”

“Audacious. She just randomly appeared in my place one day, slept on my couch, demanded food and head scritches,” Edward wrote with a chuckle upon his recollection. “You know, how cats typically manifest.”

Small talks were nice were nice with you; you provided interesting answers.

“Say, what’s your relationship with existence and mortality?”

Of course, he had to ask heavy hitting questions.

The topic shift was entirely out of left field, but Edward dug deep. Of there was one thing he liked, it was depth. He didn’t have a better way of transitioning into the subject, so it was a massive surprise to be dropped this enigmatic bomb.

That night, you talked until the sunrise, neither of you able to fall asleep. Topics ranged from your pets, and his sudden and shift of topic. He appreciated it, being able to throw anything at your direction and with you being able to answer even if, for a moment, you were a touch flabbergasted. You talked about your views about the said matter, Edward deepening the conversation with questions and counterarguments. Then, there were the agreements, the relatability, the connection.

He caught himself finding solace with a shared feeling, same fear, similar experiences. How you wove your thoughts in a way that provided him insights about his own whereabouts, one that he had thought about, but not in the way you were in-depth and well-acquainted about it. He felt seen. Heard.

“Still can’t fall asleep?” Edward asked when the clock struck dawn.

“Nope. You?” His textmate sent.

“Neither can I.”

The sun began peaking through the windows and the college grind resumes into gear, much to Edward’s chagrin. The nights were short and the days dragged on. But at least you were there.

“See you at ethics?”

“See ya.”

Upon entering your first period of ethics, you were greeted with the sight of Edward waving at you to sit with him and a to-go cup of caffeine.

Since then, you've spent a lot of time together sporadically. Edward didn't want to be clingy, but he certainly took all the chance he could get to spend his time with you. Duo projects, going to parties, pulling all-nighters through texts. He has had the basic scope of your life, something you're mentioned in passing that he deemed noteworthy. It was easy to connect the dots from then on.

You liked writing. An outlet for that vicious mind, your musings tucked away in a journal. Occasional posts in your blogs (you never told him about its existence, but you know how Edward is.) all he had read and never let you know he had. With this in mind, he found himself nudging you to join university organizations to write.

"So?" Edward slides forward upon finding you occupied with the organisation pamphlets.

"So is used when you're concluding something. Yet some people use it as a a sentence starter." you murmured to yourself, in what seems to be a bid of evading his questioning.

"We're in the US, words lose their original function over time as language evolves," But of course, Edward could not resist to retort and see the cute face wince in resignation. "Linguistics aside, what is that?"

"Admission form for the school papers," with the manner of your response, Edward found it noncommittal. The notion of joining but a passing interest, like driving pass a billboard, the interest piqued for a flash before moving onto the road. And it was Edwards job to talk about it.

"You wanna try broadcasting? Cute guys there, with the baritones. You get to travel outside of campus too." Edward plants the seed of interest. Something innocuous, the first pebble in an avalanche. "Not to mention, the advisor is Professor Austin. Make a friend out of him and you're set for the semester. If you a have with him, that is. I heard he's gonna be a thesis advisor next year."

"No, I'm kinda looking at the writing." Bingo.

"Oh you should!" He encourages with a nudge. "What are we talking? Opinion? Literary? Sports?"

"I'm kinda thinking... Feature."

“Feature, huh? Playing safe, are we?”

“There’s just so many applications for literary, I don’t wanna clog admissions.”

“You mean… You don’t want competition, that is.” The shit-eating grin of his was granted a deadpan of your own, inspiring the thought that he was not far from his assumption. Spoken like a tragic artist… “Come on! You’re a dime in a dozen! The second coming of Shakespeare, even! Or Mary Shelley… Or Oscar Wilde… Or George Orwell… Or--!”

“I don’t really feel like writing when the prompt is hella limited. They’re probably just going to let us write about some Hallmark pieces to inspire festering students steeped in burnout and caffeine.”

Ah yes, narrative and creative control, really hard to become a literary writer when you’re writing someone else’s vision to fruition, especially when you’re not getting paid for it, either. He’s seen the literary pieces posted in the college publications; the writers don’t seem to be enjoying writing those with how corporate it looked. Touche. Thus, there he was, being watched as he nods thoughtfully, lips pursed. Spoken like a true burnt-out writer… Oh woe, the writer’s plight of being the creatively-drained artist, with the shallow capitalist baddies sucking on the remaining artistry in art for some Benjamins. All meandering aside…

You continued, “And feature’s good, lets you infodump niche topics. Gives me time to dig around for sources, learn something new, get a new hyperfixation… I’m good at research, informative topics are always the rage, especially for the campus dorks.”

Edward couldn't help but ponder aloud, finger tapping the table, “Are you doing it because you’re good at it, or because you want to…?”

“Because I want to try it out.”

What was left to do but support you, even if it's not what you really wanted, but had stubbornly stuck to it? As much as it painted him to see you in this role of researcher and informative paraphraser and trivia master, when you wanted to write literature, it was your prerogative and you were correct, you were good at it. And validation was nice, being useful was nice.

At some point in time, you graduated, constructed your resume, your portfolio and immediately got a job. Edward was oblivious to those, having been occupied falling out of college due to burnout and plotting high-stakes Television highjacking and pettily abducting greedy billionaires that fucked him over during his internship to play in a fucked up gameshow of his making, as you do. Accumulated frustrations towards big daddy corporations, how smart people were on leashes by some mogul with an ugly mug. Was certainly the best way to drift apart from a friend after internships.

