#anyway where i'm going with this is i'm hoping this version of him helps me with a new fault of mine

[gothamite-rambler]

Robin (on the phone): Dad, Lian and I are hiding out in a cabin from a bear that snorted a bunch of cocaine. We're fine, be safe, but come save us.

Batman opened his mouth to speak, paused, then checked the date on his phone. It wasn’t April 1st, and Damian didn’t usually joke like this.

Batman (his stoic tone gone): I'm sorry, what?

Robin: It sounds crazy, it is crazy, but trust me on this. We saw her snort it. I'm pretty sure it's Penguin's supply not the Joker's. She'd have a twisted grin if it was something Joker made.

Lian (in the background, eating the snacks in the cabin): It was nuts! I hope his heart doesn't explode like the one from the '80s.

Batman (in disbelief): This is... Am I on something? None of what you said is making sense. The bear... The cocaine... Nightwing, help me here.

Nightwing laughed unable to take this seriously although he knew it was, but he knew if Damian and Lian were safe there wasn't too much to worry about.

Nightwing: Remember that story about the bear that ate a brick of cocaine and in reality, he had a massive overdose and died?

Batman: Yeah.

Nightwing: Robin, Lian, and Superboy watched a movie loosely based on it. I scolded them for watching it, but in that version, the bear survived. Guess this bear only snorted some of it.

Batman (deadpan as he took this all in): There's a movie where the bear survived from eating a brick of cocaine?!

Nightwing (crossing his arms, chuckling): Yeah, it was nuts!

Lian: Right?! Anyway, we're safe regardless. Call my dad; he can shoot the bear with one arrow.

Robin (shouting): He's not killing the bear! The bear can be saved, she only consumed a small amount.

Lian: Dami, either his heart explodes, or he gets a mercy killing.

Robin: No, no! Shut up! I told you we're not killing her! Also it's a woman! You are giving me a headache!

Batman: We’re still on the phone.

Robin: I know, Batman! I’m reminding Lian that a bear isn’t dying today! You have to save her! You can save her right?!

Lian blew a raspberry, prompting Robin to shush her with an annoyed hiss.

Batman: Okay, call Arsenal, find out where you are, knock out the bear, and don’t kill it. Yes, the bear I'm just finding out is a woman won't die, I'll make sure of it. Then I'm going to figure out how a bear snorted coke.

Robin: Exactly! I told Lian you could handle this without murdering a bear.

Lian: You better hope his heart doesn't explode first then.

Robin: Silence, child! You saw her cubs! I'll smack you without a second thought! Batman, I have to go—hurry!

Robin ended the call, surprising Batman.

Batman: Only I can end calls abruptly.

Nightwing laughed, texting Roy about the current insanity unfolding in the forest and asking him to hurry with tranq darts and a camera.

[shithowdy]

let's hear it for the OCs that force you to improve as a person due to the mindset it requires to roleplay them

[asaarii]

ft: mainstream!mark and variants (mohawk, viltrum, omni, sheisty, sinister) (invincible) reader: fem wc: 2604 summary: hey siri is it gay to want to crack the female version of my dead best friend? cw: canon typical violence, foul language, and the variants are kinda sorta freaky in this requested by: @sophsthebest

this was so fun to write lowk and I would've been done faster if not for the blood moon event in dbd so err yeah I'm going to go die in a hole now

Life is strange, really. 

One moment, you’re helping refold shirts because some people don’t even have the decency to put stuff back to where they found it, and the next, an international warning tells you to stay inside because there are evil variants of your boyfriend now roaming the Earth with unclear intentions.

You share a look with your coworker, who looks just as off-put by the information, her fingers curling around her phone as her brow dips. Just as her lips part to speak, the first building falls. It’s only a few blocks away, and the ground beneath your feet trembles at its sudden collapse.

You hear the screams of those out on the street, internally debating whether or not to follow suit until a notification from Mark lights up your screen, the ridiculous nickname you’d set when you were twelve a small comfort to your racing heart.

MarkyWarky: please tell me you’re okay

You: i’m fine

You: i’m just scared mark 

You: why are there so many versions of you anyway…

MarkyWarky: i wish i could tell you

MarkyWarky: just stay put alright im otw

The message does little to soothe, and you can’t help but stare at your screen with nothing but apprehension. Your coworker is quick to seize you by the arm when the sound of collapsing buildings and wailing cars draws closer, ushering you into the break room with the floor manager as though the small, unwindowed room would protect you from the raw strength of a Viltrumite.

“Holy shit, we’re gonna die…We’re actually going to die…” The floor manager, Kasandra, curls into herself with tears already welled in her eyes as she chokes back a sob. No one says anything, unable to face the grim reality at steak when debris begins to crumble around you. You all huddle into the furthest corner as your hope in Mark begins to wane.

Small pieces of rubble hit your head as you tuck your head tightly into Kasandra’s shaking shoulder, the lights overhead flickering violently when the ceiling begins to cave in on itself. There’s no use holding back the tears now and you can’t hide your anguished cries, unheard over the collapsing infrastructure.

This is it, you think, mentally saying your goodbyes to everyone you’ve grown to love. Amber. Eve. William. Mark—oh, Mark. The annoying boy next door who grew to be your first love. 

Sparks flare as the light above you finally collapses, but you don’t feel a throbbing pain in your head or death’s cold embrace, instead, you find yourself wrapped in a familiar pair of arms, still clinging to an almost catatonic Kasandra while your coworker grips the forearm wrapped around the three of you.

“I’ve got you,” a voice in your ear says, and you can feel the tears begin to well once more, though, this time out of relief. Mark is quick to shoot from the rubble, hold unwavering before he sets the three of you down and urges you to run to safety.

Your two coworkers are quick to flee, but you stupidly linger, worry etched onto your features at the sight of Mark’s beaten face and tattered suit. In the distance, you can see Eve facing valiantly against a variant, the odd cloth mask adorned on his face his most defining trait. She pants, her palms facing outward to just barely raise a shield against his erratic punches.

Mark pulls your attention back to him, face pinched as his thumb traces your lower lip in an attempt to ground both you and himself. His lips are soft against your forehead for a brief moment before he pulls back, staring at you through his cracked goggles with an emotion you can’t quite place. 

“I love you,” you whisper, stroking his bruised cheek softly.

“I love you too. But, you need to go. Now. I’ll check on you soon, promise.”

So, you run as fast as your legs can carry you, doing your best to ignore the ruins and corpses that seem to block every turn.

You don’t get far.

A shadow overhead blocks the sun—its presence so oppressive and commandeering that it freezes you in place.

“Another survivor?” 

You can’t bring yourself to turn despite the way your heart lurches at the familiarity of the voice. Your breath hitches when the shadow lowers—whatever twisted version of Mark this is drawing ever closer like a lion to its prey.

“I thought those other two were the last of them, but what’s one more?” The voice is cold, almost clinical, very unlike the warmth that radiated off of your Mark. A glove is quick to find purchase on your throat, and you glance down to see the red rubber shining beneath the sun.

Blood coats the hand, tinting the glove an even darker shade of red than what you’d first surmised. You try not to think about the warmth of it as his grip grows tighter, making it harder to breathe, but not enough to kill, like he’s messing with you in some cruel, twisted way.

“You’re this dimension’s girlfriend, aren’t you?” His lips press against the shell of your ear, jerking your body to face the fight between Mark and the clothed one from before alongside Eve, who reaches out to you weakly before eventually crashing against the side of one of the buildings. Your Mark wheezes, clutching at his chest when the cloth-masked variant throws him into a nearby building by the hair. “Pathetic.”

The sound barrier tears as another Mark enters the fray, his mohawk wild and unkempt in the wind as he grins at the sight of battle, though there’s no amusement behind his smile. “Who the hell do you think you are running off like that?” For a moment, his wild eyes slip to where you and your captor reside, a flicker of…something flashing through his before it fizzles away. “Keeping hostages alive? Didn’t peg you for the cruel type.”

You barely register the click of the Invincible’s tongue over the roaring beat of your heart, his thumb remaining stationary over your pulse point; a warning. He could snap your neck at any given moment, and you don’t know what’s stopping him, but you’re grateful for whatever’s causing him to hesitate.

“Come on, just put her out of her misery already,” the mohawked Mark goads with a small shrug as he pulls his fist back to punch your Mark into the concrete when the cloth-masked variant throws him in his direction. Cracks split beneath your feet at the sheer force, the ground almost giving way, but all you can do is watch as your Mark slowly gets up from the crater his body had formed. 

He locks eyes with you, something snapping inside of him at the sight of the variant clad in a suit nearly identical to Omni-Man’s wrapping his hand around your throat.

“[Name]!” He calls out, bursting free from the grasp of the two other Marks with a renewed sense of vigor. 

Time seems to freeze the moment your name leaves his bloodied lips, the Mark holding you hostage too stunned to react when your Mark’s fist collides with his jaw hard enough to send him three blocks away. It isn’t long until you’re swept into Mark’s arms, the hold both protective and possessive as he glares at the other two, his chest heaving with each labored breath he struggles to take.

“No fuckin’ way.” The mohawked variant blinks slowly, his lips pulling into a mix of a grimace and a smirk. “That’s unfair on so many levels.” He turns to the Mark in a cloth mask who seems to share the same sentiment, mumbling under his breath about how unfair it is that this version of him gets the hot babe.

Omni-Man Mark merely scoffs when he floats back, his suit still pristine as though he’d never been thrown at all while he crosses his arms over his chest, scrutinizing the way you tremble in this version of him’s hold. You aren’t the best friend he’d killed mercilessly back in his dimension. Here, you were a woman—his woman. And he’d be damned if he couldn’t kill two birds with one stone.

A best friend and a wife. Who would’ve thought?

While he’d never seen the other, male, version of you in a romantic light, his heart stirs at the thought of taking this version of you for himself. It’s not like it’ll take much to kill this Mark; he’s already as good as dead anyway—

“Is everything alright here?” Clad in white and silver, yet another version of Mark descends from the sky like some sort of disgraced angel. 

“Ugh, why are you here?” Mohawk Mark rolls his eyes obnoxiously, his gaze only briefly flickering to the new variant.

“Angstrom sent me to see if you all were sticking to the plan, which clearly you aren’t.”

“Aww, the lil’Viltrum baby can’t do anything without a mission? How sad!” He bats his lashes dramatically before sneering. “What are you gonna do next, bark? Who gives a shit about the plan? You’re acting as if you weren’t gonna kill him after anyway!” 

The Mark in the Viltrum uniform chooses not to dignify him with a response.

Unbothered by his counterpart’s nonchalance, the mohawked Mark sets his sights back on you, spreading his arms wide as if to welcome you in with a hug. “Hey, [Name], it’s just me. Just Mark. Your best friend, remember? We used to play CoD and shit when your parents were out.”

Viltrum Mark’s brows furrow at the familiar name, steady gaze finally paying you mind as you try to sink further into the Mark of this dimension’s arms. You’re a lot…softer than he recalls you being, your form far less filled out; almost feminine. But, that couldn’t be right, right? How cruel would it be for this version of him to have the perfect mate whilst he, while grateful for your prior companionship, was stuck with nothing more than a best friend? One that he’d ultimately killed for resisting.

Surely, his brain is playing tricks on him.

Then he hears it—they all hear it.

The small terrified whimper you let out, the sound almost heavenly as you try to curl into Mark like your life depends on it. Which you suppose it does at this very moment.

A collective groan settles across all the present variations of Mark, all differing levels of arousal. They can practically taste the fear emanating off of you, stalking closer like a pack of deranged wolves.

Disgust pulls at Mark’s lips at the look in their eyes, his arms trembling around you as the last line of defense between you and these monstrous versions of him. “What the hell are you guys on about?” He seethes, only to be met by a suffocating silence.

Viltrum Mark appears in front of you before you and Mark can process his presence, tearing you out of your boyfriend’s arms despite your screaming protests. His grip is firm, but it’s the underlying softness in it that has you trembling with both fear and confusion. One of his hands finds your chin, stroking the contour of your jaw while his thumb gently presses down on your lower lip in a similar fashion that your Mark had done earlier.

“You’re [Name].” His face twists with perplexion as he speaks. “But, you’re so soft.” You feel his other hand fall from your arm, settling on your hip as if to prove a point. He squeezes and prods the fat, slipping beneath the fabric of your shirt to feel the soft skin underneath, his fingers splaying against your stomach while his nose buries itself in your neck. “You’d be a great mother.”

No.

No.

No.

This can’t be happening—

You’re pulled into another set of arms. These ones leaner yet more possessive than the Viltrum Mark’s. But not yours.

“Jesus what the fuck is wrong with you.” Mohawk Mark’s voice rasps mockingly above you, his arm curling around you and dangerously close to your breasts. You know he feels your heart stop, snorting cruelly as he pulls you flush against him. His gloved hand tilts your chin up to him cruelly, relishing in the way tears well in your eyes.

“P-Please…” You weakly claw at his wrist despite knowing how useless it is in comparison to his innate strength.

Holy fuck, he could get used to the sound of that.

Man, why couldn’t you be a girl in his world too? Oh, the things he would do to you. How he would ruin you. He wonders if you’re similar to his [Name], the [Name] who trusted him to do the right thing only to die trying to stop what’s already been done. Do you play the same sport as your male counterpart? Enjoy the same food? Ah, whatever, you’re still his, no matter his relation to you. Best friend or otherwise.

“Get away from her you fucking freak!” Your Mark’s garbled voice reaches your ears, his fist colliding with the side of the mohawked variant’s head, sending him careening into the white-clad Viltrumite. Mark doesn’t even get the chance to look over you before he shoots into the air with you in his hold, tucking your head into his shoulder as he whispers calming words into the crown of your head. “I’ve got you, baby,” he echoes his prior sentiment, flying as fast as he can with the cloth-mask and Omni-Man wannabe hot on his tail.

A familiar red glove catches Mark’s leg, snapping it easily. Mark screams, his teeth grinding as he pivots his other leg directly into the variant’s face, no doubt breaking his nose before he crashes into the cloth-masked Mark, who yells obscenities as the two of them crash into the city below.

Finally, silence settles between the two of you. Heavy with confusion. Heavy with fear.

“What the hell was that…” You cling to him, trembling like a newborn fawn in his hold.

“I—I don’t know.” He buries his nose in your neck as he lowers into a desolate field miles away from any civilization, breathing in your comforting scent beneath the smell of iron and ash that seem to cling to your skin while he settles against a tree. The field is peaceful; untouched by the destruction that plagues the rest of the world.

“...What about Eve and the others?” You hesitate, palms hovering over his broken leg to do your best to put the limb back together. The bone melds back together grotesquely, it's disgusting snap a sound you think you’ll never get used to.

“Eve slipped away before things got ugly. I’m not too sure about the others…” He lets out a low hiss, his fingers digging into the ground when his skin gets pulled tautly back into place. “I’m just glad you’re okay. I won’t let them get to you, not as long as I’m still breathing, alright?”

“Okay,” you breathe out, collapsing into his chest as you try not to think about everything you’ve lost in such a short amount of time. He kisses your forehead gently, leaning back against the tree for only a moment of respite.

“Aww, what a cute sight.” A patronizing voice overhead has both of you snapping your heads to the sound. Clad in yellow and black with a billowing cape behind him, this version of Mark sneers, his gaze looking between you and Mark. His brows raise beneath his mask, lips forming something akin to a sadistic grin. “Well, well, well. You’re looking a bit different here, aren’t you, [Name]?”

Shit.

©asarii 2025 — do not copy, steal, repost, or translate any of my works on tumblr or any other site or run my works through ai

[yanderes-galore]

Fandom: HOTD

Character: Cregan Stark

Pairing: Romantic

Type of fic: Concept

Extra info: I haven't had the opportunity to watch the finale yet so I hope my man got more screen time other than 3 minutes...

But other than that! Darling could be from wherever you want, you're free to do whatever. I'm just starving for more Cregan content to be honest 🙏🙏

- 🥝 anon

More screen time? That aged well... Anyways! Sure, I'll try my best. Using ASOIAF wiki to help me!

❗️Spoilers For HOTD/Fire and Blood Ahead❗️

Yandere! Cregan Stark Concept

Pairing: Romantic

Possible Trigger Warnings: Gender-Neutral Darling, Obsession, Possessive/Protective, Manipulation, Controlling behavior, Forced marriage/Courting, Mature themes, Violence, Blood, Isolation, Dubious relationship.

The first idea I thought of for Cregan is him with a Targaryen.

Cregan himself is not very involved in the Dance.

He takes pretty much the entirety of the war to gather forces since the North is so vast.

However, that does not stop him from toppling The Greens in areas other than King's Landing.

This concept is going to be a tweaked version of canon where you're a Targaryen on the side of The Blacks.

Your mother is Rhaenyra and you're helping your brothers gain forces to your side.

Now this could go one of two ways.

You arrive in Winterfell with Jacaerys to speak with Cregan... or you go alone.

Regardless of which occurs, you are tasked to convince Cregan to join The Blacks.

Despite being a skilled dragon rider, the winter chill nips at your skin as you land your dragon.

You had come to negotiate, to give whatever you could to get Cregan to aid your mother.

Although... You end up giving a lot more than you bargained for the longer you stay in Winterfell.

Like most Stark lords, Cregan is an intimidating fellow.

He has had a lover before, in fact he's older than you by at least a few years despite you both being around your twenties.

Yet the difference in age is small and you're able to get along rather well with the lord.

Despite being relatively cold to most, Cregan is ironically rather warm with your presence.

You had learned his past love had died in childbirth, leaving him with a young son.

You even take the time to learn more of Stark traditions.

Winterfell is land much different than your own home.

It's cold compared to Dragonstone, your dragon rather antsy about the change in climate.