Your pursuits, he only out when he was perusing through magazines during his accomodation in Arkham. He recognised the diction, the very same he had read the first time he had ever stumbled upon your writing that one fateful day when you were just a name to him.

It was melancholic in a way. You've reached the top rung of the ladder with journalism when the plan was to be a New York's Bestseller. He was happy for you still, seeing you stand in your full, pretty glory in front of a camera was surreal (even if he had to highjack during your segment, ooops, he'd always been self-centred.) Despite the gap since you silently fell off, Edward was almost certain you only pursued this was not due to you liking it, but it was because you were good at it. And people expected you to.

In hindsight, you never got to ignite the flame of your relationship despite the sparks. He left before anything can be initiated, to be admitted. Was it presumptuous of him to assume you felt the same? No. But with an all-consuming pathology that came with the compulsion to find answer, Edward was certain; you felt something for him, too.

"Nygma, you have a visitor."

Oh would you look at that...

Typically, he wouldn't have lowered whatever that was in his hands, not particularly cooperative and willing to entertain whoever wants to visit him (it's not like his family wants to see him, after what disgrace he brought to the Nashton name.) Currently, it was the newspaper, folded on Vicki Vale's article about his recent highjacking of a certain uprising Y/N L/N in the journalism sphere. Lowered it, he did. Edward has the feeling he would have a visitor worth humouring.

He was right.

"Sooo..." Edward drawls, leaning across the table, drawing closer to capture your visage, to capture your picture to accompany him in his solitary confinement. He doesn't even know what to say.

"So is used when you're concluding something." you murmured to yourself, trying to lean back and give yourself some space. The same wince. Eyes squinted, nose scrunched, brows furrowed. The barest hint of flush dusting those cheeks.

"Yet some people use it as a a sentence starter," he finishes with melancholy in his smile. "Oh, you syntactical nerd. How have you been?"

Catching up was easy despite the initial uncertainty and awkwardness in the air. On your end, that is. But it was easy to fall back on old habits, like muscle memory, you were able to move through the same rhythm and melody he used to subject you to. The profound questions, the insightful two cents he offers... And of course, the need to dig deeper, if it was possible, was possible.

“You’re still a writer,” Edward pointed out. “Feature.” Instead of literary, like you always wanted. Far from school you were now, and yet you bind yourself within invisible constraints to the whims of whatever your publication demands of you.

“That was the plan.”

“Was it?” The minutest detail of your expression he scrutinised, the tiniest quirk of the brow and your slightest purse of your lips. You didn’t like the notion being challenged, real dreams be damned, stubborn pride and ego were at the brunt of it all. He couldn’t fault you, really, the reception of your works was a goldmine for validation. No wonder you continued being a news writer after college, you perpetuate the field of writing that you didn’t like all that much. It certainly wasn’t for the pay, you get like what? The editor-in-chief’s chump change no doubts at the bottom of his drawer, proclaiming he could just put a prompt in ChatGPT to get it to write him an article. God, he hopes the writing strike gets that bastard soon--

“It is,” you insist with uncertain-footing. “I mean… You weren’t there to know, anyway.”

Touche. But…

“Y/N, come on…” Edward’s gaze bore profoundly into yours. You already know, that he knows that you know this wasn't the path you wanted to pave. You already boarded and you weren’t going to leave mid-ride. Edward didn’t need his smart mouth to spell it out for you, as much as he wanted nothing more since he wanted to hear his voice again. But he didn’t. He let the eureka come to you. Shame that he didn’t get to see that when he had to be detained again.

“We’ll we see each other again,” he says, turning over his shoulder. “What is it that you can keep after giving it to someone else?”

“Word.”

[quandaryqueen]

Wait

Young Justice Edward Nygma X Hero Reader

You were the one in chains, but he wasn't the one in charge.

Suggestive Content. Choking, pinning.

If there's one thing about nature that will continue to persist no matter the species, is that you shall not lay a finger on a single strand of hair of babies without anticipating the wrath of their mother. The universal trait among mothers and mother figures alike, the unbridled scorn and unfound strength that will unearth in the process of this blinding rage, should not be underestimated.

Edward learned that the hard way.

For one, in his defense, he has no personal vendetta against these children, he was merely following orders— immobilize children, hold them hostage, force information out of them through any means necessary— as you do. It was not his area of expertise, but his employers were the same people who assigned him to fight against them, one of the aforementioned being a Kryptonian clone, a Marsian, Magical, the fucking Robin— but he digress— and so it was not a shock for him to be assigned to this task, to watch over them, that is, he wasn't the one doing the information obtaining aspect. The only way he fits in this mission was the fact that he watches over them through cameras and induce electric shock if needed, so it was just him sitting in front of a monitor and control panels.

Everything was under his control...

Until you escaped your own containment, overpowered your assigned guards, endured electric shocks from your collar, managed to tear the aforementioned collar off your neck, navigate your way through an unfamiliar territory all the while defeating obstacles through the form of guards and find yourself in Edward's den. You defeated the guards on your way here, would Edward even stand a chance, oh that's out of the question, of course you can. Physically, you still have some juice in your but intellectually? Your brain was fried from all the electric shock.