You were invited to stay a week or two at Winterfell's castle.

Of course you agree, after all the Stark's support is needed for your mother.

Your time spent in Winterfell is used to get to know lord Cregan Stark.

You drink, hunt, train... Your time there includes a large amount of culture training.

The same thing happens if you went with your brother.

Cregan's form of bonding with you is definitely Stark in nature.

The drinks in Winterfell are much different than home.

They primarily drink ale, yet Cregan was able to get his hands on some Dornish wine if that was better for you.

You just took the ale most of the time, wanting to be on good terms.

Hunting was another activity.

Cregan primarily hunted with Jacaerys if he went with you.

However, there's times you get to hunt with the Stark lord.

Cregan was surprisingly cautious of you while hunting.

For the first few days it was most likely due to him not wanting a Targaryen heir to be injured.

However, over time it seems his intentions towards you changed.

The same thing occurs with training.

Cregan carefully observes what you're capable of before showing you ways to hone your skills.

After all, you're a dragon rider, you're used to the skies.

Yet he teaches you how to properly use a sword.

As your visit progresses, you make some good progress with getting to know the lord.

Cregan himself appears fond of you, often greeting you himself every morning to invite you on yet another expedition or meal together.

Unbeknownst to you, Cregan's intentions for you aren't just to be loyal to your mother.

No, the longer you are in Winterfell, the more Cregan ends up falling for you.

You're a strong and fierce dragon warrior.

Having a Targaryen in his family can be a useful thing, he's reminded of that each time he sees your dragon hidden from the biting cold.

Although, not only are you useful...

But he also finds himself falling for you genuinely.

His obsession develops as the days pass.

By the end of your visit, you and Cregan are close.

He makes sure your hospitality is perfect, that you are respected.

If anyone has problems with you, Cregan will remind himself to have them judged (and possibly executed).

Cregan sees you as his dragon and himself as your wolf.

He's smitten by the time your visit ends, eyes unable to part from you.

Of course Cregan plans to pledge loyalty to your family.

Yet he's not doing it for your brother, your mother, or the throne.

He's doing it for you.

The Pact of Ice and Fire occurs differently in this scenario.

Instead of asking to marry Jace's first born daughter to his son... He asks Jace or you something different.

In return for his loyalty to the throne, he wants to marry you.

The deal comes across as a surprise at first.

Granted, you were not betrothed yet, but even if you were it probably wouldn't stop Cregan.

The wolf has spotted what he wants...

He plans to have you one way or another.

Determined to win the Starks for your mother, you take a deep breath and agree to Cregan's proposal.

In return for Cregan's northern men, you will be his betrothed.

Your compliance brings a smile to Cregan's face, good...

That wasn't so hard, was it?

Cregan, while cold to most, is not cruel to his dragon.

The wedding ceremony hasn't even occurred yet but Cregan already plans on arranging you to stay at Winterfell.

You try to tell him to wait, but your new husband doesn't listen.

He's a stern man, shutting you down when you try to reason.

You tell him you'll get married after the war, that you and your dragon are needed in Dragonstone.

Cregan ignores such a thought.

He tells you it will take around two years to rally the needed men.

Until this... He considers marrying you earlier.

Cregan does not want his dragon to fight in the war.

He may not show it, but he fears losing you.

You try to tell him that your dragon is not used to the colder climate.

In response he tells you to dismiss the large flying lizard, telling you to stay here.

Your dragon will return when it is needed.

You, however, are to stay in Winterfell until you're both married... and afterwards.

Cregan does not listen to anyone on this matter.

While he has men sought out to aid your mother, he sends a raven (or Jace), to tell your mother of your bargain.

Meanwhile, back with you, Cregan kisses your soft skin, telling you he'll be a good man to you.

If anyone tries to tell him your need to go back to Dragonstone, Cregan responds harshly.

He does not hesitate to have someone cut down for not agreeing with him.

You are his betrothed, his beloved dragon.

Disagreements often end with a bloody sword and his grip on you tightening.

Cregan is surprisingly affectionate, kissing your lips and skin.

He calls you all sorts of affectionate nicknames, holding you close.

He doesn't share chambers with you until you're officially married.

Once you are.. You learn just how possessive the wolf can be.

You're married a month or two after meeting the Stark.

Your wedding night comes with sharing his bed....

Your mother tells you your dragon is needed.

Yet you respond saying Cregan Stark refuses to let you battle.

You don't properly see your mother again once Cregan takes you as his own.

Even when your mother asks to meet with Cregan, the winter wolf is against it.

Truth is I can see Cregan keeping you at Winterfell until the war ends.

Both Rhaenyra and Aegon II perish, along with your siblings.

You are one of the only remaining Targaryens other than your younger brother Aegon.

It's only then that Cregan allows you to come with him to King's Landing.

You're devastated at the fact you lost your family, survivor's guilt creeping in.

Cregan allows you to reunite with your younger brother and soon even becomes Hand.

During his time in King's Landing, you are allowed to stay beside him.

Yet he tells you once he is no longer needed, you will be coming back to Winterfell.

Part of you does love your husband... He's trying to protect you.

Despite that, you resent him for forcing you to stay back.

But... His winter men did indeed help claim territory for the blacks....

In a way, you guessed this was your purpose.

If you are capable of having children, you most likely have a young babe with him... maybe another on the way....

Regardless, Cregan keeps you close, the wolf watchful of his dragon.

One could argue his possessive behavior saved you...

You still hate it.

It's ironic, dragons are meant to be stronger than wolves.

Yet here you are, leashed to your loyal hound... bare able to mourn your family.

Cregan reassures you this would've happened anyways.

You should be happy he kept you safe....

You may have Targaryen blood... but to him, you're a Stark now.

He's your family now...

Whoever tries to go against this will meet the end of his sword, their blood staining the snow as you're forced to be good for your husband.

[apocalypseornaw]

Shaky Ground

Dean Winchester x Reader

When Dean accidently hurts you during sex it leads to you feeling unsure about your relationship because for the first time ever he won't reciprocate your attempts at intimacy even after you're healed

Cursing, mention of a bruised cervix, body parts being bruised,supernatural level of violence, NSFW happenings

Requested by @fullbelieverheart This ended up longer than Sam's version... sorry I love Sammy but Dean has my heart

Dean's jaw ached from how hard his teeth ground together. The hunt had been too close. You'd nearly...he didn't want to think about it. He couldn't think about it. He followed you into your shared hotel room, greatful Sam had the foresight to get two rooms. He couldn't imagine having to share the room with his brother right now.

When you turned to face him he felt his anger dissolve into that underlying fear. You didn't have any serious injuries, no more than him or Sam but the fact that if he'd been a little slower or a little weaker or if you'd had a little less fight in you.... "come here" he barely got out before scooping you up into his arms and walking towards the bed. What he couldn't say with words, he could say in other ways.

------------------

You woke up slowly, the small amount of light from the curtain hitting your eyes. You could feel Dean's arm tucked tightly around your waist. As much as you wanted to cuddle up against him you could tell from the discomfort you were in that something was wrong.

You tried to move his arm without waking him but the moment you touched him his eyes fluttered open "What's wrong sweetheart?" You smiled at the concern in his voice "We didn't clean up before we fell asleep last night. I feel gross" he chuckled lightly and pressed a kiss to your shoulder "Good point. Let's grab a shower then I'll go wake Sammy up"

You felt him move out the bed so you moved to do the same but felt a harsh pull through your lower body. At first you assumed it was the usual post sex soreness, Dean was well endowed to say the least but when you had to bite down on your lip to not cry out you knew it was more and when you saw streaks of blood on the sheet you cursed lightly under your breath. Dean looked back from where he was pulled fresh clothes out of his duffle "Something wrong?" You smiled stiffly "No"

His smile dropped "Don't lie to me baby. What is it" you swallowed hard then bit back a grimace as you stood out of the bed and pulled the cover back "I um apparently bled a little last night?" He walked over and looked at the stains "You don't have periods because of your iud" you nodded slowly. His eyes went from the stain to your face then moved slowly down to your body "Did I hurt I hurt?"

You shrugged "Not really" you watched his throat move as he swallowed hard "let me rephrase the question here. Are you in pain right now from something I did last night?" You let out a breath and let your gaze drop to the floor "My pelvic area is really sore and it kinda hurts to move fast and I think I'm gonna bruise on my hips"

Dean moved slowly towards you and you felt his hands touch your body gently, his fingers tracing where you knew bruises would be. "Dean" you spoke his name softly and started to cover his hand with your own but he pulled away "I'm gonna go shower in Sam's room. There was an urgent care a few towns over. We'll stop by and see what's wrong" "It's not that serious Dean" you tried again but his face had already taken on that hard mask "I hurt you, inside and out. At least let me take you to a doctor"

"Just shower with me" your voice was nearly a whisper but he shook his head "I need to wake him up anyway" you watched him dress in yesterday's clothes and grab his clean ones before slipping out the door, only taking time to lock it behind himself.

"I needed the help" you whispered with tears in your eyes before slowly bending down to pick up your duffle bag. You hoped nothing was serious because the look in Dean's eyes was enough to snap your heart in two.

You sat in the backseat absorbing the silence that filled the impala. You had a bruised cervix and some mild bruising on your hips and thighs. The look in Dean's eyes when the doctor asked if you were safe at home...jesus.

You closed your eyes and laid back against the seat, holding your stomach where the heated patch Sam had found at the pharmacy was helping to soothe your muscles. You knew Dean would never hurt you on purpose and its not like you were exactly complaining, hell you'd been begging him not to stop as a matter of fact.

You tried not to let any discomfort show because outside of holding your hand while the doctor had done a pelvic exam he hadn't shown any physical affection. Anytime his eyes found yours in the mirror you would give him a small smile and he'd look away. What was going through his head?

-----------------

Deans head was anything but silent as he drove. What kind of man hurt the woman he loved? Intentionally or not? He glanced back at you in the mirror and this time you didn't notice his attention. You'd stolen Sam's flannel as a pillow as was using his jacket as a blanket. The anti inflammatory meds along with antibiotics had meant all of you had needed to stop for lunch to make sure you had food in your stomach but he hadn't been able to eat much.

His thoughts were filled with the fact that he'd hurt you. The one person you should've been able to trust to protect you was the one who hurt you. You must have finally gotten comfortable because you hadn't stirred in the last few miles and it seemed like you were asleep. "She's ok Dean. She's strong and heals fairly fast" Sam spoke softly, ignoring the daggers Dean glared in his direction "Sam they looked at me like I was abusive or worse. I bruised her cervix. I've never done that to anyone. Not even when I was a kid figuring out what goes where. I'm a grown man. How do I fuck up this bad? And bruises on her hips and thighs?"

Sam shrugged "Dean you're strong as hell man and she's got a high pain tolerance. You two were amped up from a hunt. Adrenaline was high. Just don't let this come between you" Dean glanced back at you again as you moved around in your sleep, a slight twinge of discomfort flashing across your face twisting his heart with guilt "Easier said than done"

Bruises fade internally as well as externally. What proved to be harder to heal was the ever widening gap between you and Dean. When he finally started sleeping in the bed with you again he'd wear a t-shirt and either sweatpants or loungepants to bed.

He'd kiss you but it would never go past a quick kiss. No tongue would ever even make it into the picture and he'd rarely even hold you when you slept. You were losing your mind. You'd tried everything you knew that would normally have him begging you but he'd either curl up behind you and go to sleep or make an excuse about helping Sam.

You fought back tears yet again as Dean barely brushed a kiss to your lips before heading into town to pick up needed things for the bunker. You grabbed a bottle of water and headed for the library to help Sam do research, maybe getting your mind off the growing doubt in your heart would help.

----------

You sat down at the table and Sam glanced up "You didn't go with Dean?" You scoffed "and have him accidentally touch any part of my body? The scandal" you hadn't meant to say it but it slipped out. His eyes widened "Guess he's still avoiding a certain subject"

You covered your face with your hands "Fuck I shouldn't be talking to you about it" "Hey, if it helps then talk" Sam offered and you let your hands slide down to offer him a greatful smile "I love him so much Sam and I know relationship are so much more than that but I miss the connection. I miss being in his arms. I miss feeling like I'm completely his and that he's completely mine"

You wiped your eyes before the tears could spill. He nodded slowly "He's scared. He won't admit it but he is. He felt so horrible when he realized he hurt you and the way he was treated at that urgent care... he doesn't want to risk hurting you again so you're gonna have to put the foot forward and make it intentional. All cards on the table thing"

You nodded after a moment "Thanks Sammy" he smiled "Of course"

You knew Dean had purposely stayed up late tinkering around in the garage. Baby didn't need tuning up, neither did your car. He kept them in top form. He was avoiding you.

You walked around the room you shared with him, stretching your legs and wondering just how to approach the subject without him feeling like you were pushing him into a corner. Dean never reacted well if he felt like something was an ultimatum but this wasn't fair to either of you.

You were healed up, inside and out. You hadn't blamed him any, even when you'd still been sore to the touch. You'd always known Dean was strong. Hell he fought monsters for most of his life, hand to hand and won. That required physical strength. Mix with the fact that you had a pain tolerance that Bobby had called insane...well you were surprised it'd taken this long for an accident to happen.

You loved Dean's strength, he was normally so gentle with you but that one night you'd almost died. You'd known it just the same as him. The adrenaline hadn't even faded from your system to acknowledge it when you'd gotten back to the hotel and you needed to feel like you were still alive and he needed the confirmation you were still alive as well. Dean out of every person on the face of the earth would die a thousand times over before ever intentionally hurting you and you knew that to the bottom of your heart. If only you could make him see that.

You laid down on the bed and curled your legs up under you. You felt defeated. If you couldn't win the fight for your relationship, how the hell could you win any others?

--------------

You heard the door crack open after a while and started to pretend like you were asleep but turned to face Dean was was standing next to his dresser. He smiled softly "Did I wake you?" You shook your head "No, I haven't exactly been sleeping good"

He dropped his gaze down "Are you hurting again?" "Physically? No" you replied softly before turning around again, giving him your back. You didn't want to hurt him but you had no clue how to give voice to your own fears in the moment either.

You choked back a sob when the bed dipped behind you right before you felt his arm slip around your waist, pulling you back against his chest. "I'm so sorry sweetheart" you gently laid your hand on his arm, fingers lightly trailing over the skin because you were honesty starved for any touch from the man now holding you "It's ok Dean"

He leaned his forehead over to rest between your shoulders, warm breath hitting your skin where the shirt you slept in had slid down "I would never hurt you please tell you know that" "I know" you whispered.

You laid there for a few minutes just enjoying the fact that he was holding you before he moved around. You thought he was getting comfortable to go to sleep but his lips brushed against your neck. Your breath came out in a harsh shudder "Dean" you started to turn to face him so he loosened his grip to let you turn in his arms.

He kept one hand on your hip, lightly tracing the patterns on your shorts "Can we talk?" He asked and you nodded. "I'm terrified here sweetheart. The night I hurt you... I almost lost you that night and I was blinded by the what ifs...we should've showered...got some food or something to calm down first...I know that now..."

"I wasn't exactly telling you to stop Dean" you cut him off and he smiled slightly "I know but still it's my job to protect you, even if it's from me" you picked at the front of his shirt and nodded "You do protect me Dean" he gave you a look and you grinned before pretending to lock your lips.

"Seeing blood on the sheets and knowing I caused it. I hurt the woman I love bad enough she bled?" He closed his eyes for a moment so you took the opportunity to move your hand from his chest to his jaw, cupping it gently and letting your nails scratch the scruff covering it from the days he'd missed trimming it.

"Can I talk now?" He opened his eyes slowly and nodded "you do protect me Dean. That night, yeah we could calmed down and not let adrenaline run us but lesson learned. I was never mad at you, if I hadn't been hurting I would've kicked every last one of those doctors asses for even thinking such of you but I did yell at them"

He laughed, resuming letting his fingers trace patterns on your hips "Yeah I remember you yelling excuse the fuck out of him for having a big cock I know it's not like any of you or any of your husbands have to worry about that issue" you smiled at seeing him relax even just a bit "I'm not made of glass of Dean but I do acknowledge the fact that the man I'm in love with is extremely strong. I also know that the man I love with would never hurt me intentionally but Dean I miss you. I've been healed up for weeks now and you'll barely kiss me"

-----------------

He leaned closer to catch your lips in a gentle kiss. Just when you figured he would move away he gripped your hips gently then rolled over onto his back so you were left straddling him. When you gasped from the sudden movement he deepened the kiss, rolling his tongue against yours in a way that had your head spinning.

When you were forced to break away from his lips he grinned up at you "I miss you too sweetheart. I'm still worried I'm gonna hurt you" you rolled your bottom lip between your teeth for a moment then shrugged with a playful smile "Face your fears Winchester"

When you slipped your shirt over your head his eyes darkened "You gonna lay back and let make sure you're good and ready for me?" One of his hands teased up your side to graze over your breast. After so long with no intimacy every little touch had small gasps leaving you and it was clear from the weight growing against your thigh that the sounds falling from you were having an effect on Dean.

You nodded so he pulled you down to him, his mouth finding your left nipple. Teeth barely grazing the sensitive bud. A low moan of his name escaped you as you rolled your hips against his causing a low groan to leave him.

------------

He released your breast then turned the two of you over so you were on your back and he was now over you. You watched him as he slipped his shirt over his head and tossed it. You didn't waste any time letting your hands find his chest, fingers exploring the expanse of skin that you loved. His eyes closed at such an innocent touch but you knew it he was as starved for your touch as you were for his the touch was anything but.

When his eyes fluttered open the look in them made your stomach flip. He caught your lips in a searing kiss that wasn't rough but wasn't chaste either. It made heat flare through your body as his fingers teased the waistband of your shorts "I need to feel you" he whispered as his fingers disappeared under your shorts.