But he's gotta hand it to you, you gave him quite the fight but he soon gained the upper hand when he managed to outsmart you. And all he needed to do was to step away before you can swing at him. Oh this was fueling his ego real good— H/N? Under his heel? All flushed and breathing heavily? Under his mercy? Ohohoho this should be photographed, printed, framed and placed on his bedside table, clearly this was a crucial moment—

Before the sight of you panting on the ground further supply his ego, you pounced up, the man squealing in surprise when you had the shackles thrown and twisted around his neck. He falls on his back, the air knocked off his chest, while you situated yourself on his hips. You were at the position where you had the ability to simultaneously further the gap between your wrists, resulting for the chains to tighten around his next whilst you pin his arms on either sides of his head. He could feel your chest rapidly rising and falling, the heat of your breath hitting his face— how you're the first person got this fucking close to him.

He struggles in an attempt to free himself, but instead found a certain friction which jolted him of his senses. This results for his to continue 'struggling' from beneath you.

"Where are they?" Oh you weren't fucking around, you were ready to strangle a bitch if they don't spill. Further emphasizing your point, you tighten the chains around his neck, a choked noise originating from his throat.

"Basement..." He managed to choke out. "With special access..."

You knew he was considered important enough to be granted those special access cards. With your hands occupied, you used your knees to feel through his pants' pocket. Experimentally, you stretch your fingers out just enough to reach his breast pocket to save time, causing Edward to stiffen and supress a moan, by throwing his head back.

"Do you not have that card?" You glared at him, after not finding anything of importance from his person, did you only notice the pleasure he derives from this.

Oh this pathetic loser.

Out of curiosity, you rolled your hips ever so slightly and under your gaze, you saw how visibly his breath hitch from his chest.

"... No." He answers, voice coarse with the shackle still around his neck. This is why he was placed in guarding duty, clearly they don't see him as crucial enough to be granted a special access ID Card, much to his chagrin... But it felt nice for you to assume he looked significant enough. "C-confidential..."

Testing the waters once more, you ground harder, causing him to forget about blocking his voice out. Oh what a sad little thing. You watch as red completely flushes his complexion and he looks at you, as if confirming whether he moaned internally or that you didn't hear it at all. Tilting your head, you begin lean back, causing Edward to close his eyes and bite down on his lip, disregarding his little slip up. With that, he began to feel an obstruction from within his pants, in desperate need to be freed from the constraints.

"You're pathetic, you know that?" You hissed above him, feeling his hardening cock poke your thigh.

Edward can only acknowledge you with a whine, sounding as though it was a protest but with his current state, he was just proving your point. Brows furrowed, breathing through gritted teeth, face completely tinged red. But it could because of the chain wrapped around his neck, his flimsy joke of an excuse attempts to justify. But he knows that you know it wasn't from that.

He wasn't even fighting it anymore.

"You're not really useful to me," you spoke above him, the chain around his neck tightening from the pull of your cuffed wrists.

"Wait—!" Edward chokes. "I-I can be!" He watches you raise a doubtful brow. Fair enough. He wouldn't trust him either. "They're at the basement. Special access cards."

"I already know that—"

"032604." He blurted out. "Code..."

He didn't have those damn cards due to his rank, but his eyes had been keen on the codes they punched on those doors. There was nothing Edward didn't know, no one was going to keep information from him.

The pressure around his neck grew lax and finally, you were unraveling the chain from his neck. That was greatly appreciated, oxygen was crucial for the head. Unfortunately, little head swayed the big head that he couldn't help but to feel disappointed when you peeled yourself off him. So there he was, in a prone position, watching through bleary eyes as you bear an expression of consideration. The prominent hard-on he can finally hide with his hands to preserve the remnant of his dignity.

He would glare at you, but then he raised you were raising a makeshift weapon above your head, ready to strike.

"WAIT—!" Edward once again exclaims, holding his arms before his face in defense.

It did nothing to dissuade your intent of knocking him out. It was your personal protocol to tie up loose ends before he can notify his higher-ups you've managed to escape. You don't know whether he thought of it or not, but it was better safe than sorry.

[quandaryqueen]

first ever tumblr post bc this dude lives rent free in my head lol

[quandaryqueen]

Riddler strikes again!

Batman Unburied Edward Nygma X Reader

Hiii, just a little something inspired by my time writing in my college's departmental newsletter uwu

Thursday of April 11, 2024— Edward Nygma aka The Riddler strikes once again, hijacking Gotham Broadcasting Company (GBC) live on air, interrupting the feature segment of Y/N L/N, holding them hostage.

- by Vicky Vale

More at page 5

It was funny, really. Edward couldn't help but to chuckle in amusement as he kicked his feet up, his arm hanging limply off his cell bed. He didn't expect the college reunion, but there it was... Documented live on TV. Front and center, front page, the Riddler making goo goo eyes at the hapless journalist. And had an article written by their colleague at work.

Slay, chase that clout, sister.

Once upon a college, was Edward Nygma, disillusioned by everything. Academic burnout was real, they didn't lie about that part. It wasn't that he could not grasp information, it was the workload, the mountains of research, not to mention, juggling a day job to get by.