One of his fingers teased through your folds and he groaned when he felt how wet you already were "Oh baby, I've been neglecting you haven't I?" His words were teasing but his tone wasn't as he moved from your lips to your neck, kissing and nipping every place he knew would make your body react. When he finally slid one finger into you, you gasped at the feeling.

He curled his finger up and easily found that spot inside of you, adding a second digit as your arousal grew even more. The sound was lewd as he worked you to an orgasm, marking your neck as chest as he did. You were embarrassingly soaked when he used his thumb to rub circles on your clit that was all it took to push you over that edge and you came with a loud moan of his name.

He caught your lips in another passionate kiss before pulling his fingers to his mouth, holding your eyes as he licked them clean. "I need a taste" he murmured, moving to hover over you. He started at your lips,letting you taste yourself on him before starting down your body kissing and marking every inch of skin he could.

You were a fucking puddle under him before he ever got to your shorts. When he settled himself between your knees he smiled at you "I love you sweetheart" you smiled weakly "I love you Dean" he pulled your shorts off your legs and started at your left ankle, kissing up to just shy of where you needed him before repeating the action on your right leg.

Just when you thought he was going to tease you more he licked a long line into you and when your response was to tangle your fingers into his hair he dove in like a man starved.

--------------

You'd already came two or was it three times? Hell you had no idea. All you knew was your legs felt like they were made of jello, your entire body felt soft and Dean still hadn't let up. "Dean, please baby I can't"

He leaned back from you, chin glistening with your wetness "Tapping on me?" You nodded "Come here please" for the first time you saw hesitation in his eyes. "Please" you repeated and he left another kiss on your clit before making his way back up your body. When he kissed you, you tasted yourself on his lips.

You could feel his hardened cock through his sweatpants and hooked your leg around his waist to pull him down to you "I want you" "Sweetheart.." "I trust you" you whispered and saw something shift in his demeanor. Was that what he needed to hear?

He stood up long enough to kick his sweats off then climbed back up the bed, holding his weight on his arms. You could feel his cock sitting against your thighs "You won't hurt me" you whispered. He pressed a gentle kiss to your lips before lining himself up with your entrance.

When he started to push in you both let out a harsh breath. He froze, eyes searching your face so you laughed breathlessly "It's a normal you're big and we haven't had sex in a while reaction. Don't stop" he kept going at your encouragement until he was fully inside of you.

Once he was buried inside of you, you felt his hand shake slightly when he brushed the hair out of your face "Are you ok?" You nodded "I'm ok baby. You can move" he let his lips find yours as his hips gave a tentative roll. When you moan lightly he moved down from your lips to your neck.

----------

He buried his face in your neck as he found a pace that had your hands gripping his shoulders and praises of him falling from your lips. "You're the perfect one sweetheart. Look at you. All spread out for me, loving me" he groaned into your flesh and you knew he was close. He was holding back to make sure you found your own release.

He slipped one hand between your bodies and when his fingers found your clit your orgasm had you screaming his name. You could feel his hips falter and knew he was close. "I'm not gonna break. Nothing hurts" you whispered and his thrusts got just slightly deeper as he chased his own release. When he finally came and buried himself inside of you with a final thrust he pressed his head over onto your chest as both of your heavy breathing filled the room.

--------------

When Dean gently pulled out of you his eyes tracked the sheet under you so you smiled sleepily "We need to get cleaned up but I promise that's just a wet spot. No blood"

He pressed a deep kiss to your lips "I'll go start a bath. You get in first and I'll change the sheets then come join you" you raised an eyebrow "Dean we hadn't had sex in weeks. You just wrang like four orgasms out of me. Are you gonna wrap me in a sheet and carry me to the bathroom?"

He nodded as he slipped his sweatpants back on as if it was ridiculous for to you to think otherwise. You knew arguing was pointless so why not enjoy the brute strength of the man you loved? You shook your head with a laugh "I love you Dean" he grinned "I love you too. Now arms up"

[dreamersworldduh]

Hi, I love your stories. The way you write is truly incredible.

That said, if you don't mind, I'd like to make a story request. You see, I couldn't help but look at your profile picture and wonder.

How about a Damian Wayne x Male Reader story where the reader is an Anodite (or Gwen Tennyson's race, I can't remember her name well, I think she was an Anodite? Correct me if I'm wrong)

I don't know, maybe during an argument with Bruce and his brothers, Damian angrily escapes from the mansion where he is surprised by a boy with apparent amnesia who escaped from Lex Luthor? It turns out the evil bald man wanted to use him to experiment with his body, Damian a little doubtful, but at the same time curious takes him with him. Maybe you could add a Thamarean rank and have them learn the language with a kiss? I don't know 🤭 but that's the main idea.

I hope I'm not bothering you with this 😓

A LONG WAY FROM HOME

• DAMIAN WAYNE x MALE!READER

SUMMARY — After a disastrous mission strains his relationship with his family, Damian Wayne isolates himself in Gotham City—only to witness a meteor crash in a local park. Expecting debris, he instead finds a teenage boy—unconscious, glowing, and surrounded by a powerful pink aura.

WARNING! FLUFF. Violence. PG.

WORDS! 15.6k

AUTHOR'S NOTE! Here we are with our first request of the list and yes, Gwen is an Anodite. This was very interesting to write because I wasn’t sure of the angle that I was going for. I wrote two separate versions of this and chose this one. I’m still working on my other requests/works while trying to do my character animation finals. Anyway, enjoy your reading.✨🫶🏽

DAMIAN WAYNE carried a legacy that few could imagine and even fewer could survive. Every name tied to him was a weight—a title soaked in blood, power, and expectation. He was the grandson of Ra's al Ghul, a man whose name whispered through history like a ghost story told in secret, the immortal leader of the League of Assassins, who sought to shape the world through violence and control. From that lineage, Damian inherited a destiny forged in centuries of conquest, strategy, and unwavering purpose.

He was also the son of Bruce Wayne—Gotham's enigmatic protector, the Batman. A man who turned grief into mission, who wore trauma like armor and demanded excellence from all who stood beside him. Bruce raised him not as a boy, but as a soldier. Under Batman's watchful eye, Damian was expected to be more than just capable—he had to be precise, composed, and morally grounded in a world that had offered him little reason to believe in right and wrong.

Then there was his mother—Talia al Ghul. Brilliant, calculating, and lethal, she raised Damian with the League's doctrine etched into his bones. Before he could read, he was trained to disarm, to disable, to kill. Before he ever understood mercy, he understood efficiency. His childhood was a battlefield disguised as education. Every lesson came at a cost. Every success was expected. Every failure punished. He didn't grow up; he was forged.

When he finally took up the mantle of Robin, it wasn't to play sidekick—it was war. He fought beside Batman not as a boy eager for approval, but as a warrior trying to reconcile the man he was raised to be with the one his father hoped he could become. Every punch he threw, every enemy he brought down, was a step in a lifelong tug-of-war between legacy and identity.

But through all of it, there was one truth Damian held tighter than any blade: he was not a liar. He might be brutal. He might be cold. His confidence often came off as arrogance, and he rarely bothered softening his words. But he didn't deal in lies. To lie was weakness. It was dishonor. It was betrayal—not just of others, but of himself.

He had been trained to see deception as a tool, to use it, master it. But he refused to let it define him. Honesty, to Damian, wasn't kindness—it was a form of strength. It was control. Every truth he spoke was deliberate, sometimes cruel, always unflinching. It was the one code he had carved out for himself, separate from both the League's corruption and the Bat's rigid morality. Truth was the one thing no enemy could twist and no ally could question.

Damian Wayne could be many things—an assassin, a vigilante, a son, a warrior. But a liar? Never.

THE MISSION had gone sideways before it even started. The intel was bad—half-sourced chatter from unreliable contacts. The timing was off—an hour too late to catch the deal in progress, and just early enough to walk right into a kill box. It was supposed to be a clean op: in, intercept, out. Instead, it turned into a firefight in a warehouse rigged with explosives and death traps, where every exit led to another ambush. Damian fought alongside Batman, Nightwing, Red Hood, and Red Robin, each of them moving like parts of a machine built for war. But even the best-trained machine breaks when every variable turns against it.

By the time they limped back to the Batcave, suits scorched, blood dried on knuckles and faces, the air was already thick with tension. No one said it, but they all felt it—that heat beneath the surface, that pressure building in their lungs and throats. The silence didn't last long.

Damian had barely unclasped his gauntlets when Nightwing's voice snapped across the cave like a whip. "What the hell was that?" It wasn't just frustration—it was betrayal, confusion, disbelief all rolled into one.

Red Hood didn't wait for answers. He stepped forward like a fuse already burning, shoulders squared, helmet off, face dark with fury. "You want to explain why the whole damn place was rigged and you didn't say a word?" His voice was sharp, his stance aggressive—like he was ready to throw more than just words.

Tim stood a little apart, arms crossed, expression drawn tight. He didn't raise his voice, but the weight of his disappointment hit harder than the others' rage. "There were choices made that didn't line up with the plan," he said, gaze locked on Damian. "You made calls no one authorized."

They closed in—not physically, but verbally, surrounding him with doubt and accusation. It was like standing in the eye of a storm while lightning cracked in every direction. Each brother threw their own version of the same demand: What were you thinking?

Damian stood at the console, the pale blue light casting shadows across his face. His arms were crossed, shoulders rigid, every muscle tight with restraint. He didn't back down, didn't shift under their stares. His expression was unreadable—anger buried beneath control, emotion masked by discipline. But his eyes didn't waver.

Nightwing moved like a caged animal, pacing in quick strides, his voice rising as he listed out every misstep. "You ignored protocol. You split from formation. You led us into the ambush."

Red Hood's voice cut in, louder, raw. "You could've gotten us all killed, and you act like it was just another sparring session."

Tim didn't yell, but his dissection was surgical. "You made decisions alone. You didn't trust us enough to share intel. That's not how a team works."

And still—Damian didn't flinch. His voice, when he finally spoke, was level. Cold. Final.

"I wasn't wrong."

"I didn't lie."

"I did what you wouldn't."

His tone wasn't defensive. There was no desperation to be understood. He wasn't trying to win them over—he was stating facts. Stone on steel. He held the line, unshaken even as Red Hood stepped into his space, fists clenched at his sides, daring a reaction. Damian didn't give him one. When Tim shook his head, eyes heavy with disappointment, Damian didn't look away.

They were furious. And maybe they had the right to be. But anger didn't rewrite the truth. He hadn't betrayed them. He hadn't sabotaged the mission. He'd made a call in the field when no one else had all the facts. And he'd saved lives, whether they wanted to admit it or not.

So he stood there, letting their anger wash over him, letting their words crash and echo through the cave. Not defending himself. Not apologizing. Just holding the truth in front of him like a blade—and daring anyone to call it a lie.

Even Bruce joined in.

He had stood apart during the chaos—silent, still, barely more than a shadow cast by the glow of the Batcomputer. Arms folded across his chest, cape draped like a curtain of judgment, the cowl masking everything but the weight behind his silence. The others had raged, thrown their accusations like blades, but Bruce had waited. Watching. Listening. Measuring.

When the storm finally began to die down, when his sons' voices dropped from shouts to heavy breaths and clipped remarks, Bruce stepped forward. One step. No theatrics. No anger in his voice—just cold certainty.

"Damian," he said, his voice low and steady, "your actions nearly cost lives tonight."

He didn't yell. He didn't raise his voice or add heat. He didn't need to. The sentence landed with surgical precision—clean, quiet, and devastating. It wasn't just a critique. It was a verdict. The kind that didn't invite a response. The kind that carried the weight of both the cowl and the father beneath it.

Damian didn't blink, but his jaw tightened like a trap springing shut. His fists curled so tight at his sides that his knuckles whitened beneath his gloves. Every breath was a battle—shallow, controlled, forced through clenched teeth. He said nothing. Because if he spoke, the words would come out as venom.

It wasn't the team's outrage that hit him hardest. It wasn't Red Hood's fury or Nightwing's disbelief or Tim's cold precision. It was that. One sentence. One judgment. Delivered without anger, without hesitation, and without faith.

The Batcave felt colder than it had minutes before. Every monitor hummed like a reminder of everything that had just been said. The shadows felt deeper. The walls closer. The air tighter.

Damian looked at Bruce—just once. His father stood like a statue of finality, eyes hidden behind white lenses, unmoved. Unreachable.

That was enough.

Without a word, Damian turned. His cape snapped behind him like a second heartbeat, echoing each sharp footfall as he walked away from the console, from his brothers, from him. He didn't have a destination. He didn't need one. He just needed distance—space between him and the fury tightening in his chest like a vice.

He wouldn't beg for understanding. He wouldn't explain himself to people who had already decided who he was. Not to his brothers. Not even to Bruce.

Let them think he was reckless. Let them believe the worst. He knew the truth. And right now, that truth was the only thing keeping him from tearing the place apart.

As he reached the main hall of Wayne Manor, the warm glow from the chandelier cast long shadows across the marble floor. Alfred stood at the base of the grand staircase, perfectly composed in his crisp suit, hands folded neatly in front of him. His expression was calm, but his eyes tracked Damian with quiet concern.

"Master Damian," he said, gently, like someone easing open a door they weren't sure they had the right to touch.

Damian didn't answer. He didn't slow. His shoulder brushed past Alfred's arm, sharp and unyielding, and he kept moving like the words hadn't been spoken at all.

Alfred didn't follow. He didn't call after him. He'd seen that walk before—shoulders rigid, head low, stride too precise to be anything but restrained fury. It wasn't the time to intervene.

Up the stairs. Down the west hall. Past oil paintings and silent clocks. Damian reached his room and shoved the door open, then slammed it behind him hard enough to rattle the frame.

He stripped off the Robin suit like it burned him. Gauntlets peeled off and thrown across the room. Boots kicked aside. The cape—torn, soot-streaked, still reeking of smoke—hit the floor in a crumpled heap. The tunic came last, dragged over his head and tossed without care. He stood there, chest heaving, the silence pressing in around him like a weight.

Cold air from the manor's vents hit his sweat-damp skin. He yanked on a black hoodie—plain, loose, anonymous. Dark jeans. Sneakers. Civilian gear. No symbol. No armor. Nothing to connect him to them.

He didn't leave a note. Didn't shut off the light. Didn't even look back.

He walked to the tall window that faced the estate's southern grounds. His fingers moved automatically—unlocking the latch, sliding the glass open, letting in the rush of cool night air. Trees rustled in the distance. The moon cut through the clouds, casting silver across the hedges below.

Without a moment of hesitation, he stepped onto the windowsill. Crouched. Focused. And dropped.

He landed in the hedges with barely a sound, rolled once, then straightened, already moving. No backup. No comms. No tracker. He'd made sure of that.

He didn't have a plan. Didn't need one. He just had to get away. From the cave. From the silence. From him.

Because staying meant swallowing what they'd said. Accepting what they thought of him.

And Damian Wayne refused to be caged by anyone's version of who he was—not even his father's.

DAMIAN’S FOOTSTEPS echoed in soft, steady beats against the cracked concrete, a quiet rhythm in the stillness of Gotham's late-night sprawl. The city, always restless, had slowed to a quieter pulse—no sirens, no crowds, just the hum of streetlights and the occasional hiss of wind slipping through alleyways. His hood was pulled low, shadowing his face. His hands were buried deep in the pockets of his jacket, fingers curled tight against the lining. He walked without urgency, but with purpose, like movement alone could keep the storm inside him from surging back to the surface.

The roar of the Batcave, the voices, the judgment—all of it felt distant now, like a memory already starting to erode at the edges. The chill of the night air nipped at his cheeks, grounding him. Each breath came easier than the last. Every step further from Wayne Manor loosened something tight in his chest.

He turned a corner onto a quieter block and spotted a tiny juice bar nestled between a closed laundromat and a graffiti-covered bodega. Its flickering neon sign buzzed lazily in the window: OPEN 24 HOURS. Inside, it was empty, save for a tired-looking clerk half-asleep behind the counter.

Damian stepped in, keeping his hood up. The place smelled faintly of citrus and disinfectant. He scanned the menu, pointed at the only thing that sounded remotely tolerable. "Spinach, apple, ginger," he said, voice low.

The clerk didn't ask questions. Just gave a nod, blended the drink with mechanical efficiency, and slid it across the counter. Damian dropped a few bills on the counter—cash, always—and walked out with the cup in hand, the door's bell jingling behind him.

He made his way toward Robinson Park, slipping past shuttered storefronts and dim intersections. The smoothie was cold and sharp on his tongue—the kind of flavor that woke you up, cut through fog. The mix of bitter greens and ginger burned just enough to feel real. That was what he needed. Something real.

The edge of the park was quiet, the lamps casting soft halos across the paths. Trees rustled with wind overhead, branches shifting like old bones. Damian moved along the perimeter, not drawing attention, not needing to. His silhouette was just another shape in the dark—small, hunched, hooded. No mask. No emblem. Just another teenager in Gotham.

His heart wasn't racing anymore. The fire in his chest—the heat from the confrontation, the shame, the fury—it had cooled to a low burn. Still there, but manageable. His mind, usually a battlefield of reflexes and calculations, was still. Not empty, but quieter. Focused.

He sipped the smoothie again and took a breath so deep it stretched the tightness in his ribs. No shouting. No orders. No father waiting in the dark, arms crossed in judgment.

Just wind, and concrete, and space to breathe.

He didn't know how long he walked. It didn't matter. He wasn't chasing anything. He wasn't running from it either. He just needed to exist outside the weight of legacy and expectation. Outside the cave. Outside the mission.

Tonight, Damian was just a teen in a hoodie, walking under streetlights in a city that didn't know him.