Also, he was arrogant to think he could take more that thirty units a semester. A boy, did he collect majors like Pokémon. He was too prideful to admit that he was struggling. He was Edward fucking Nashton, for Christ's sake, of course he would have more than thirty units with mixed and matched minors and majors, plus a couple of foreign language studies, why not? Any excuse to not go back home for the holidays and breaks.

Of course he had to take student assistant for the fuck of it, extra income, right? Less leverage financial leverage from the family, too. The position had certainly made him more informed about others, it helps that he knows something from the inside. One of his task as professor's assistant was marking papers.

That was when he stumbled upon you. Well, not really you. Your name on the paper, haphazardly scribbled at the back of the A4 document, you probably forgot to put your name on it before printing it. Happens to everyone, he supposes. There, he got the sense of your character through the paper alone.

Basic discourse analysis, Edward picked up the fact that you like reading, with your usage of flowery words and metaphors. In the era of copy+paste+print, you certainly took the time to write yours down. Well-structured, coherent, a good fucking piece that was worth a thorough read than a simple skim. No doubt if it were the professor marking papers, he'd just briefly scan his eyes over it and give you the same grade as the others. Others, being the co-eds with half-assed works (though he can't really fault them, a point is a point.)

You got a high mark because of it.

Then, when he attached a face to your name, it was during Ethics. Recitations, the dreaded index card drawing and asked to recite. That was when your name was called and Edward had immediately perked up from whatever sleep deprived funk he was in.

Maybe it was hindsight talking... But that was when his life changed. At the moment, he was just seated on his desk, looking over his shoulder trying to look as though he was listening and that he was not about to fall asleep. And then there was the side of him that was wee curious whether your writing prowess were also applicable to speech.

He wished he could say what he thought about you back then, that fated ethics period. But he was just nodding off. Looking back, with what he knows now, you were enchanting.

At that present, he was nonchalant. Uninterested even, you were just another gifted kid destined for burnout in college... But he did recognise how useful you were when it comes to group activities. When the time came, he immediately called dibs on you.

"What belongs to you, but other use it more than you, what am I?"

"Um..." You were stumped, but before you can answer, he holds a hand out, which you instinctively took and shook.

"A name," he says. "Edward Nashton, compelled to meet you."

A small, sheepish smile lights you features.

"Y/N L/N." You replied with curt nod.

I know, he wanted to say, but didn't want to risk establishing his first impression as a creep. Aahh, back when he possessed tact.

"Coffee after class so we can talk about our report?" You asked. "I know a place."

Initiative... sexy.

"Flirting with me already?" He raises a brow and he watches your face flush. Edward couldn't help but to chuckle at the sight, so precious. "Teasing, teasing..."

His gaze bore within yours. Sleep deprived like any other co-eds on campus, he noted. Your eyes were just like any other, but yours begged to be explored in depth.

"We're gonna be good friends."

Edward believed that impressions do not last. However, you were an exception to that.

Coffee shop. He could still remember how cheap and overbrewed their chais were. But he was not about to complain, you did pay for it. Notebooks out, brainstorming for the assignment. He remembered how articulate you were with the assigned topic. Eloquent and thoughtful with every word, you were a brilliant conversationalist he could go back and fourth with.

Naturally, the exchange flowed to where you discussed your own personal lives. Which high school you graduated in, your majors, why you chose said majors, what you wanted to do once you graduated...

"Mom wanted me to be an engineer," Edward says, watching you from the rim of his cup. "Dad wanted me to be a policeman. Grandma wanted me to be a doctor. Ya know, just Asian family things."

"And you ended up going with your major... BS IT?"

"Stereotypical, I know," Edward rolled his eyes, feigning annoyance. "But I do love myself some codes and technologies. Besides, it's all the rage, these days. Lot of job opportunities. Might take up computer engineering too..."

"How did they react?" You asked.

"Like any other families in a collective society, shaming and guilt tripping." Edward shrugged nonchalantly. Though his tone was casual, his demeanour wasn't. "Ya know, just... Being subtle about it, like a jackhammer. 'Where did I go wrong?', 'Look at your cousins!', 'You're going to fail'!" He chuckles sardonically. "The most attention I received from them, to be honest."

"I'm sorry..."

"Don't be." Edward chuckles. Not the first impression he hoped that would last... Immediately, he pulls himself back together, brazen smile plastered on. "Well, I hope my baggage won't put you off. Am I still cute in your eyes?" Eyelashes bat coquettishly, lips puckered as he held his cup with both hands.

You couldn't help but giggle at the act, that brought a glimmer in Edward's eyes, his chest thumping harder than usual. Back then, he thought it was ye olde heart palpitations from the excess caffeine consumption.

"Well? I'm getting nervous," he probes, resuming to act coyly.

"Yeah, you're..." You gestured at him with a sheepish smile. "You are."

"Are what?"

You couldn't help but laugh, that cute little smile of yours... "At this point, you're just fishing for compliments."

The pair of you spent the afternoon at the café, having been productive with your activity and insightful with one another's perceptions. It was inevitable that you part ways, though exchanged contact information on your way out. Edward initially thought it would strictly be for the activity for your Ethics class, or just for academic purposes in general.

But he was a professional yapper who liked asking questions only to answer them. He found you to be intriguing enough that he allows you to answer as well. Now and then, he found himself popping in the chat box to say hi.