And for the first time in hours, he could finally think.

Damian eventually drifted toward the heart of Robinson Park, his footsteps slow, deliberate, worn smooth by the weight of everything he wasn't saying. The smoothie was long gone, tossed in a bin near the rusted entrance gate, forgotten like the rest of the night's bitterness. The park was nearly deserted—too late for joggers, too early for the early risers. The only sounds were the soft hum of the city beyond the trees, the flickering buzz of half-dead streetlamps, and the breeze whispering through overgrown hedges.

Moths flitted lazily around the lamps, wings catching the dim light like flakes of ash. Damian moved along the winding path, eyes low, hands deep in his hoodie's pockets. The chaos of Gotham—the noise, the fire, the shouting—felt miles away, even though it was barely out of sight. The park existed in a pocket of stillness, insulated by tall trees and iron fencing. The skyline loomed on all sides, but here, in the center of it all, it felt like time had slowed.

He reached a worn bench near the park's neglected fountain. The wood was weathered and slightly crooked, one leg sinking into the dirt, but it held his weight as he sank into it. He slouched back, arms folded, his breath fogging in the cool night air. His eyes drifted upward, scanning what little he could see of the sky.

Gotham didn't allow for stars—not really. Too much light, too much smog. But Damian looked anyway. A few dim points of light clung to the black, stubborn and far away. A plane passed overhead, then another, blinking methodically. His thoughts quieted. The silence wasn't loaded, wasn't judgmental or tense. It was clean. Uncluttered. He could almost feel the anger draining out of him, like heat leaving metal.

Then, a flicker.

A streak of white light cut through the sky—fast, silent, unmistakable. A shooting star.

He blinked, barely believing he'd seen it. It was gone in an instant, like a thread yanked from the edge of the universe. He didn't make a wish. That wasn't his style. He didn't believe in signs or fate or magic falling from the sky.

But still... something inside him eased. Not healed. Not fixed. Just—eased.

He kept staring upward, his eyes searching the darkness, half-expecting to see another. And then, he saw something else.

The light hadn't vanished.

It was growing brighter.

Larger.

And it was coming closer.

His breath caught. The hairs on the back of his neck rose as instinct surged through him like a jolt of electricity.

That wasn't a meteor.

It was a missile. Or worse.

And it was aimed straight at him.

The moment shattered. The calm ripped away. A piercing, high-pitched whine screamed through the sky, followed by a trail of fire and smoke that tore through the atmosphere like the world was splitting open. Damian didn't think—he moved.

He launched off the bench, diving to the side just as the object blazed overhead. The heat was searing—so intense it singed the back of his hoodie and stung his skin. The air cracked with a sound like thunder and metal colliding.

The impact was cataclysmic.

The object slammed into the park with a roar that shook the earth. A shockwave erupted, ripping through the grass and soil, flinging debris in all directions. Benches splintered like matchsticks. Streetlamps bent and shattered. The fountain exploded—chunks of stone and jets of water hurled into the air like a dying gasp.

Damian hit the ground hard, skidding through the grass, dirt flying into his eyes and mouth. He rolled, coughing, until he landed behind a toppled trash bin. It wasn't much, but it was cover. He crouched low, hoodie scorched, adrenaline pumping like fire in his veins.

Everything rang. His ears. His head. The world was chaos again.

And at the center of it—the crater.

Smoke coiled from the ruptured earth, glowing embers littering the torn grass. The heat was still radiating, pulsing like a heartbeat. And in the middle of it, nestled in molten soil and fractured rock, was something that wasn't metal, wasn't stone.

It was glowing. Faint at first, but steady. A soft, pulsing light—like it was breathing.

Damian pushed himself upright, his muscles tense, boots crunching over scorched grass and broken stone. He brushed the dirt from his sleeves with short, sharp motions, never once taking his eyes off the smoking crater that had carved itself into the heart of Gotham Park. His breathing was shallow but steady, the aftermath of the blast still echoing in his bones.

Somewhere beyond the trees, car alarms blared in overlapping patterns—a chaotic symphony of sirens and panic that rolled through the dark streets like a wave. Shattered glass glittered in the grass. The park's lampposts flickered erratically, casting long, jerking shadows across the wreckage. The air was thick with the acrid scent of scorched earth, burnt wiring, and something stranger—something faintly metallic and ozone-slick, like the moment before a lightning strike.

Damian moved forward, slow and methodical, his footfalls silent despite the debris underfoot. The crater yawned before him, a jagged hole ripped into the earth, at least ten feet across, maybe deeper. Its edges were charred black, ringed with hissing embers and twisted patches of melted stone. Heat pulsed from its center, a wave of dry intensity that prickled his skin through the fabric of his hoodie.

And then he saw it. Or rather, him.

At the center of the crater—surrounded by fractured earth and glowing debris—was a boy.

Damian stopped cold, the tension in his frame going taut like a wire about to snap. His eyes narrowed, scanning the scene with trained precision, breaking it down like a tactical feed. The teen looked... normal. Human. No claws. No wings. No grotesque mutations or cybernetic implants. He appeared to be around Damian's age, maybe slightly older—fifteen, sixteen at most. His build was lean, wiry. His skin was dusted with soot and sweat. His dark hair clung to his forehead in messy strands. His clothes, though scorched and singed at the edges, were mostly intact—black pants, a thin jacket, shirt torn near the collar.

But the thing that shattered any illusion of this being ordinary was the light.

A soft, radiant aura pulsed around the boy's body. It shimmered with a strange, translucent pink hue, almost liquid in the way it moved—like it was alive. It didn't burn like fire or spark like electricity. It throbbed, slow and steady, mimicking a heartbeat. The glow bled into the surrounding crater, casting flickering shadows and distorting the air like rising heat off asphalt. Damian could feel it—tingling across his skin, humming in his teeth, stirring something ancient and electric deep in his chest.

He took a half-step closer.

Every instinct he'd ever learned screamed danger. This was unknown tech or alien power—or something worse. No parachute. No protective gear. The kid had fallen out of the sky, torn through the atmosphere like a comet, and was lying there breathing like it was nothing.

Damian's hand inched toward the hidden blade tucked inside his sleeve, fingers brushing the familiar grip.

Still, the boy didn't move.

Was he unconscious? Faking? Waiting?

The silence thickened around them, broken only by the soft crackle of burning debris and the distant wail of emergency sirens approaching from far across the city. Damian didn't flinch. He stood at the edge of the crater, eyes locked on the glowing figure below, his body ready to move in any direction—attack, defend, retreat. But his mind raced with sharper questions.

Who is he? What is he?

And what the hell did he just bring to Gotham?

Damian moved in, step by slow step, his boots grinding softly against scorched grass, crushed leaves, and fractured bits of concrete still warm from impact. The air thickened with each footfall. It wasn't smoke or fire—it was the aura, radiating off the boy like heat off molten metal. The closer Damian got, the more it pressed against him. Not painful, but oppressive. Like standing too close to a reactor—silent, thrumming, and ready to blow.

That glow—bright pink, tinged with violet at the edges—pulsed in steady rhythm, forming a thin shell around the boy. It rippled every few seconds, warping the air around it like a mirage. There was no sound, no crackle or hum, but Damian could feel it, deep in his bones. Every instinct told him to be careful. To back off.

He didn't.

He studied the boy's body, every inch of it, eyes sweeping over the shape, looking for twitches, breath, flickers of motion. Nothing moved, except the slow, even rise and fall of his chest. Not labored. Not ragged. Controlled. Like sleep—or sedation.

Damian stepped right up to the edge of the crater, the pink light casting faint shadows across his face. And now, for the first time, he got a clear view.

This wasn't some civilian who fell out of the sky. The teen was wearing a suit—a full-body tactical ensemble, sleek and streamlined, with overlapping armor plating that looked forged more than manufactured. It wasn't bulky. It was precision-built, contoured to move. The materials didn't match anything Damian had ever seen in the League or the Batcave. It shimmered faintly under the aura's glow—silver and deep matte black, threaded with microscopic circuitry that pulsed through the fabric like living veins. Tech that was way beyond anything most people had access to.

And then his eyes locked onto the chest plate.

Beneath a layer of ash and dust, half-obscured by scorch marks, was a logo.

A stylized green and purple "L," ringed by a polished metallic circle.

LexCorp.

Damian went still. The muscles in his neck coiled tight. His breath slowed.

Luthor.

The name hit like a punch to the sternum. Cold. Familiar. Dangerous.

Lex Luthor didn't do charity. He didn't hand out suits to lost children or build armor for random experiments. If this teen was wearing LexCorp tech—this advanced—it wasn't by accident. He was designed for something. A test subject. A weapon. A ticking bomb. Maybe all three.

Damian's mind went into overdrive, piecing together every angle. A boy falls out of the sky in a Luthor-built suit, radiating some unknown energy, and lands in Gotham of all places? That wasn't bad luck. That was a message. Or a move in a game no one else knew had started.

He circled the crater slowly, eyes never leaving the boy. The aura pulsed again—brighter this time—but didn't expand. No sudden flares. No instability. Just that constant throb, like a heartbeat out of sync with the world.

Damian reached for the communicator in his hoodie pocket, fingers brushing the edge.

He should call Bruce. He knew that. This was bigger than him. It was alien tech—or worse. The kind of thing that demanded containment protocols, scans, lockdown procedures. A dozen contingency plans were drilled into him for situations exactly like this.

But his hand stopped.

He remembered the way Bruce had looked at him—past him, really. The cold judgment. The distance. The lack of trust. He thought of his brothers, surrounding him with doubt, accusing him, cutting him off before he could even explain. They'd see this teen and jump to conclusions. Just like they had with him.

Weapon. Threat. Contain it.

Damian clenched his jaw and lowered his hand.

Not yet.

He'd figure out who this boy was. What he was. What Luthor had done.

On his own.

Before anyone else got their hands on him.

Suddenly, Damian's head snapped up at the sound—faint, but unmistakable. Sirens. At first, just a single wail somewhere in the distance, but quickly joined by others, layering over each other like warning bells in a war zone. Red and blue strobes began flickering through the canopy of trees that bordered Gotham Park, distorted by branches and leaves, but getting closer with every second.

He clicked his tongue sharply, annoyed at himself. His hand moved on instinct to his side—reaching for the comfort of his utility belt, for a smoke pellet, a grapnel gun, something.

His fingers met empty fabric.

No belt.

No gadgets.

No weapons.

No commlink.

Just jeans, a hoodie, and scorched sneakers.

Civilian.

His jaw tightened. He hadn't planned for this. He wasn't on patrol, wasn't chasing leads or tailing suspects. He'd left the mansion in a storm of anger, needing space, needing air. This was supposed to be a walk. A night to breathe. To be left alone. Not... this. Not a living weapon falling from the sky wearing a LexCorp insignia like a branded curse.

His mind spun fast, recalibrating.

No gear meant no backup. No way to ping the Batcave, no call to Oracle, no silent signal to Nightwing or Tim. Bruce would know something had happened—he always did—but he wouldn't know Damian was here, standing at ground zero. And that mattered. Because if the GCPD showed up first, or worse, if ARGUS or DEO or one of the other government agencies monitoring Gotham's paranormal messes got their hands on this guy...

It would be over. Damian knew how they worked. The boy would be bagged, tagged, and dissected before anyone even figured out he had a name.

He looked down again, the pink light from the aura casting a soft glow on Damian's face. The kid still hadn't moved. Still breathing, still unconscious. Whatever force shield protected him hadn't weakened, but it hadn't lashed out either. It pulsed gently, steadily. Like a warning. Or a countdown.

This was no ordinary tech. LexCorp hadn't just built a suit—they'd built this. A person wrapped in power, disguised as a boy. Or maybe a boy buried under the weight of something far more dangerous.

The sirens were getting closer now, echoing across the park in sharp bursts. And then—thump-thump-thump—the deep, mechanical rhythm of helicopter blades cutting through the night sky. Searchlights flared to life in the clouds above, wide beams sweeping the park, carving through the darkness like knives.

Damian's breath hitched for a second. He backed away from the edge of the crater, eyes flicking across the treeline, scanning escape routes, blind spots, anything that would get him and the kid out before the spotlight locked in.

They had maybe two minutes. Less if someone on the ground already had visual.

No plan. No gear. No time.

But Damian had never needed permission to act.

He made a call, quick and quiet, to the only person who wouldn't question it.

Himself.

He turned back toward the crater, narrowed his eyes, and prepared to move. This boy didn't belong to the cops. He didn't belong to Lex. And he damn sure wasn't getting left behind.

Damian crouched low at the lip of the crater, the ground beneath him cracked and scorched, still radiating a dry, searing heat that clung to the soles of his boots. Smoke drifted in lazy spirals from the fractured earth, and the stench of ozone and burned metal lingered in the air. The boy lay sprawled across the torn ground like a dropped marionette, limbs slack, his chest rising and falling in a slow, almost mechanical rhythm.

Damian moved with practiced caution, shifting his weight forward until he was just within reach. His fingers hovered over the pink glow that cocooned the boy's body, the heat prickling against his skin like static before a lightning strike. The aura buzzed faintly—not a sound, exactly, more like a pressure in the air, vibrating against his bones. It was wrong. Not magic. Not tech. Something else entirely.

Still, he pressed in.

The instant his fingertips brushed the edge of the armored suit, the boy's eyes snapped open—wide, bright, and electric with terror.

Before Damian could fully process it, the boy lunged upright, his movements impossibly fast, as if his body had been spring-loaded for panic. He jerked into a crouch, limbs tense, hands braced against the dirt like an animal about to bolt. His mouth flew open, and a stream of words came tumbling out—fast, frantic, and completely unintelligible.

It wasn't English. It wasn't anything Damian had ever heard before. And he'd heard a lot.

The language was guttural and sharp, but carried a strange rhythm, like there was a structure to it, maybe even a syntax—like it was half-spoken, half-transmitted. Not random babbling. Not madness. Language. But alien.

Damian's brain raced through his mental database: not Kryptonian, not Martian, not Tamaranian or Rannian. Nothing from Thanagar. Nothing from the League's interstellar records or the Batcave's archives. This was something new.

The boy scuttled backward in jerky, uncoordinated movements, as if he wasn't entirely sure how his own body worked. He stumbled over his own legs, breathing fast, shallow, frantic. The aura around him pulsed hard—hotter, brighter, erratic. It crackled with raw energy, casting streaks of pink light across the crater walls like lightning in a storm cloud. Damian could feel it on his skin now—tingling, alive, almost sentient.

The boy's eyes darted everywhere—trees, sky, shadows. His hands clenched into fists, then opened again like he couldn't decide whether to attack or run. His muscles were locked in survival mode. His face—too young for this, too human for this—was twisted in fear, not aggression.

Damian slowly raised his hands, palms up and empty. No weapons. No sudden moves. His voice was steady, even. "Easy. I'm not here to hurt you."

The boy didn't flinch at the sound of his voice—but he didn't understand it either. His eyes locked onto Damian's face, scanning him with a mix of suspicion and desperate hope, like he wanted to believe the tone, even if the words meant nothing.

Damian held his ground, every instinct telling him to stay low, non-threatening, patient. He watched the boy closely—the way his gaze jumped to exits, the way his body flinched at every distant noise, every flicker of movement. There was trauma behind those eyes. Not fear of a stranger—fear of what would happen next.

Someone had done this to him. Had conditioned this kind of reaction.

Damian's gaze dropped to the chest plate again, and the LexCorp insignia stared back at him like a brand burned into steel. Green and purple. Cold. Corporate. Clinical.

And suddenly it all fit.

This wasn't just a LexCorp suit. It was containment. Control. A cage. The boy wasn't wearing it. It was wearing him.

Someone—Luthor—had built this boy into a weapon. Had torn out whatever life he had before and filled it with fear, programming, instinct. Damian didn't know if it had been surgery, brainwashing, genetics, or all of the above. But he knew what he was looking at now.

A victim.

And possibly the most dangerous one he'd ever encountered.

Damian's jaw clenched. His voice dropped to a near whisper—more for himself than for the boy.

"I don't know what he did to you," he said quietly, "but I'm not him."

The boy didn't answer. Didn't understand. But he didn't run either. Didn't strike. His breathing was still ragged, but slower now. Controlled.

For now, that was enough.

However, the sirens were no longer a distant echo—they were here, howling through the city like wolves circling prey. Their pitch bounced between the high-rises that framed Robinson Park, echoing off steel and glass with maddening intensity. Spotlights from incoming helicopters swept across the treetops, cutting long, blinding arcs through the smoke and casting flickering shadows across the cratered ground.

Damian's pulse surged—not with fear, but with focus. His mind snapped into overdrive, calculating routes, timing, probabilities. If the GCPD arrived first, they'd lock the scene down, raise questions no one had answers to, and cart the kid off to a black site before anyone could intervene.

They were running out of time.

He turned to the boy, still seated at the center of the crater like a fuse waiting to be lit. The pink aura around him sparked erratically, no longer a steady pulse but a wild, unstable shimmer, like the shielding was struggling to hold its form. The boy's chest rose and fell in shallow, uneven breaths, but his eyes were locked on Damian—watchful, cautious, uncertain.

Damian stepped forward, carefully, extending a hand again.

"We have to move. Now."

The words were firm, urgent—but low. Controlled.

The boy tensed, eyes narrowing—

BOOM.

The sky split open above them with a sound so loud and sharp it tore through the air like a bolt of steel. Not thunder. Not natural. Something designed to announce its presence.

Damian's head snapped up.

A streak of silver and violet burned through the clouds, trailing smoke and static behind it like an open wound in the sky.

They came in fast—two of them—descending with terrifying precision.

Robots.

Sleek. Streamlined. Built for war.