He almost always found himself texting you in the dead of night when he's done with studies, professional crammer that he is.

"Burning the midnight oil, I see." He wrote when he noticed you've yet to log off.

It didn't take long for you to receive and see the message. He felt a twitch on his lip when he saw your icon bob along as you wrote a correspondence.

"Nah, I wish I were that putting that much effort in acads," you wrote back. "can't sleep."

"Don't have a hunk warming up your bed?" He couldn't help but snort upon sending, already envisioning your response. That cute flushed face, scowling, furrowed brows, nose scrunched.

"Nah. Just my pet hogging the bed." Ah, playing it cool, huh? He could work with it, he reckons you were burning up at the other end.

"Little baby pics tradesies?"

"Bet."

You sent yours first, a photo of your adorable little guy in bed, the excited fur child obscuring the entire frame. Edward could make out your cheek outstretched with that very familiar smile, in the blurry background behind your pet.

You told him their name, how you got them. How they are... Adorable really, Edward made a note not to get delusional and meet your pet one day once you invited him back to your place.

Edward sent back a photo of his cat, a short-haired black kitty who has the audacity in life in general. It was worth it to find an apartment that allows pets in the building, even if he needed to walk and extra mile to uni.

"This is Meow Meow. Creative, I know,"

“Why Meow Meow?” They wrote back, he could swore he can hear the incredulity in his head.

“Well, my dear, the onomatopoeic name stuck because I wasn’t referring to her by her name, but communicating with.” Edward replied, his thumbs darting swiftly against his phone’s keyboard. “Ergo, the name stuck.”

“It’s adorable.” His sole light source was his phone, but the smile on his face could lit up an entire room. “What are they like?”

“Audacious. She just randomly appeared in my place one day, slept on my couch, demanded food and head scritches,” Edward wrote with a chuckle upon his recollection. “You know, how cats typically manifest.”

Small talks were nice were nice with you; you provided interesting answers.

“Say, what’s your relationship with existence and mortality?”

Of course, he had to ask heavy hitting questions.

The topic shift was entirely out of left field, but Edward dug deep. Of there was one thing he liked, it was depth. He didn’t have a better way of transitioning into the subject, so it was a massive surprise to be dropped this enigmatic bomb.

That night, you talked until the sunrise, neither of you able to fall asleep. Topics ranged from your pets, and his sudden and shift of topic. He appreciated it, being able to throw anything at your direction and with you being able to answer even if, for a moment, you were a touch flabbergasted. You talked about your views about the said matter, Edward deepening the conversation with questions and counterarguments. Then, there were the agreements, the relatability, the connection.

He caught himself finding solace with a shared feeling, same fear, similar experiences. How you wove your thoughts in a way that provided him insights about his own whereabouts, one that he had thought about, but not in the way you were in-depth and well-acquainted about it. He felt seen. Heard.

“Still can’t fall asleep?” Edward asked when the clock struck dawn.

“Nope. You?” His textmate sent.

“Neither can I.”

The sun began peaking through the windows and the college grind resumes into gear, much to Edward’s chagrin. The nights were short and the days dragged on. But at least you were there.

“See you at ethics?”

“See ya.”

Upon entering your first period of ethics, you were greeted with the sight of Edward waving at you to sit with him and a to-go cup of caffeine.

Since then, you've spent a lot of time together sporadically. Edward didn't want to be clingy, but he certainly took all the chance he could get to spend his time with you. Duo projects, going to parties, pulling all-nighters through texts. He has had the basic scope of your life, something you're mentioned in passing that he deemed noteworthy. It was easy to connect the dots from then on.

You liked writing. An outlet for that vicious mind, your musings tucked away in a journal. Occasional posts in your blogs (you never told him about its existence, but you know how Edward is.) all he had read and never let you know he had. With this in mind, he found himself nudging you to join university organizations to write.

"So?" Edward slides forward upon finding you occupied with the organisation pamphlets.

"So is used when you're concluding something. Yet some people use it as a a sentence starter." you murmured to yourself, in what seems to be a bid of evading his questioning.

"We're in the US, words lose their original function over time as language evolves," But of course, Edward could not resist to retort and see the cute face wince in resignation. "Linguistics aside, what is that?"

"Admission form for the school papers," with the manner of your response, Edward found it noncommittal. The notion of joining but a passing interest, like driving pass a billboard, the interest piqued for a flash before moving onto the road. And it was Edwards job to talk about it.

"You wanna try broadcasting? Cute guys there, with the baritones. You get to travel outside of campus too." Edward plants the seed of interest. Something innocuous, the first pebble in an avalanche. "Not to mention, the advisor is Professor Austin. Make a friend out of him and you're set for the semester. If you a have with him, that is. I heard he's gonna be a thesis advisor next year."

"No, I'm kinda looking at the writing." Bingo.

"Oh you should!" He encourages with a nudge. "What are we talking? Opinion? Literary? Sports?"

"I'm kinda thinking... Feature."

“Feature, huh? Playing safe, are we?”

“There’s just so many applications for literary, I don’t wanna clog admissions.”

“You mean… You don’t want competition, that is.” The shit-eating grin of his was granted a deadpan of your own, inspiring the thought that he was not far from his assumption. Spoken like a tragic artist… “Come on! You’re a dime in a dozen! The second coming of Shakespeare, even! Or Mary Shelley… Or Oscar Wilde… Or George Orwell… Or--!”