No bulky joints or exposed mechanics—these things were clean-cut and refined, humanoid only in shape. Their alloy plating was matte silver with faint traces of violet light pulsing beneath the surface, and propulsion jets roared from their backs and legs in perfectly controlled bursts. No wasted movement. No hesitation.

Military drones—LexCorp military drones.

Each one had a red, horizontal visor glowing across its faceplate like a scanner locked in permanent sweep mode. Their arms, thick and modular, were weaponized—no hands, just built-in tech: plasma cannons, grappling systems, something bristling beneath panel plates that hadn't fully deployed yet.

And right in the center of their chests, plain as day, was the LexCorp insignia.

Damian's stomach turned to stone.

Out of the corner of his eye, he caught movement—fast. The boy reacted the moment the drones pierced the cloud cover.

His entire body tensed, every line of him pulled taut like a bowstring. His fingers clenched into trembling fists, and his aura surged with raw, unfiltered energy. What had been flickering and weak suddenly roared to life—brighter, angrier, hotter. Pink light bled into white at the edges, casting wild shadows against the crater.

His breathing shifted—sharper, rougher. His eyes flared, fully glowing now, not just lit by panic but something else. Something darker.

Rage.

Recognition.

Damian didn't need translation. The boy knew exactly what those machines were.

These weren't just weapons. They were memories. They were trauma in metal form.

Damian's mind connected the dots instantly: LexCorp drones. Precision-engineered. Retrieval tech.

This boy didn't just fall out of the sky. He escaped.

The boy sucked in a breath, chest rising like he was about to scream or explode. Maybe both. The air around him began to shimmer with raw heat, distorting reality like a broken lens.

Above them, the drones locked on, their visors glowing brighter as targeting systems engaged. Limbs shifted. Panels opened. Servo motors adjusted with terrifying exactness as they initiated descent, flanking the crater like vultures circling a carcass.

Damian backed up a step, instincts flaring.

This was about to go loud.

The first GCPD squad cars screeched to a halt at the edge of Robinson Park, their tires carving deep grooves into the grass as they swerved off the road and slammed to a stop. Doors flew open. Officers spilled out in a rush—guns drawn, eyes wide, adrenaline firing before they even knew what they were looking at. Flashlights flicked on. Shouts pierced the night.

"Hands where we can see them!"

More cruisers arrived behind the first wave, their red and blue strobes bouncing wildly across the trees and grass, throwing frantic shadows across the crater's edge like a strobe-lit battlefield. Within seconds, the chaos multiplied. GCFD trucks rolled up next, firefighters already jumping from their rigs, lugging stretchers, oxygen tanks, and hose reels. Smoke still hung in the air like a shroud, forcing some to pull masks up over their faces as they moved through the wreckage, looking for casualties.

In the center of it all, Damian and the boy stood alone—surrounded.

The boy was still in the crater, huddled in the pulsing glow of his aura, which flared and dimmed like a short-circuiting sun. Damian crouched close, shielding them both from panicked eyes and twitchy trigger fingers.

He didn't get the chance to explain.

Because that was when the sky cracked open.

Whrrr-KRAAAACK!

The sound ripped through the night like a lightning strike from a god.

The human-sized machines, built like soldiers—sleek, armored, efficient. They didn't hover awkwardly or stumble on landing. They glided, using bursts of blue-white propulsion to position themselves with surgical control.

Damian didn't have time to react before the first drone opened fire.

Blue plasma streaked through the air in neat, controlled bursts—retrieval fire, Damian realized instantly. Designed not to kill, but to disable. Paralyze. Subdue.

One bolt struck just feet from a GCPD officer, sending him flying into a tree with a choked cry. Another tore a gaping hole through the side of a fire engine. Panic exploded across the scene. Officers dove for cover, some screaming into radios, others dragging the wounded out of the line of fire. Firefighters dropped their gear and scrambled behind their trucks, eyes wide with disbelief.

Damian reacted on instinct, spinning toward the boy. "Get down!"

But he didn't have to.

The boy's body was already responding. His eyes flared—pink light pouring from them in full, unfiltered brilliance. His hands snapped up, not in defense, but in reflex—pure, unconscious survival. The aura around him swelled outward with a sudden boom of invisible force, expanding into a dome of shimmering light.

The plasma bolts struck the barrier with high-pitched hisses, splashing across the surface like acid on glass. The dome held. It absorbed the hits, sending ripples across the mana field that shimmered like heat over asphalt.

Damian blinked. His knees hit the scorched ground beside the boy.

Not tech. Not Kryptonian shielding. Not a force field.

Mana.

Raw magic.

The energy wasn't being controlled—it was channeling through him, untrained, instinctual, but real. The boy didn't even seem to realize he was doing it. His jaw was clenched, his breathing ragged, sweat beading on his face as he tried to hold the shield. His gaze flicked wildly between the drones above and the cops behind them, panic fighting instinct in every movement.

He was protecting everyone. Even the people who had pointed guns at him moments before.

The drones kept firing—precision bursts, low-yield plasma meant to weaken shields, not destroy. The aura flickered under the pressure, pulsing erratically, and Damian knew it wouldn't hold forever.

His brain shifted gears. He scanned the battlefield like a general, every moving part a variable. The cops weren't the target. The fire crews weren't even in the equation.

The drones were locked onto the boy.

They're following a directive, Damian realized. Retrieve the asset. Ignore everything else.

He crouched beside the boy, voice low and sharp. "They're here for you. Just you. If we can draw them out of the park, they'll follow."

The boy didn't speak. He didn't need to. His glowing eyes locked onto Damian's with recognition—maybe not of the words, but of the intent.

He nodded once. Quick. Nervous. Willing.

Damian rose to a crouch, scanning the perimeter. Flashing lights. Guns. Civilians. Confusion everywhere. No time to explain. No time to get clearance. He shouted toward the nearest group of officers, ducked behind a cruiser.

"Get everyone out of the park! Now! They're not after you—they're here for him!"

An officer popped up. "Who the hell are—?"

"MOVE!"

The tone in Damian's voice cracked like a whip—pure command, clean and lethal. It was the kind of voice Batman used when the time for questions was over.

That got them moving. One of the lieutenants began shouting into a comm unit, barking orders.

"Evacuate the perimeter! Move the wounded to the south end! Get the civilians clear!"

Damian turned back to the boy, hand on his shoulder.

"Drop the shield when I say. Then run. Don't look back."

The pink dome flared again as another volley slammed into it, cracking the air with heat and static. The drones tightened their formation, weapons whirring, scanners pulsing red.

There was no more time.

Damian's plan was reckless, half-formed, and dangerous as hell.

But it was better than watching this kid get dragged back into whatever nightmare Luthor had built.

And if they pulled it off, they'd both live long enough to figure out who he was.

And what exactly Lex Luthor had turned him into.

The instant the last of the civilians were cleared—herded south under frantic GCPD commands, stumbling through smoke and flashing lights—Damian acted.

"Now," he said, low and sharp, eyes locking with the boy's.

The boy hesitated—just for a breath—but then exhaled hard, a ragged, shuddering release of tension. The barrier flickered, pulsed once in defiance, then shattered like glass under pressure. Pink light dissolved into a mist of glowing particles that drifted upward, catching in the smoke before fading entirely.

Damian didn't wait.

His hand snapped out and latched onto the boy's wrist—tight, firm, not hurting but unbreakable. He pulled.

"Run."

They moved as one.

Damian led the charge, weaving through the edge of the crater with fluid speed, his boots hitting scorched grass and cracked soil in perfect rhythm. Behind him, the boy stumbled at first, legs unsure, body disoriented from trauma and overload. But Damian didn't slow. He yanked once, just enough to force motion—and then, the boy matched his pace.

Not perfect. But fast.

They tore through the wreckage-strewn remains of Robinson Park, weaving around shattered benches and smoking rubble, darting between trees half-crumbled from the crash impact. Sirens blared behind them. Radios crackled. Shouts echoed off the trees.

But none of that mattered now.

Because the drones noticed.

The shift was immediate.

In the sky above, the two LexCorp units pivoted mid-flight with eerie synchronicity, scanners pulsing a deeper red, their bodies rotating with a mechanical hiss. Their weapon systems shifted, recalibrated. Their target designations changed.

They weren't focused on the crater anymore.

They were focused on movement.

On escape.

On them.

A shrill whine split the air as both drones surged forward, propulsion systems igniting in a howl of blue light. They dropped altitude fast, engines screaming as they locked in on their fleeing targets.

"Move!" Damian barked, yanking the boy hard as they ducked around a crumbling statue, the marble split from base to head by the shockwave. They dove through a twisted line of hedges, limbs whipping at them like claws, dirt and soot kicking up underfoot. "They're locked on. We pull them away from the park, they'll follow. They won't risk hitting bystanders."

The boy didn't answer. Couldn't. But Damian felt it—the resolve in the way his grip tightened, in the way he kept pace, his breath ragged but steady. No more hesitation. Just forward.

They sprinted through the park's darker edges now, where the lights from the police cruisers couldn't reach and the trees formed jagged silhouettes in the smoke. Around them, the world became a blur of motion—branches cracking underfoot, ruined lampposts leaning at dangerous angles, scorched grass giving way to raw earth.

A plasma bolt struck behind them—FOOM!—exploding a tree in a burst of splinters and flame. Another followed, slicing through the air with a flash that lit Damian's path in eerie blue. Heat licked at his back, close enough to feel, not close enough to kill. Yet.

"Keep low!" Damian shouted. "Cut left!"

They ducked beneath a bent steel archway once meant to mark a walking trail. The boy moved faster now—fear or instinct, Damian couldn't tell—but he was keeping up. Close.

More shots rained down, tearing craters into the ground just feet behind them. One bolt slammed into a light post ahead, sending it crashing across their path. Damian vaulted it in a single motion, tugging the boy with him. They rolled, hit the ground, and kept going.

His mind ran calculations with every breath. The drones were fast, but predictable. Tactical AI. They'd prioritize capture over chaos. That gave him an angle—if he could get enough distance, enough cover, he could set an ambush. Maybe hijack one. Maybe lure them into a blind spot. Something.

But he needed time.

He needed a minute.

Even thirty seconds.

And so far, they were still alive.

His lungs burned—not from the exertion, but from the pressure that tightened in his chest with every step. The tension was suffocating, coiled tight beneath his ribs, a mix of calculation and cold adrenaline. They were nearing the edge of Robinson Park now, the eastern border—where the trees thinned out, the manicured grass gave way to cracked pavement, and the ruins of an old greenhouse rose up ahead like the bones of a forgotten time.

It was open ground.

No dense foliage to duck into. No alleyways. No shadows deep enough to disappear in. Just broken walkways, overgrown vines, and shattered glass that crunched underfoot like brittle ice.

They had maybe twenty more yards of breathing room. No more.

And the drones knew it.

With a thunderous boom, the ground jumped under Damian's feet. A LexCorp drone dropped from the sky in a controlled descent, landing directly in their path. Its propulsion jets scorched the ground in a flare of blue light, blasting debris outward in a ring of smoke and ash. The pavement buckled beneath its weight, and it landed in a low, mechanical crouch—like a predator bracing to pounce.

A second later, another drone crashed down behind them, cutting off their retreat with the same brutal precision.

Boxed in.

Damian skidded to a halt, boots grinding against cracked stone. His arm instinctively shot backward, tightening around the boy's wrist to steady him. He shifted, placing himself slightly in front, his body falling into a low, ready stance—compact, balanced, dangerous. His eyes locked on the machines.

The drones stood tall, rising from their landing crouches with eerie synchronization. They towered over Damian, their frames built like humanoid tanks—sleek matte alloy plating with violet-blue trim, no wasted mass, just pure design. Their visors glowed blood-red in horizontal bars across expressionless faces, pulsing in slow sync like they were breathing together. Shoulder panels hissed open with sharp mechanical bursts, revealing retractable weapon ports and compact launcher units embedded just beneath the surface.

The air felt charged, vibrating faintly with the hum of active systems powering up.

Then, for the first time, one of them spoke.

“ANODITE: COMPLY."

The voice was low, processed, and inhuman—cold as steel, flat as glass. It echoed slightly, like it wasn't meant for ears but for data logs.

The boy behind Damian went still. Completely still.

"ANODITE: STAND DOWN. RETURN FOR IMMEDIATE DECONTAINMENT."

Damian's eyes narrowed.

Anodite?

Not a name.

A classification. A tag. The way you labeled a weapon, a test subject—something made, not born.

The boy—Anodite—reacted like the words had struck him across the face. His chest hitched. Shoulders tensed. The soft pink glow that had been dimming since the start of their flight now flared to life, bursting in erratic pulses down his arms, lighting up the veins across his neck like molten lightning. The air around him seemed to warp, distorting slightly with every flicker of the aura.

Damian glanced over his shoulder.

The boy's expression had cracked.

Terror still lived behind his glowing eyes, but something else was bleeding through now—anger. Raw, wounded, buried deep and starting to surface. The kind of fury born from being caged for too long. From being named by people who never once asked who you were.

Damian's voice cut through the silence, sharp and flat.

"He's not going with you."

The drone's head tilted—just slightly. It processed the voice. The refusal.

"NONCOMPLIANCE DETECTED. LETHAL FORCE AUTHORIZED IF RETRIEVAL FAILS."

With a high-pitched whine, the drones' weapon systems extended fully—barrels telescoping into place, emitters glowing with concentrated plasma, targeting optics clicking and adjusting with precise, cold efficiency. Their stances shifted, locking into combat posture. No more warnings. No more restraint.

They were preparing to end the resistance.

Damian felt the boy step closer behind him, his aura flaring brighter, the heat radiating in waves now—raw energy with nowhere to go.

Cornered.

Outgunned.

And out of time.

But Damian didn't flinch.

He raised one hand, fingers flexing slightly—no weapons, no tech, just intent.

"Then you'll have to go through me first."

And in that instant, between the machines' hum and the boy's rising power, Robinson Park became a powder keg.

The words "lethal force authorized" were still hanging in the air, echoing in the static-charged silence, when Damian's eyes snapped left. His mind processed the terrain in a flash—debris, shattered stone, broken limbs of trees—and then he saw it.

Half-buried beneath a mound of scorched dirt lay a fractured metal pipe, about three feet long, likely torn from underground infrastructure during the impact. It was twisted, blackened at the edges, one end jagged like a broken blade. But it was solid. Dense. Enough weight to matter in the right hands.

‘Mine.’ Damian lunged without hesitation.

In one fluid motion, he snatched the pipe off the ground, twirled it once in his grip to feel the balance—slightly front-heavy, but manageable—and then launched forward.

The nearest drone was already tracking him.

A bolt of blue plasma screamed through the air, passing inches from his shoulder and slamming into a nearby tree. The explosion lit up the park like a flash grenade—splinters and bark raining down as the trunk shattered in a bloom of fire and smoke.

Damian didn't flinch.

He'd faced live fire before. He'd trained in worse. The only difference now was that he had no armor. No gadgets. No WayneTech to bail him out. Just a pipe, his speed, and a lifetime of learned violence burning in his blood.

He ducked under another shot, muscles tight with adrenaline, and sprinted toward a crumbling stone bench. His foot hit the edge and he vaulted up, using the fractured structure as a springboard. In midair, he twisted his body, bringing the pipe down like a hammer.

CRACK.

The metal slammed into the drone's shoulder joint with a sound like a car crash. The casing dented inward with a crunch of metal and a burst of orange sparks. The impact staggered the drone, forcing it to reel back half a step, its servos whining as it recalibrated.

Damian hit the ground in a roll, recovered instantly, and came in again—this time low, swinging the pipe in a brutal arc toward the joint behind the machine's knee.

CLANG.

Direct hit.

The drone jerked violently, systems compensating to stay upright, but the damage showed—its movement glitched for a split second, just enough for Damian to register a small victory.

Then came the counterstrike.

The machine pivoted with terrifying speed and swiped at him with its forearm, the limb moving like a piston. Damian barely avoided the brunt of it, but the blow grazed his ribs and sent him tumbling across the pavement. He hit hard, rolled, and came up on one knee, chest heaving, pipe still in hand.

His side screamed with pain.

But he didn't stop.

Behind him, the second drone stepped forward, weapons still trained but not firing.

Because the boy—the Anodite—hadn't moved.

He stood frozen, his feet planted in the dirt, the glowing aura around him flaring with erratic surges of light. His fists were clenched so tight his knuckles had gone white, and his whole body trembled like a live wire. His breathing was shallow, panicked. His eyes, wide and haunted, were fixed on the drones—not with confusion, not anymore, but with raw, animal fear.

The name had done something to him. Anodite. It wasn't just a code—it was a leash. A trigger. A wound.

He wasn't acting like a weapon now.

He was acting like a prisoner who knew the guards had come to drag him back.

"Hey!" Damian shouted, teeth clenched as he dodged another shot that seared past his ear. The heat of it burned a streak across his cheek. "Snap out of it! I can't do this alone!"

The drone pressed forward, stepping into range again. Damian ducked another swipe and swung upward with the pipe, slamming it into the joint beneath the machine's arm. More sparks flew, and the drone recoiled—but barely.

Damian's grip slipped. His stance faltered. One more hit, and he might not get back up.

He planted his foot, pushed through the pain, and struck again—aiming for the joint at the hip this time.

Another hit.

Another hiss of heat.

But he was running out of gas. Fast.

The drones were recovery units built for battlefield extractions. Subdue. Secure. Survive. They were machines designed to outlast resistance, not overpower it immediately. Which meant Damian wasn't fighting for victory—he was fighting for time.

And time was almost gone.

He turned, bruised and bleeding, toward the boy still frozen in place, trembling behind him.

"You have to fight," Damian growled, voice low, ragged. "Whatever they did to you—whoever they made you think you were—forget it. You're not theirs anymore."