“I don’t really feel like writing when the prompt is hella limited. They’re probably just going to let us write about some Hallmark pieces to inspire festering students steeped in burnout and caffeine.”

Ah yes, narrative and creative control, really hard to become a literary writer when you’re writing someone else’s vision to fruition, especially when you’re not getting paid for it, either. He’s seen the literary pieces posted in the college publications; the writers don’t seem to be enjoying writing those with how corporate it looked. Touche. Thus, there he was, being watched as he nods thoughtfully, lips pursed. Spoken like a true burnt-out writer… Oh woe, the writer’s plight of being the creatively-drained artist, with the shallow capitalist baddies sucking on the remaining artistry in art for some Benjamins. All meandering aside…

You continued, “And feature’s good, lets you infodump niche topics. Gives me time to dig around for sources, learn something new, get a new hyperfixation… I’m good at research, informative topics are always the rage, especially for the campus dorks.”

Edward couldn't help but ponder aloud, finger tapping the table, “Are you doing it because you’re good at it, or because you want to…?”

“Because I want to try it out.”

What was left to do but support you, even if it's not what you really wanted, but had stubbornly stuck to it? As much as it painted him to see you in this role of researcher and informative paraphraser and trivia master, when you wanted to write literature, it was your prerogative and you were correct, you were good at it. And validation was nice, being useful was nice.

At some point in time, you graduated, constructed your resume, your portfolio and immediately got a job. Edward was oblivious to those, having been occupied falling out of college due to burnout and plotting high-stakes Television highjacking and pettily abducting greedy billionaires that fucked him over during his internship to play in a fucked up gameshow of his making, as you do. Accumulated frustrations towards big daddy corporations, how smart people were on leashes by some mogul with an ugly mug. Was certainly the best way to drift apart from a friend after internships.

Your pursuits, he only out when he was perusing through magazines during his accomodation in Arkham. He recognised the diction, the very same he had read the first time he had ever stumbled upon your writing that one fateful day when you were just a name to him.

It was melancholic in a way. You've reached the top rung of the ladder with journalism when the plan was to be a New York's Bestseller. He was happy for you still, seeing you stand in your full, pretty glory in front of a camera was surreal (even if he had to highjack during your segment, ooops, he'd always been self-centred.) Despite the gap since you silently fell off, Edward was almost certain you only pursued this was not due to you liking it, but it was because you were good at it. And people expected you to.

In hindsight, you never got to ignite the flame of your relationship despite the sparks. He left before anything can be initiated, to be admitted. Was it presumptuous of him to assume you felt the same? No. But with an all-consuming pathology that came with the compulsion to find answer, Edward was certain; you felt something for him, too.

"Nygma, you have a visitor."

Oh would you look at that...

Typically, he wouldn't have lowered whatever that was in his hands, not particularly cooperative and willing to entertain whoever wants to visit him (it's not like his family wants to see him, after what disgrace he brought to the Nashton name.) Currently, it was the newspaper, folded on Vicki Vale's article about his recent highjacking of a certain uprising Y/N L/N in the journalism sphere. Lowered it, he did. Edward has the feeling he would have a visitor worth humouring.

He was right.

"Sooo..." Edward drawls, leaning across the table, drawing closer to capture your visage, to capture your picture to accompany him in his solitary confinement. He doesn't even know what to say.

"So is used when you're concluding something." you murmured to yourself, trying to lean back and give yourself some space. The same wince. Eyes squinted, nose scrunched, brows furrowed. The barest hint of flush dusting those cheeks.

"Yet some people use it as a a sentence starter," he finishes with melancholy in his smile. "Oh, you syntactical nerd. How have you been?"

Catching up was easy despite the initial uncertainty and awkwardness in the air. On your end, that is. But it was easy to fall back on old habits, like muscle memory, you were able to move through the same rhythm and melody he used to subject you to. The profound questions, the insightful two cents he offers... And of course, the need to dig deeper, if it was possible, was possible.

“You’re still a writer,” Edward pointed out. “Feature.” Instead of literary, like you always wanted. Far from school you were now, and yet you bind yourself within invisible constraints to the whims of whatever your publication demands of you.

“That was the plan.”

“Was it?” The minutest detail of your expression he scrutinised, the tiniest quirk of the brow and your slightest purse of your lips. You didn’t like the notion being challenged, real dreams be damned, stubborn pride and ego were at the brunt of it all. He couldn’t fault you, really, the reception of your works was a goldmine for validation. No wonder you continued being a news writer after college, you perpetuate the field of writing that you didn’t like all that much. It certainly wasn’t for the pay, you get like what? The editor-in-chief’s chump change no doubts at the bottom of his drawer, proclaiming he could just put a prompt in ChatGPT to get it to write him an article. God, he hopes the writing strike gets that bastard soon--

“It is,” you insist with uncertain-footing. “I mean… You weren’t there to know, anyway.”

Touche. But…

“Y/N, come on…” Edward’s gaze bore profoundly into yours. You already know, that he knows that you know this wasn't the path you wanted to pave. You already boarded and you weren’t going to leave mid-ride. Edward didn’t need his smart mouth to spell it out for you, as much as he wanted nothing more since he wanted to hear his voice again. But he didn’t. He let the eureka come to you. Shame that he didn’t get to see that when he had to be detained again.