The boy's glow intensified, veins lighting up like molten circuits beneath his skin.

Still trembling.

Still scared.

But something in his eyes shifted.

The light stopped flickering.

And for the first time, it started to focus.

Meanwhile, the drones recalibrated with cold, mechanical efficiency, their movements precise and terrifyingly fast. Both units shifted their weight in perfect sync, armor plates realigning with sharp hisses and clicks as internal systems adjusted. The one directly ahead of Damian stood to its full height—easily over seven feet—plasma cannon sliding into place along its right arm, glowing coils locking into alignment. Its chest thrummed with energy, the LexCorp insignia pulsing faintly beneath the surface.

The second flanked him to the right, every motion clinical. It stepped wide, positioning itself to cut off any escape route. Their formations were textbook—military-grade containment tactics. Squeeze the target, fire from opposing angles, eliminate resistance before it could gather.

Damian didn't need to guess what was coming.

The cannons charged.

A rising, teeth-clenching whine filled the air as energy built within the weapons—concentrated plasma, drawn into glowing, unstable spheres at the tips of the barrels. They pulsed like sickly stars, their light staining the smoke-polluted air. The frequency of the sound made his skull ache. His fingers tensed around the pipe—a weapon already warped and blackened from impact. It shook in his grip, half-useless now, but he didn't let it go.

His breath came ragged and shallow, muscles screaming from the last round of fighting, every inch of him bruised and burning. But he stood his ground.

He wouldn't beg.

He wouldn't flinch.

If this was it, he'd face it on his feet.

Then—everything changed.

A sudden pressure surged through the air, not a sound but a sensation—a deep, resonating hum that rippled through the ground like the distant thrum of a monolith awakening. It vibrated through Damian's boots, through his chest, through the bones in his arms.

He had just enough time to pivot halfway—eyes wide, instincts firing—

Then the world exploded in pink light.

A tidal wave of raw mana energy erupted behind him, slamming into the drones like a battering ram made of sound and fire. The force of it knocked Damian off his feet instantly. He didn't resist—it was like being hit by a shockwave from a grenade. He tucked into a roll, just like he'd been trained, letting the momentum carry him across the torn ground. He hit hard—shoulder, hip, ribs—but he kept the pipe. Always keep your weapon.

Air punched from his lungs.

He landed hard, dust and ash in his mouth, stars in his vision.

But when he looked up—he saw him.

The boy.

No longer frozen. No longer trembling.

He stood in the blackened heart of the battlefield, feet planted in the scorched earth, back straight, chin raised. The fear was still in his eyes, but it had changed. It wasn't paralyzing now. It was forged. Channeled. Controlled.

His arms were raised, both hands glowing with radiant pink energy, pulsing with raw power that lit up the entire clearing. Not flickering. Not wild. Focused. The aura wasn't just clinging to him anymore—it expanded outward in arcs and tendrils, crackling through the air like enchanted lightning. Magic, but alive. Elemental.

A force becoming aware of itself.

The drones had been thrown like toys—one smashed into a thick tree trunk, splitting it down the middle with a deafening crack, its body sparking and twitching. The other had been launched into a shallow ditch, skidding across gravel and soil, leaving behind a smoking trail of gouged earth and shattered plating.

And the boy hadn't moved an inch since.

He just stood there.

Breathing hard.

Power flowing around him like a storm barely held in check.

Damian, still on one knee, eyes stung from the light, felt something rare coil in his chest—a flicker of awe, tightly laced with relief.

He did it.

He fought back.

And now the battlefield wasn't two drones closing in on a boy too scared to move.

Now it was them who had something to fear.

Though the silence after the blast was short-lived—just a breath, just long enough to register the devastation the boy had unleashed. Then came the sound.

A shrill, mechanical screech tore through the smoky sky above them.

Damian's head snapped up.

From the haze and cloud cover, more shapes dropped like fangs falling from a steel jaw—dark silhouettes lit by blue flame. Jet thrusters ignited with a banshee howl, scorching arcs into the smoke as they descended. One by one, they hit the ground with bone-rattling force, their landings throwing up waves of dust and dirt, impact craters blooming beneath their armored feet.

Two.

Four.

Six.

Eight.

They formed a perfect half-circle—symmetrical, exact. No wasted movement. A wall of precision-engineered soldiers in humanoid frames, their matte alloy surfaces gleaming under the flashing light of the fires they'd left in their wake. The whir of internal mechanisms followed, a rising hum that grew into a chorus of death. Red visors flared to life across all eight units, scanning and locking on with laser accuracy.

No voices this time. No commands.

No mercy.

Just war.

All eight drones raised their arms.

Click. Whine. Lock.

Then came the storm.

A blistering barrage of plasma fire roared toward them in synchronized bursts, white-blue bolts screaming through the air in arcs of deadly light. The sky itself seemed to catch fire. The first impacts hit the ground around them like bombs, vaporizing grass, splitting earth, turning once-familiar trees into erupting columns of ash and splinters. The remnants of park benches twisted into molten slag. The very air shimmered from the heat, folding in on itself like it was being torn.

Damian barely had time to brace before the world turned white.

But they weren't incinerated.

Because the boy didn't fall.

He held.

The mana shield sprang up around them like a rose blooming through fire—vibrant, alive, defiant. The magic expanded in a radiant dome, stretching wide enough to protect them both. Every blast of plasma struck it like a drumbeat of war, hammering it again and again, and with each strike the shield rippled violently—but held.

Flashes of pink clashed against the white-blue of LexCorp's assault, bathing the battlefield in surreal, flickering light. Every impact sent tremors through the ground. Every second it held felt like a miracle.

Damian stood close, shielded just behind the boy, his arm raised to protect his face from the worst of the radiant heat. The air smelled of ozone and scorched metal. Smoke rolled around them like waves.

He risked a glance sideways—and what he saw hit harder than the explosion.

The boy was rooted in place, arms raised, fingers spread wide as if physically holding back the incoming storm. His whole body trembled—not with fear, but exertion. Veins along his arms glowed faintly pink, like the power was running directly through his bloodstream. Sweat poured from his brow in thick rivulets. His jaw was clenched tight, his eyes wide, but focused.

The shield shimmered. Cracked. Reformed.

But it held.

"He's pushing himself too hard," Damian muttered under his breath, his voice nearly lost in the roar of weapons fire. He dropped low, eyes scanning the chaos—looking for angles, escape routes, blind spots in the drones' formation. Anything. He'd fought trained soldiers, maniacs, meta-humans—but this was different. This was cold, relentless, designed.

They were being driven back inch by inch. The drones advanced like a living wall, precise and unrelenting. Every few seconds, they moved forward in formation, stepping through the smoke like executioners, never breaking rhythm.

The plasma never stopped.

Still, the boy didn't fall.

He didn't cry out. He didn't collapse.

He refused.

He stood between them and death like a dam holding back a flood, his magic flaring brighter with every breath he took—every heartbeat a declaration of defiance.

Damian could feel the ground beneath them crack.

Could hear the drones' servos tightening.

Could smell the ozone burn rising sharper.

They couldn't hold out forever.

But for now—for this moment—

He was still standing.

The boy hadn't spoken—not a word, not even a sound—but his silence said everything.

His expression had changed. The fear that once dominated his face had drained away, leaving something colder, something ancient. His jaw was set. His stance, unshakable.

And his eyes—

They blazed.

Not softly. Not subtly. Not like before.

Twin beams of white-hot light erupted from them, brilliant and absolute. Damian instinctively raised a hand to shield his face, the intensity forcing his pupils to contract. It was like staring into the heart of a star.

Then he realized: the shield wasn't holding anymore.

It was growing.

No longer a barrier fending off attacks, it was a siphon—pulling in power. The boy wasn't just defending. He was feeding.

The earth trembled beneath their feet, but it wasn't the drones this time—it was him.

The grass around them blackened in seconds, shriveling into brittle curls before turning to ash. Leaves on nearby trees quivered violently, vibrating as though caught in a wind that didn't exist. Then, one by one, they collapsed inward, disintegrating as their color drained. The life was leaving them, funneled somewhere unseen.

Damian's eyes dropped to the ground. Cracks spiderwebbed beneath the boy's feet, veins of glowing pink mana pulsing through the earth like bioluminescent roots. They spread outward, claiming more of the park with every second. The boy was drawing energy from the world itself. Nature, space, air—all of it bled toward him.

Damian stepped back—carefully. His heart beat faster, not from fear, but from caution. Something was happening. Something huge. And he wasn't sure if even the boy could control it.

Then it broke.

The shield burst outward—not violently, not destructively, but like a soap bubble finally collapsing under pressure. A wave of pressure exploded across the park, visible in the way leaves and dirt flew away in concentric ripples. Trees bent. Benches overturned. The closest drones staggered, forced to adjust, recalibrating their stances mid-step.

In the center of it all—at the epicenter of the storm—he changed.

Damian could only watch.

The boy's skin darkened in real time, shifting from its pale tone to a deep, flawless shade of purple. It gleamed like wet obsidian under starlight, smooth and mirror-like. But it wasn't just color—it was texture. His form became partially translucent, as if his body was made of magic wrapped around light. You could see the mana moving within him, arcing across his limbs, pulsing beneath the surface like liquid lightning.

Then his hair ignited.

It flowed upward, no longer strands but streamers of radiant energy—pink, impossibly bright, alive. It moved like silk caught in a current, trailing behind him in long, elegant tendrils. Each strand flickered and flowed as if responding to the rhythm of the power now bursting from his core.

Wings formed next.

Not feathered. Not mechanical.

Wings of pure mana erupted from his back—arched, swirling constructs of energy that flickered like candlelight but held shape like blades. They shimmered in constant motion, wingspan wide, fluid, alive.

His eyes—if they could still be called that—were gone.

No whites. No irises.

Just twin orbs of solid, blinding white light, glowing with a purpose that was no longer human. They burned with will, not emotion. Not anger. Not fear.

Power.

Damian stood frozen, pipe still clutched in one trembling hand, breathing hard as he stared up at the boy.

He had seen gods wear flesh. He had stood beside Kryptonians. He had fought Martians. He had stared down monsters built in labs and legends born of prophecy.

But this—this was different.

This wasn't a weapon.

It was a being.

Raw magic, concentrated into form, barely human at all anymore. Alien. Elemental. Alive in a way most people could never be.

The drones hesitated. Their visors flickered rapidly, red light blinking in erratic patterns as their targeting systems faltered. They were trying to process what they were seeing—trying to match it with any profile in their databases. But this form... this transformation... wasn't in their programming.

Damian didn't speak. Didn't move.

He wasn't sure he could.

Because the figure standing before him might have once been a terrified boy.

But now?

Now he was something else entirely.

All eight drones locked on as one, their targeting systems flashing crimson in synchronized pulses like a war drum. The transformation hadn't caused hesitation—it had triggered escalation. The LexCorp protocols didn't register awe. They registered threat level. And this new form—the radiant figure cloaked in energy and pulsing with alien mana—had just maxed out that scale.

The drones reoriented with chilling precision, each adjusting its stance a fraction of a degree, forming a deadly arc around their target. Their cannons rose in perfect unity, mechanical joints whirring, targeting optics focusing to microscopic tolerances.

Then they fired.

Eight streams of superheated plasma exploded from their cannons in a blinding volley—pure destruction compressed into white-blue lances of energy. The park lit up in a cataclysmic blaze. Trees, grass, earth—everything around the line of fire was swallowed in screaming light. The blasts converged on the boy like a pack of guided missiles, air howling in protest as the barrage ripped toward him.

And yet—he didn't flinch.

Not an inch.

As the plasma reached him, his body reacted in an instant. The glowing tendrils of mana that trailed behind him like a living comet snapped forward. They coiled around him with impossible speed, weaving into a tight, spiraling shield—an armor of energy that wrapped around his form like a chrysalis.

But this was no dome. No static barrier.

This was living defense—dense, reactive, hungry.

The plasma struck.

And vanished.

No explosion. No concussive backlash.

The bolts hit the mana shield and were absorbed, sucked into its swirling layers like water disappearing into dry sand. Each blast disappeared on contact, devoured by the boy's shield with eerie, effortless silence.

No smoke. No heat.

Just light.

And the light grew brighter.

The boy's entire body pulsed with it. From his chest to the tips of his fingers, from the soles of his feet to the fiery strands flowing from his head, veins of glowing energy flared in brilliant, branching patterns. The plasma wasn't damaging him—it was feeding him. He was a conduit now. A living conversion engine. Everything they threw at him only made him burn hotter.

The drones kept firing, locked into their loop of calculated aggression, their systems blind to the futility. To them, it was just math—more fire, more pressure, more control. But they didn't understand what they were facing.

And neither, Damian realized, did he.

From his position crouched several yards away, hidden in the shadow of a shattered tree, Damian watched in stunned silence. His chest heaved. The air smelled like scorched ozone, and the earth beneath his boots was still trembling with residual power.

He had seen shields. He had seen absorption tech—hell, Bruce had once built a suit that could store kinetic energy.

But this wasn't tech.

This was instinct.

The boy wasn't just protecting himself. He was consuming their weapons. Drinking down the very force meant to destroy him. And growing more powerful with every passing second.

The energy around him shimmered in waves, heatless and surreal, warping the air like a mirage. Debris floated. Cracked bits of stone and twisted grass hovered for moments before falling again. Gravity itself seemed to bend near his form.

This wasn't containment.

This wasn't defense.

This was ascension.

Damian's jaw tightened as the truth settled like ice in his gut.

LexCorp hadn't just created a weapon.

They had awakened something ancient. Something magical. Something far beyond the limitations of code and steel and protocols.

And now, as the drones poured their fire into him—unaware that their efforts were only sharpening the blade that would soon be pointed back at them—l

Damian felt it in his bones before his mind caught up. Static crawled across his skin like a warning, prickling the hairs on his arms and neck. The ground beneath him vibrated—not violently, but with a deep, steady rhythm, like the earth itself was holding its breath.

At the center of it all stood the boy—no, Anodite—bathed in radiant, otherworldly light.

His entire form glowed now, not in flickers or pulses, but in a sustained brilliance that outlined every muscle, every motion. The pink energy around him was no longer wild—it was shaped, refined. Controlled. His skin shone like polished crystal laced with veins of liquid light. His eyes, twin spheres of blinding white, stared into the distance without blinking, emotionless and infinite. The space around him warped with heatless pressure, air bending into waves, like reality itself was trying to accommodate his presence.

Then—he moved.

A single breath escaped his lips, silent and calm.

He raised both hands, palms open toward the sky, as if offering something—or preparing to take it.

The glowing tendrils of mana trailing from his back snapped to attention, then surged outward like awakened serpents, crackling with raw power. They spiraled into the air, twisting and coiling, each one a conduit of focused energy waiting to strike.

For a heartbeat, everything froze.

The drones—still locked in combat protocol—began to reposition. Their targeting systems flickered. Red lights scanned and re-scanned, recalibrating to track this new level of power. They were preparing to adapt, to fall back, to change tactics.

They didn't get the chance.

The boy unleashed hell.

With a flash of motion and no audible command, a massive pulse of mana erupted from him—pure energy forged into a blinding sphere of pink-white light. It didn't roar. It expanded. The initial blast was silent, almost peaceful, a radiant bloom of power stretching outward at impossible speed.

Then came the sound.

A deep, thunderous boom exploded outward, rolling across the park like the voice of a god. Trees bent and snapped. Park benches were flung like matchsticks. Nearby windows shattered in waves. Dust and debris were swept up in a spiraling vortex of displaced energy.

The drones were caught mid-movement.

They didn't burn. They didn't explode.

They came apart.

The mana hit them like a cleansing flame, unraveling them on a molecular level. Their sleek, armored shells cracked and split open, light spilling out through every joint. Their bodies disintegrated into showers of particles, glowing briefly before dissolving into the air like ash in a storm.

One by one, the eight advanced LexCorp combat units were erased.

Gone.

The explosion left behind a massive crater that radiated outward in jagged lines, earth torn up in concentric rings around the boy. Chunks of soil and stone still rained down as Damian threw himself behind a nearby tree stump, shielding his head as the heat of the blast rippled over him. The sound left his ears ringing, and for a moment, his vision blurred from the intensity of the light.

Then—silence.

Pure, absolute silence.

When Damian lifted his head, the battlefield was unrecognizable.

The scorched remains of the park smoldered quietly. Trees were stripped of leaves. Ground was blackened and cracked. At the epicenter of the blast, framed by a slowly fading corona of pink lightning, the boy stood motionless.

His body still glowed, though the light had dimmed slightly. Mana flared gently along his skin, flowing through him like a current. His hair—still a streaming flame of ethereal light—floated weightlessly in the air behind him, shifting in patterns that made no sense to physics.

His expression was blank.

Not angry. Not triumphant.

Just... still.

The ruined earth beneath Damian's boots crackled faintly with residual mana, glowing pink veins slowly dimming, pulsing slower and slower as the energy bled away into the cooling night. The silence that followed wasn't peaceful. It was unnatural—too complete, too heavy, like the entire park was holding its breath.

The boy—Anodite—was swaying.

His body, once radiant and charged with impossible power, now shimmered weakly, the glow around him flickering like a dying star. His dark, obsidian-like skin rippled as if struggling to hold its shape, until slowly—inevitably—it began to fade. His ethereal form unraveled in layers, like a mask peeling away under heat. The mana tendrils that had whipped and defended, that had torn drones apart like paper, flickered out one by one, vanishing into the night like embers carried off by wind.

His skin lightened.

His glow dulled.

The celestial pink fire that had made up his hair collapsed into soaked, black strands clinging to his face and neck, heavy with sweat and heat. His wings, once broad arcs of liquid energy, crumpled inward and dissolved into thin air.