“We’ll we see each other again,” he says, turning over his shoulder. “What is it that you can keep after giving it to someone else?”

“Word.”

[quandaryqueen]

Mountains

my lovelies have voted and i must listen 🗣️

“BIG BOY I NEED YOU”

- my roommate

[quandaryqueen]

I Don’t Smoke // Jason Todd x GN!Reader

this is the last song my band covered before we disbanded so i was feeling sentimental 🙂‍↕️🙂‍↕️ but i do not encourage smoking to be clear!! jason is a coin flip and a brick wall, a brick wall you are unfortunately attached to. this was supposed to be done alot earlier but turbulent times! ended up cat sitting for my cheater ex bc his house burnt down 😨👍

—

You remember the first time you took a drag out of a cigarette. It hit the back of your throat before you knew you were breathing it, and burned the whole way through. Bitter and brute. As you coughed your worth out of your body, expelling smoke and air and tears, you were convinced then that your lungs were blackened and would be forever. Your friends laughed and you told them you’d never smoke again.

That was ages ago. You were ashamed of it, the pack of Winston’s you always kept tucked away in your nightstand and the matchbox that accompanied it. But on nights that were long and extra quiet, like this one, you’d slip one to remember the taste.

Winston was Jason’s brand. He liked them because they were smooth, sweeter than your average while still strong enough to bite in the aftertaste. Balanced. Metaphoric in a way, for the way he acted.

He didn’t always smell of tobacco, only when he suddenly appeared to you during later hours, a visage of smoke and sweat, or when he wore that one leather jacket that the smell couldn’t be washed from. You’d get a whiff of it when he leaned over to drape an arm over your shoulder; you learned to hate it less.

But he always tasted like them, unmistakable and permanent. It lingered on his lips every time you kissed, and then it became synonymous. You learned to miss him, the sweetness and the bite.

It was hard to say you and Jason were ever going steady. There was an awkward push and pull game both of you played, and neither of you had the courage to question it; at least, you didn’t.

When things were good they were almost domestic. You went out together fairly often. He’d make you soup if you were sick, pat the sweat off your brow. You’d hold him through lightning storms, when the clash of thunder sounded too much like clanging metal and triggered a childlike fear in him.

But he’d never move in with you, he’d get defensive at the notion, and that hurt more than it needed to. You’d hinted at it before, after he’d known you long enough, but you only asked once. You knew it was a mistake when he tensed up, but at first you couldn’t tell if it was nerves or anger talking.

“What for?” Whatever playful tone he had before had a coldness injected into it now. You should’ve known it was anger, he didn’t react on nerves.

“You always stay the night,”despite the pit forming in your stomach, you tried to be lighthearted about it. You could smile like it wasn’t a big deal. “You know my kitchen, and I do your laundry. The guest room is your room.”

“So what? I leave a couple shirts and that means I live with you? That doesn’t mean anything.” There were times that felt like an unscalable wall divided the two of you, and this was one of them. It meant less than you thought it did. He couldn’t be blamed for it. You couldn’t have helped it.

“Okay. Sorry I brought it up.”

Jason had a habit of turning into smoke sometimes, very quickly out of sight and undeniably out of reach. Going no contact with the whim of the wind, it was like you weren’t a priority. You probably weren’t. He never breathed a word about where he would disappear to, and you knew better than to prod too much.

And when he was back sometimes you’d feel the wall again. Bruised and brooding, untouchable by your hands or your mind. He felt violent, the way he was rougher when he grabbed things and avoided touching you. Jason wasn’t the type to hurt you or actively lash out, but you felt the anger anyway in the glass shards you found in the trash or the tinkling sounds of trinkets against walls in his room.

It didn’t make you mad, or even scared. It just hurt to know he wouldn’t trust you with it. To know that his temper wasn’t going anywhere, and you weren’t adequate to touch it. The anger had to leave him somehow, and surely hiding it behind broken vases wasn’t enough. But you didn’t have the gall to say much about it, he was deeply distrusting and you were deeply complacent.

You weren’t yourself when you met him. That was your excuse. In a way, it set the tone for everything. After a particularly bad break up, you found yourself on the messy end of one too many mimosas and a handsome, tall stranger that was willing to listen to you slur about the cheater this and that asshole that.

The same stranger took you to his cozy apartment after you couldn’t hold your head up and decreed you’d forgotten your address.

Despite being a greek god of a man, he was awkward when you couldn’t help but cry, overwhelmed with emotion and alcohol. He didn’t touch you the whole night, just watched like a cornered dog. And he didn’t bring it up in the morning when you threw up on his carpet before passing out.

Anyone else would’ve left you at the bar, and if you were anyone else he would’ve done the same. But supposedly you were special, he said. Captivating and sincere, in a kicked puppy sort of way, and it was enough to wipe your vomit off the floor without a fuss.

It was hard not to like him after all that. And his chiseled jaw didn’t hurt either.

But sometimes you wish weren’t so casual about things when you’d met. If you explained that waking up in someone else’s apartment with no recollection was something alien to you, instead of playing it off, things might be different.