And then his eyes.

The blinding white orbs dulled. Dimmed. Faded until only his natural eyes remained—glassy, dazed, unfocused. He looked around like he didn't recognize any of it. Not the crater. Not the smoke. Not even himself.

His head turned, slowly, like he was underwater.

And his gaze found Damian.

No fear. No panic. Just exhaustion so deep it looked ancient. Like he'd been carrying it for years, not hours. Their eyes met—and then his body collapsed.

Everything gave out at once.

His knees buckled. Shoulders sagged. His entire frame folded like a puppet whose strings had been cut mid-movement. He hit the ground with a heavy, graceless thud, the impact stirring a cloud of dust and ash around his slack body.

"No—" Damian breathed, already moving.

He sprinted across the crater without thinking, his boots kicking up broken earth and scorched grass. In seconds, he dropped to his knees beside the boy. His hands moved with urgency born from training—checking the pulse in the neck, pressing a hand to the chest. Still breathing. Still alive. But barely.

His skin was damp with sweat, clammy and cold beneath Damian's palm. His breathing was shallow, every breath thin and uneven. His limbs trembled faintly with residual power, like the echo of a storm long passed. He wasn't injured. There were no burns, no bruises. But he was spent—drained down to the bone, every ounce of energy poured into that final surge of defense and release.

"You held it together through all that," Damian muttered under his breath, more to himself than to the boy. "You don't get to crash now."

He pulled the boy gently into a recovery position, cradling his head with one hand and keeping the other steady over his chest, counting the rhythm of each shallow rise and fall. Damian's eyes flicked up to the skyline beyond the shattered treeline. Still no movement. No cops. No drones. But they wouldn't stay alone for long. Someone was coming. Bruce, probably. Or worse—LexCorp, ready to reclaim what they'd lost.

But for now, they had this moment.

And then the boy stirred.

Barely.

His lips moved—dry, cracked, trembling. The sound that came from them was a whisper. Delicate. Soft and fragmented, like a language bleeding through a cracked window. Damian leaned closer, heart thudding in his chest.

The boy spoke.

The words were foreign. Not gibberish—structured. Beautiful, even. Fluid and melodic, filled with syllables that had never been shaped by a human tongue. The language wasn't from Earth. Damian knew dozens of alien dialects, and even he couldn't place it.

But the meaning... something about the tone hit differently. It wasn't a command. It wasn't even a warning.

It was grief.

It was memory.

It was a name—or a goodbye.

Damian didn't know which. And he didn't ask.

Before he could try to respond, the boy moved again.

Slowly, trembling, one hand rose and found the front of Damian's hoodie. Fingers brushed the fabric, soft, searching, as if to confirm something was still real. Damian froze, uncertain.

Then, the boy leaned forward.

And kissed him.

It wasn't forceful. Wasn't romantic. It was gentle. Quick. A press of warmth against Damian's lips—trembling and featherlight. Not driven by adrenaline. Not desperation. It was something quieter—a gesture stripped of logic, shaped by instinct.

Then the boy slumped, the last of his strength gone. His head rested against Damian's chest, body limp, his eyes fluttering half-closed.

But just before he slipped away, he whispered one more word.

"Thank you."

Soft.

Breathless.

In heavily accented English, but unmistakably clear.

And then he passed out.

His body went still, a faint smile ghosting across his lips as unconsciousness took him.

Damian knelt there in silence, the smoke still curling through the ruined park, the ground warm beneath them. Sirens wailed faintly in the distance, growing louder. The breeze stirred ash and leaves, but he didn't move.

He just held the boy close, watching over him as the chaos faded.

Whatever this was—whoever he was—this wasn't the end.

But right now, the boy was safe.

And Damian would make sure he stayed that way

LATER THAT night, high above the Earth, the Justice League's Watchtower hovered in its eternal orbit—silent, pristine, a fortress of steel and starlight among the void. Inside, in one of the war rooms ringed with holographic panels and data streams, Damian stood with his arms tightly crossed, his posture rigid. Behind him, a large 3D projection of Robinson Park flickered in midair, the display rendering the damage in hyperreal detail.

The scene spoke for itself: a blackened crater at the heart of the park, ringed in scorched earth, melted walkways, and fragmented metal. Traces of pink energy shimmered faintly across the terrain like residual heat from an invisible fire. The flickering trails of magic danced in slow pulses, still too volatile to classify by Watchtower sensors.

The silence in the room was thick.

Superman stood nearby, tall and unmoving, his arms crossed over his chest. His face was set in a mask of quiet concern, but his eyes betrayed unease—an unease that deepened as Damian finished recounting what had happened.

Jon Kent stood beside his father, posture tense and leaning forward slightly, eyes wide. He kept glancing between the projection and Damian, like trying to reconcile the two—what he was seeing and what he was hearing.

Batman loomed behind his son, cape draped over his shoulders, silent and unreadable. His face betrayed nothing, but Damian could feel the intensity of his father's scrutiny, the sharp, surgical calculation of a man who was already mapping out contingency plans behind that mask.

"And that's when he passed out," Damian said flatly, his tone stripped of emotion but not of weight. "After obliterating eight fully armed LexCorp drones in under ten seconds. They were in kill mode. He didn't hesitate. The amount of mana he drew in... it wasn't ambient. It was alive. Instinctual. Like it responded to his will the way muscles respond to pain."

Superman exchanged a glance with Batman, his brow furrowed. "And you're certain the armor was LexCorp?"

"I saw the insignia myself," Damian said. "It wasn't slapped on. It was part of the suit's internal architecture. He wasn't wearing it—he was fused to it."

Jon spoke next, his voice quieter. "But... he looked human?"

Damian paused, eyes narrowing as he remembered the boy's collapse, his hands shaking, the soft weight of his body against the charred grass. "Almost. But when he changed, it was like watching a mask dissolve. His entire physiology shifted. Skin, bone structure, light displacement. Magic didn't just cloak him—it rewrote him."

Until now, Starfire had remained silent, her arms loosely folded, her golden gaze fixed on the projection. The soft glow from the hologram lit her orange skin with shifting patterns of light, but her eyes were focused far beyond the room.

Then she stepped forward.

"You said he became dark," she said, her voice calm, thoughtful. "Semi-translucent... and his hair became pink flame?"

Damian nodded slowly, gaze narrowing. "Like it wasn't hair at all. More like... energy, shaped into strands. It moved without wind. It moved like it was alive."

Starfire nodded once. Her eyes flared slightly as a memory surfaced. "I know what he is."

All eyes turned to her.

"Or rather," she corrected gently, "what he is. He is not from Earth. That boy is an Anodite."

Damianmoan straightened slightly. "That's what the drones called him before they initiated fire."

"They knew," Starfire said. "Because they built their weapons with him in mind."

She turned to the others, her voice steady, but serious. "Anodites are ancient. A race of mana-based beings that exist almost entirely outside known galactic governance. Most of them dwell in uncharted sectors—places not even the Green Lanterns map regularly. Their bodies are not made of flesh in the way we understand it. They are born of magic—pure magic. They do not learn to wield it. They are it."

Jon looked visibly stunned. "You've seen one before?"

"Yes," she said. "Tamaran was briefly allied with their world during a peacekeeping mission in the Outer Nebula. They are not violent. But they are feared. Because if provoked... a single Anodite can alter the course of a war."

Superman's eyes narrowed. "And this one was enhanced by Luthor."

"Worse," Damian said. "He was altered by him. Engineered. That armor wasn't armor—it was a cage. A conduit designed to control how and when he accessed his own abilities."

"And it failed," Batman said quietly.

Damian nodded. "Completely."

Starfire's gaze darkened. "That makes him vulnerable. An Anodite raised away from his people, stripped of his identity, forced to serve someone like Luthor... He may be powerful, but emotionally? Psychologically? He is fractured. A being made of instinct and emotion, trained like a weapon and left to rot."

"He didn't trust anyone," Damian said. "Not at first. He didn't speak. He didn't fight until he had no choice. When he looked at me, it wasn't with fear—it was with expectation. Like he was used to being exploited."

Superman exhaled slowly. "If Luthor put his hands on something like that... we can't afford to let him get close again."

"He won't," Damian said firmly. "We'll make sure of it."

Batman stepped forward finally, the weight of his presence grounding the room. "We don't just protect him from Luthor. We protect him from everyone who will come next. Because now that he's revealed himself, every agency, every intergalactic faction, and every corporate predator who traffics in power will come looking."

Starfire nodded. "He is a star-born being of magic, left stranded among humans. If he is to survive, he will need more than shelter. He will need a place to belong."

Damian's eyes dropped for a moment, his expression tightening.

"Then I'll give him one."

The room fell into silence again, the image of the destroyed park hovering behind them like a ghost.

Outside the Watchtower's viewing windows, the stars drifted silently across the blackness—cold, endless, and watching.

THE HUM of the Watchtower's life support systems thrummed softly beneath their boots as Damian, Jon, and Starfire moved down the long corridor that curved gently with the arc of the space station. The polished silver walls reflected the low amber lighting of the simulated night cycle, casting long shadows that followed them in silence. Though Earth had long since rolled into the early morning hours, the artificial calm of the Watchtower did little to soothe the weight pressing on all three of them.

No one spoke as they walked. They didn't need to.

When they reached the reinforced doors to the infirmary, they parted with a gentle hiss, letting out a cool, sterile breeze tinged with antiseptic and ozone. The lights inside were soft and dim, set low for rest, but everything gleamed with precision. Med-pods lined the far wall in pristine rows, their curved exteriors like sleeping shells awaiting occupants. But only one was in use.

The Anodite boy lay within it.

He looked almost normal now—blanket drawn to his waist, arms limp at his sides, eyes closed. Peaceful. If you didn't know better, he could've passed for any unconscious teenager recovering from exhaustion. But if you looked closely, there were signs: faint ripples of pink light still traced delicate patterns under his skin, glowing softly with every slow breath. Mana. Dormant, but present. Waiting.

Jon drifted closer, hands stuffed in his jacket pockets, the corners of his mouth turned down in something between concern and wonder. He stared at the boy's face for a long time before speaking.

"He doesn't look like someone who took out a fleet of LexCorp drones by himself."

Damian stood beside him, arms crossed tight, eyes narrowed. "That's what makes him dangerous," he said. "He doesn't look like a threat. Not until you're already on fire."

Jon glanced at him, but said nothing.

Starfire moved to the other side of the pod. Her posture was relaxed but attentive, the soft glow of her skin reflecting faintly off the medical interface. Her eyes were fixed on the boy—not in suspicion, but in recognition. Like someone looking at an ancient text they hadn't seen in years.

"You said he spoke?" she asked Damian quietly.

He nodded. "Right before he blacked out. Before he spoke English. Not any dialect I recognized. It wasn't even structured like language—more like... vibration. Something tonal. I've studied dozens of alien scripts and syntaxes. This wasn't one of them."

Starfire stepped closer, her eyes never leaving the boy. "That was Anoditian. Their speech is more than language. It's resonance. Their mana carries their meaning. They don't just speak—they express."

Damian raised an eyebrow. "Then how do you understand them?"

Starfire turned to him with a serene smile. "Again, Tamaraneans and Anodites share a long, quiet history. We shared... customs."

Jon tilted his head. "What kind of customs?"

Starfire's expression didn't change. "Kissing."

Damian blinked. "What?"

Starfire nodded. "Tamaraneans absorb language through physical contact. A kiss creates a neurological link—temporary, but complete. Anodites... their version is deeper. It is tied to mana. It creates an imprint, a resonance link between two beings."

Damian stiffened slightly. His arms remained crossed, but his jaw tensed. "So when he kissed me—"

"He was reaching for connection," she said gently. "To understand you. To anchor himself. That kind of gesture, especially for one of his kind... it means trust. Rare, deliberate trust."

Damian looked down at the boy in the pod. The calm rise and fall of his chest. The fragile mana pulse under his skin.

Jon spoke softly. "He's really not just some experiment, is he?"

Starfire hesitated for a breath. Then she moved toward the pod and laid her hand lightly on its rim. "He's more than rare," she said. "I recognized the pattern of his aura. The fractal formation that pulsed when he transformed—it's unique. It belongs to the House of Noctyrae."

Damian frowned. "That means something to you?"

"It should," Starfire said. "That is the ruling family of the Anodite system. He's not just one of them. He's their heir."

Jon's eyes widened. "He's a prince?"

"The crowned prince," she confirmed. "And he is here. Alone. Bound in LexCorp tech. That suggests only two possibilities—he was stolen... or he fled."

Damian felt his stomach tighten. "Luthor got his hands on the heir of a mana-based civilization. And he tried to turn him into a weapon."

Starfire nodded solemnly. "And failed."

The room went quiet again, the soft beeping of the pod's monitor the only sound. The boy stirred slightly, a ripple of light fluttering beneath his skin like lightning behind clouds. Damian stepped closer, watching him carefully.

"He didn't trust me at first," Damian said. "He didn't trust anyone. But when he looked at me after the fight... something changed."

Starfire gave a small smile. "You carry his imprint now. His bond. When he wakes, he will look for you first."

Damian's eyes didn't leave the boy's face.

"I'll be here," he said quietly.

And he meant it. Every word.

[e-vay]

See, with this newly revealed information for Sage and Aurora's friendship, love it btw, how did Shadow and Aurora's first date go? Who asked who? Where did they go?

I'm so happy to hear you're a fan of the Luminescent Ladies! 🤩 The first date was very casual, but a hit! Shadow is the one who asks Aurora out and they go to a café and end up spending hours together.

Since I've never fully written out the full Shadora story, bits and pieces of it exist here on my blog but sometimes the details change. But here's a very rough version of how I envision their first date going:

(If you're familiar with my story, you can skip the text in blue)

Shadow has spent the last several decades taking odd merc jobs in deep space in the hopes that he'll run into the woman he fell for years ago, but he never finds her. Rouge eventually convinces him to head back "home," and since he's never failed a goal before he decides he has to replace it with a new one: Get to know and enjoy the planet Maria always wanted to visit. So he heads back and that's where he meets Aurora (she does not know him yet, as she meets him later in her life via time travel). He's pretty certain Aurora is the woman who saved him years ago, but since she doesn't seem to know him he thinks maybe she's been reincarnated or something, he isn't sure. He wants to know her better and find out.

Since Shadow's new goal is to better acquaint himself with the planet he abandoned decades ago and since Aurora knows her hometown like the back of her hand, the two decide that she will be his guide (his 'guiding light' if you will 😉 ) around town. (Shadow doesn't need one. He's the ultimate life form; he's plenty fine exploring on his own. But he considers this an opportunity to do some recon to get to know her better). It mostly starts fairly professional even though Aurora does flirt with him a lot (she can't help it, just look at him!) but Shadow quickly becomes fond of her, and he decides he wants to pursue her romantically.

As they are going to bid each other goodbye after one of their tours, Shadow asks "You have a recommendation for every kind of activity in this town, correct?"

A: "Yeah! What is it you're looking for next?"

Sh: "Something... romantic, but humble. Where one might go for a first date."

And at first Aurora is internally thinking "Dang, so he is interested in somebody." But she dismisses that thought because it's none of her business who Shadow spends his time with.

She's gotten to know him a bit by now so as she's pondering ideas she's taking into consideration that he doesn't like loud, busy scenes and would likely enjoy somewhere more intimate, and she remembers him mentioning that he likes coffee. So she suggests this quaint little café that's on the edge of town.

He says "Very well" and surprises her by taking her hand and asking "Would you accompany me there tomorrow afternoon?"

She's shocked but enthusiastically agrees. He offers to "pick her up" at her house so they can go together, but since even as an adult Aurora still lives at home with her parents, she knows that if Sonic answers the door he will be very wary and likely follow them to see what's going on. She doesn't want the date to go awry before it's even happened lol So she convinces Shadow that she'll just meet him at the café.

Aurora is VERY nervous as she has basically no experience dating. She's only had a "boyfriend" once when she was a very little kid and that was really more of just a crush when she was too young to be dating anyway. She also has no idea why Shadow would be interested in her because she thinks she's pretty boring compared to him. (She even briefly thinks "Oh no, what if this is a prank!?")

But upon meeting him at the café he makes it very clear this is a date, bringing her flowers and being a real gentleman by getting her chair for her and all that jazz. Initially she is super self-conscious but Shadow quickly makes her feel really giddy (Ex: SH: "Wow, you look-" A: "Too bright?! I can tone it down! I just have to bend the light to make my clothes darker-" SH: "I was going to say 'lovely'. Please, don't dull your light for me." A: *Can't help but glow more*)

She very quickly gets swept off her feet haha.

They end up losing track of time and even continue to hang out on the outdoor patio after the place has closed and enjoy the sunset together. Before he gets the chance, Aurora over-enthusiastically asks if Shadow would like to have a second date with her and he warmly says yes.

-----

For the record, I'm always open to y'all's ideas of how Shadow and Aurora's first date would go down. If you want to write your own version of their date and it's completely different, I'd still love to read it :)

[postcardsfromheapside]

I need to be salty for a hot second about people who are upset about aspects of Lucanis' romance.

I'll put everything else under the break for spoilers, but in general, I am so disappointed in a large portion of this fanbase who apparently thought "disaster" meant "romantasy," but also it's in keeping with how a lot of people seem unable to put things in context.

One of the complaints I keep seeing run past is that the scene where you commit to a relationship with Lucanis seems pefunctory, or out of the blue, there's nothing really romantic about it, it's too similar to the platonic route, etc, etc, ETC.

I romanced Emmrich, but I've seen other people's versions of romancing Lucanis. I'm just going to kind of word vomit here, and hope I can come up with something cohesive.