You thought he liked you because you were casual— cool, easygoing. He knew you as someone who didn’t overreact or get flustered easily or clutch caution. That’s who you were from the morning you woke up, asked who he was, and apologized for inconveniencing him. And it was the desire for consistency, fear of hurting what you built, that you remained complicit.

Your lungs were black now; jet black, like his hair and his favorite pair of boots. You were as casual as you were a smoker when you’d met, but when the smell lingers it doesn’t leave and the desperate desire to remember taste creeps in again. And sometimes you missed yourself, but not as much as you missed him in his increasing absence. The way the smoke seeped in, it clung to your walls and your favorite sleeping shirts and it was impossible now not to miss him.

You could always kick the habit, but not the taste of his lips. All of this, for him to hold you at arm’s length. After clinging to your walls and clothes and bed spreads, he had the nerve to say nothing. Sometimes the smoke was enough to kill fear for frustration, you had to deserve more than that. It had to hurt more to stay silent. He meant too much for you to be nothing.

So you ran it over again, your worth and your hurt, flicking the ashes off the half burnt roll. It wasn’t so disgusting anymore.

“Hey,” a familiar voice called out behind you. You didn’t hear him slip in, silent as ever. “It’s late.”

“It is,” you affirmed. Pressing the charred end of the cigarette against your banister put it out cleanly.

“You’re not sleeping?” A strong pair of arms caged your waist as you stared out at the pitch black skyline. Jason felt warm, as he usually did, a welcome contrast to the cold of the outside air.

“Well, you’re talking to me.” He hummed in response while you flicked what was left of the cigarette into the dustbin you kept on your balcony. Then, you asked a question you knew he wouldn’t like. “Where were you?”

“Business.” The answer was immediate and final. And vague.

“Why won’t you tell me?” you probed.

Jason stiffened, you could feel his arms tense around you, a warning. “Don’t start.“

His tone was callous, like all the affection and warmth he had dried up all at once. This was a different person.

“Do you hate me? Sometimes I get the sense that you do.” He let go of you and it was cold again, you didn’t have to turn around to know he was walking away.

“Go to bed. You’re not thinking straight.”

“No. I need you to give me something.” Before he could get too far, you caught him by his hand. He had rough hands, capable of violence, you knew, but you were never scared of that from him. “I’m what you want until you disappear again and you tell me nothing. And you come back and do it all over again, and I don’t know what I’m supposed to be to you.”

“Goodnight.” But he was stronger, you knew, and had no trouble ripping out of your grip to stalk off. If it ended like this you’d be at square one again. He’d lock his jaw and you’d bear the bite.

“Can’t you just yell at me!” You weren’t a beggar, but you’d never known desperation like this. That you could give someone else so much power over you. “I know you’re mad, just yell at me. It won’t hurt my feelings if you yell. Be mean. I can take it. But don’t sit with it and hate me, you can’t hate me—“

“Would you shut up?” At the very least he stopped, you were on the brink now, of your limit and his patience. You’d never seen him scowl like that, not at you, but it went as quickly as it came when he turned around. He’d never seen you cry like that, not over him.

“I don’t know where you go when you’re angry, but you can yell at me and stay. You always leave and if it’s because you’re mad at me then say so, I can listen.” You weren’t thinking, just spitting whatever bubbled up, “but I can’t be nothing to you, I have to matter enough for you to yell at me at least or tell me anything, I don’t have anything of yours and you are in everything I own.”

He paced over as you babbled, wiping off the forming tears with his thumbs. But Jason wasn’t an apologist or an open book, and once the smoke cleared from your lungs, you’d remember that. He held your heart in his volatile hands, and he’d decide how to break it. So he kissed your head and left anyway.

“We’ll talk in the morning.”

[quandaryqueen]

if you were at your worst, if you’re a villain or a screwup or whatever, there is a goth man dressed as a giant bat who keeps coming after you, bothering you. he sabotages your journey of self destruction over and over. ur ready to give up but he won’t let you. you think, today he won’t come. today he will give up on me too. he never does.

[quandaryqueen]

[quandaryqueen]

Tips for writing those gala scenes, from someone who goes to them occasionally:

Generally you unbutton and re-button a suit coat when you sit down and stand up.

You’re supposed to hold wine or champagne glasses by the stem to avoid warming up the liquid inside. A character out of their depth might hold the glass around the sides instead.

When rich/important people forget your name and they’re drunk, they usually just tell you that they don’t remember or completely skip over any opportunity to use your name so they don’t look silly.

A good way to indicate you don’t want to shake someone’s hand at an event is to hold a drink in your right hand (and if you’re a woman, a purse in the other so you definitely can’t shift the glass to another hand and then shake)

Americans who still kiss cheeks as a welcome generally don’t press lips to cheeks, it’s more of a touch of cheek to cheek or even a hover (these days, mostly to avoid smudging a woman’s makeup)

The distinctions between dress codes (black tie, cocktail, etc) are very intricate but obvious to those who know how to look. If you wear a short skirt to a black tie event for example, people would clock that instantly even if the dress itself was very formal. Same thing goes for certain articles of men’s clothing.

Open bars / cash bars at events usually carry limited options. They’re meant to serve lots of people very quickly, so nobody is getting a cosmo or a Manhattan etc.

Members of the press generally aren’t allowed to freely circulate at nicer galas/events without a very good reason. When they do, they need to identify themselves before talking with someone.