As someone who id's with Lucanis for "generational abuse" and "dumpster fire disaster bi" and "using socially acceptable drugs as coping mechanisms in place of addressing your problems" reasons, it's been really fucking annoying watching the almost deliberate misinterpretation of his character even after Mary Kirby dropped several explanations on social media. It's like a large part of the fanbase saw all that and turned into the "yes yes, very sad...anyway!" meme and went right on fetishizing him...then got mad when he didn't turn into the seductive Dom with wings they were hoping for.

You commit to Lucanis after (what I consider) a very intense scene inside his "mind prison." He's struggling so much internally that Spite wrests control of his body from him in front of witnesses and begs Rook to help them. Lucanis would never ask Rook to do so on his own, he's terrible at asking for the help he truly needs. Spite drags Rook into the Fade Ossuary and demands they free Lucanis from his self-imposed prison. And whether you're a friend or would-be lover, Rook slowly talks Lucanis out of a host of self doubts regarding his family and friends. Can he trust himself not to hurt other people, now that he's saddled with this affliction? Has he disappointed the people he cares about most? Do these new people he's coming to care about actually trust and care about him? The rooms are filled with fragmented thoughts that peter out into regrets. You're literally seeing Lucanis' fractured and complicated emotions.

One of them tore a hole straight through me: "You'd have to kill me...And Spite would die."

You'd have to kill him to get rid of the demon. And he'd regret the death of the demon that's protected him and given him strength, through a brutal year of betrayal and torment. I don't know if y'all remember the scenes in the Ossuary of the failed experiments and the corpses you had to pass to get to his jar of blood. It wasn't fun.

When you break out of the mind prison after helping him bond with Spite, it's intimate and momentous, even on a platonic route. You've seen desperate and lonely parts of him he'd never willingly show anyone.

As you're convincing Lucanis that it's okay to leave his mind-prison, you tell him you understand that it's easier to deal with problems like the Ossuary and Zara than healing and living with Spite, potentially hurting people he cares about. But he wants to. It's Rook's job to help him see a path out, a way for him to make the struggle easier so he can begin to heal himself.

I need to stress: you aren't "fixing" him. You're acting as his lighthouse, regardless of whether you're a friend or a lover. Sometimes people need help. He's still going to have to do the work to get there.

As a friend, it was extremely rewarding to come back to the kitchen and see him doing exactly as I'd hoped: moving on with the business of *living*. He made a nice dinner for everyone he's come to care for, and a special dessert for Neve. Cooking is where Lucanis finds creativity, and comfort, and connection with his friends and family. He isn't very good with words, but he will note everything you consume, and try to make you feel loved by expressing it that way.

Which is why I think it's important you don't dismiss the commitment on the romantic route. He remembers YOUR favorite drink and makes YOU a special dessert if you're romancing him. Lucanis isn't going to get poetic. You've already made him feel raw. You've seen the ugly, embarassing parts of him. What is he supposed to say? Usually it takes Spite reaching through his body to actually be direct. Instead, Lucanis reaches for food, his favorite medium, to try and apologize for inadvertently showing you those things, to thank you for helping him despite seeing what he considers the most shameful parts of him. Your commitment is letting him know that you value him, that he has nothing to be ashamed of, that you understand what he's trying to express with his struggling communication skills, which appear to get better as your relationship progresses from there.

It's weird that some of y'all don't feel that this is heartfelt and important, because you'd rather him act out some sensuous fantasy trope. It's also weird that some of you haven't figured out that many scenes in RPG's can be similar on platonic and romantic routes with tweaks to shade context.

(Also just in case this comes up: cooking is not his "love language" - that whole concept was invented by a misogynistic weirdo and we should remove it from our ideas of communication)

Anyway, this guy is my Rook's bestie and I'll go down swinging for him, you should appreciate the fuck out of him and stop acting like his writer didn't craft a perfectly funny little weirdo who is bad at showing people his tender parts and terrible at interpersonal relationships.

[jonnywaistcoat]

Hi Jonny, if you don't mind I have a question about the TMA TTRPG! So I noticed that on the player's guide there's this guy, who my friends and I assumed is probably Jon. If it is him, is this a canon design, or more like some of the non-canon stuff that's in the merch?

So, I hope you don't mind if i use this ask to go a bit off on one. I'm not specifically dragging you (I'm actualy glad you asked, as I've thinking about posting on the topic), but all the discussion around the RPG art and how "official" or "canon" it might be is, to my mind, slightly silly.

First up, is it "official" art? I mean, yeah, its art for the officially licenced Magnus Archives RPG. This means Monte Cook Games have commissioned someone to do a beatiful illustration broadly based on some aspect, episode or character from the podcast and it goes in the book. But that's kinda all it means. "Official" is a legal distinction, not an artistic one. The fact that it's in an official product doesn't make it any less one artist's cool interpretation of a character that has only been vaguely described in audio.

Second, is it Jonathan Sims the Archivist? I mean, it's probably based on the idea of him, but it's certainly not set in stone. When we were first discussing art with MCG, we advised that character pictures be more vibes-based and not explicitly tied to specific people (ie. a portrait inspired by Tim wouldn't be captioned "This is Tim" and wouldn't be placed opposite a profile for Tim Stoker, archival assistant.) This was mainly because we wanted the artists to have plenty of freedom to interpret and not feel too tied down by the need to know everything about the podcast. But, to be frank, it was also because we know that there are a few fans out there that are kinda Not Chill about what they've personally decided these characters look like and can get a bit defensive over depictions that differ.

It strikes me as particularly strange to be having this discussion about art that's for a roleplying game book. Something that's explicitly and solely designed to give you the ability to play in your version of the Magnus universe. The idea that this is the thing where we'd for some reason try to immutably establish unchangable appearances for these characters would be pretty funny if some folks weren't taking it so seriously. Similarly ridiculous is the idea we could reasonably have said to MCG "We'd love for you to make a huge beautiful RPG book of our setting... Just make sure you don't depict any of the iconic characters or events from it!"

But... is it "canon"? Now, to my mind, this highlights a real weakness in a lot of fandom thinking around "canon", which is that it generally has no idea what to do with adaptations. All adaptation is interpretation, and relies on taking a work and letting new creatives (and sometimes the same ones) have a different take on it. Are the appearances of the Fellowship of the Ring in the LOTR movies "canon"? How much, if at all, does that matter? Neil Gaiman's book Neverwhere was originaly a 90s BBC series made with a budget of 50 pence; is anyone who makes fanart of Mr Croup that doesn't look like the actor Hywel Bennet breaking canon? What about the novel that describes the character differently? Or the officially licenced Neverwhere comic where he looks like neither of them? Which is his "canon appearance"?

Canon is an inherently messy concept, and while it is useful for a creative team trying to keep continuity and consistency within a creative work, for thinking about anything beyond that it tends to be more hinderance than help.

Anyway, all this is to say that the above picture and all the others in the RPG are exactly as canon as every other picture you've ever seen of the Archivist.

[dinogoofymutated]

Hello, I love your writing!! And the Kurt taking care of an overworked lover really melted my heart 🫠💕 could I ask for a similar prompt with Logan? He's my #1 X Men man. If this ptompt is too specific no worries, feel free to make it work within your own parameters- but I live with chronic pain/illness, so maybe it could be someone with a condition that flairing up and they refuse to rest/ask for help, making things worse, and Logan finally steps in, maybe scoops them up in his big arms and lovingly forces them to take a break? Logan has such a big protective heart under all his gruffness, and I think we need to see more of it in the Fandom.

💖 Love and Bless You 💖

Wolverine/GN!Reader UGH I love this request!! I hope it's okay that i didn't write about a specific illness, but describe a general chronic pain/mobility difficulty due to it. I need to write soft logan like this more often UGH- also, I was picturing the flirty Logan from Wolverine and the X-men here. He's infected my brain and I need more versions of him like that lol. TWS: Chronic pain/illness. flareups.

If there's one thing anyone knows about Logan, it's that's he's crazy observant, especially with that sniffer of his.

Sure me might not be able to smell when you're in pain, but I 100% thing that he just -knows- when something is off. It's like a sixth sense. Like you move in a particular way or eat your "fuck I hurt" food and he's on you like a goddamn bloodhound.

It doesn't matter how much you protest, or how much you fight him on it, he's not willing to budge when it comes to letting you rest- and if he can sneak in a few extra cuddles, or more time in bed with you, it's just a perk.

    Today has been a rough day since you woke up, and you knew it would most likely get worse. 

    You were having a bit of a flare-up. Well, you say a bit, in all actuality, it was an uphill battle from here. There was just something off the moment you woke up. Your joints were stiff and painful, everyday actions became a chore, and you were hurting much more than normal. But, if there was one thing about you everyone knew, it was that you were certainly stubborn. 

    You’re in the kitchen currently, resting at the table after popping a batch of cookies in the oven. Jubilee had been begging you to make her some sweet treats, and with her coming home from a rather long mission tomorrow, you decided to surprise her. Your body’s timing was… unfortunate, but there was no stopping you now. You were exhausted after making the dough, and rolling it into balls. After you had popped them in the oven you had painstakingly walked to the fridge to put the rest of the dough inside, muscles protesting each and every step. You had collapsed into the nearest chair, leaning your head back with a sigh, which is where you are now. You let your eyes drift closed as you wait for the timer to go off, relaxing into the seat.

    “Hey~” You jump at the sound of the voice, opening your eyes to see a smirking Logan, his arms draped across the back of your chair. You let out a huff, smiling at him. 

    “Hi Logan.” You say sweetly. One of his hands reaches down to run through your hair, and you feel like a cat as you eagerly lean into the touch.

    “How are you feeling?” He asks. You hum, grimacing at the question.

    “Fine?” You respond, an unsure tilt in your voice. Logan raises an eyebrow at you.

    “Don't bullshit me, sweetheart. I know somethings off.” Logan rumbles. You make a face, sitting up from the chair as normally as you can as the timer for the cookies goes off.

    “It's just a minor flare-up. It's fine, I'm fine. I have to finish baking these cookies for tomorrow anyway, so I don't really have a choice.” You say. If he sees the way you stumble a little, he doesn’t comment on it. Logan watches as you take a moment before you open the oven, resting against the counter. You realize that you may have gotten up from the chair just a little too fast as stars spot your eyes. After a minute of rest, hyper-aware of Logan’s eyes on you, you go for it. You barely crack the oven door open before Logan grabs you by the waist.

    “Alright, that's enough.” He says. You yelp as Logan drags you away from the oven. He takes the cookies out quickly before he turns around and immediately throws you over his shoulder. Your yelp is more of a screech this time.

    “Logan! Let me go- what are you doing?!” 

    “I'm not gonna stand back and watch you do this to yourself. I'm taking you to bed.” Logan huffs. He’s already walking you out of the kitchen and into the other parts of the mansion as you hit your palms against his back, trying to convince him to put you down.

    “But- I- the cookies!” You cry out. Logan has already gotten to your door opening it as he carries you inside.

    “I got it. Now just- relax.” He says, plopping you down on the bed. The action has you a little dizzy, and Logan leans in to kiss you on the forehead before he tucks you under the covers. 

    “I'm going to go get you some water and vitamins. Stay. Here.” You don’t have time to protest before he’s gone, having shut the door behind him. You want to get up and chase after him, tell him that you don’t need any special treatment and that you were fine on your own, but you’re not sure you can really run right now- and the comfort and warmth of your bed and covers are calling you like a goddamn siren song. 

    You drift in and out of consciousness in bed until Logan is back, with a glass of water and vitamins as promised. He hands you a flintstone gummy as he sits on the bed, and you can’t help but snicker. Logan rolls his eyes, still having delivered vitamins as promised.

    “What did you do about the cookies?” You ask as Logan peels back the covers to lie in the bed with you. He pulls you close as he settles in, rubbing his hands soothingly across the parts of you he knows tend to ache the most. 

    “I put a new batch in the oven. I’ll smell them when they’re ready.” He says. You roll your eyes at him, resting your head against his chest. 

    “Thank you, you know. Not just for the cookies, but… for caring.” You whisper. He huffs a laugh, leaning down to kiss you on the lips this time.

    “You don’t have to thank me, sweetheart. Just rest.”

[ghsface]

I CAN SEE YOU - spencer reid

summary: You watched him from a distance, dreaming of a moment when you could muster the courage to talk to him beyond the professional.

warnings: spencer reid x bau!fem reader ,kissing and I think that's all, if I'm missing something let me know.

author's note: The only thing I can do when I listen to this song is imagine Spencer, idk why this reminds me so much of him. I hope you like it and I'm sorry if there are mistakes/misspelled words, my native language is not English.🎀

All the friction in the hallways when you found him going to get some files or when you were going to see Penelope, all the stolen glances that you noticed almost every day when you were at your desk, even when they were on the Jet, he never took your eyes off.

The FBI office in Quantico was bustling with constant activity, but you were always lost in thought while pretending to review a file. You couldn't help but let your eyes wander to Spencer Reid, the genius of the team, who was sitting at his desk, engrossed in his books or his work.

You saw it every day, noticing the small details that others overlooked. The way he bit his lip when he was focused, how his fingers played with his hair when he was nervous.

There was something hypnotic about him, something that made you feel an inexplicable connection. But you always lacked the courage. You didn't want to risk your professional friendship, or your place on the team, for feelings that might not be reciprocated.

That afternoon, after a particularly tiring day, you found yourself reviewing some reports at your desk, trying to keep yourself busy. Most of the office had already left, leaving you alone with your group mates, leaving the place a little silent. You realized Spencer was there too, working on a file.

"Hi, Spence," you said, trying to sound casual as you approached his desk. The way he looked at you made your heart skip a beat.

“Hey, y/n,” he responded, his tone relaxed but attentive. "I thought you had already gone"

"No, I don't have to do three reports yet, it's like it's never going to end," you said, smiling warmly but with noticeable tiredness on your face.

Conversation flowed effortlessly as you shared stories and laughter as the two of you completed your reports. You felt more and more comfortable around him, and the connection you felt was palpable. As the afternoon wore on, you noticed a growing tension in the air, an implicit desire that you both seemed to share.

But all this was interrupted when you had to go get a file. "I have to go get a file," you said, getting up from your chair. "Wait, I'll come with you anyway, I am missing a file to finish this," he said, getting up and following you to the room where all the files were.

The filing room was dark and lined with shelves, and the atmosphere was filled with a tension that had nothing to do with work.

As we reviewed the files we were looking for, the conversation flowed naturally. We talked about books, movies, and of course the case we were reporting on.

Suddenly, I found a file that looked promising, but it was on a high shelf. I asked Spencer to help me reach it. As he reached out to grab it, I lost my balance and fell backwards. Just before I hit the ground, I felt Spencer's arms wrap around me, cushioning my fall.

"Are you OK?" he asked, his voice soft and concerned.

I nodded, feeling my heart beat faster than usual, not only from the shock, but also from the sudden closeness to Spencer. His eyes were shining with a mix of concern and something else she couldn't identify.

We stayed in that position for a moment, and the air between us was charged with a tension I had never felt before. Slowly, Spencer helped me to my feet, but his hands remained on my arms, as if he didn't want to let me go.

"Thank you," I said, my voice barely above a whisper.

He smiled, a shy but genuine smile that made my heart beat even faster. Before I realized what I was doing, I leaned towards him. Spencer didn't pull away, instead he closed the distance between us.

Our lips met in a soft, sweet kiss, filled with a suppressed emotion that had been building for a long time.

The kiss intensified quickly. We moved to a corner of the file room, out of sight of anyone who might enter. Our bodies joined in a dance of desire, the outside world fading as we gave ourselves to each other. Passion drove us to undo buttons and explore with trembling hands, desire growing with every second.

Just when the moment seemed like it was going to end in something more, a noise outside the room made us stop abruptly. We looked at each other, both out of breath and with flushed cheeks.

"We should stop," Spencer said, her voice hoarse and thick with emotion.

I nodded, trying to regain my composure. We made up the best we could and parted ways, knowing that what had just happened would change our relationship forever.

Leaving the archive room, we meet the team. Derek looked at us with an amused smile.

"Where have you been?" He asked, raising an eyebrow and a mischievous smile on his face.

I felt my cheeks blush, but before I could respond, Spencer took the initiative.

"Checking some important files," he said, with an enigmatic smile.

The team accepted the explanation, although not without some suspicious looks. As the night wore on, I couldn't stop thinking about what had happened in the file room. It was an intense and beautiful, albeit interrupted, moment that marked the beginning of something new and exciting between Spencer and I, something I was eager to explore further.

𖥔 ִ ་ ، ˖ ࣪ ་ ˖ ʿ𖥔 ִ ་ ، ˖ ࣪ ་ ˖ ʿ𖥔 ִ ་ ، ˖ ࣪ ་ ˖ ʿ

Months later...

From that day on, Spencer and I began a secret relationship. We kissed in hidden places in the office, taking advantage of every opportunity to be together without being seen. Meetings became an excuse to brush hands under the table, and coffee breaks were furtive moments of quick kisses in deserted hallways.

One night while working late, we met again in the file room. The tension between us was palpable, and we couldn't resist. Spencer cornered me against a bookshelf, his lips meeting mine in a hungry kiss. His hands explored my body urgently, and I found myself responding with the same intensity.

"We have to be careful," Spencer whispered against my lips, his breathing ragged.

"I know," I replied, my fingers tangling in his hair, "but I can't help it."

Our secret romance continued, each encounter filled with the thrill of the forbidden. Despite the risks, neither of them wanted to stop. The passion we shared was too strong, and every kiss and caress only fueled our desire more.

𖥔 ִ ་ ، ˖ ࣪ ་ ˖ ʿ𖥔 ִ ་ ، ˖ ࣪ ་ ˖ ʿ𖥔 ִ ་ ، ˖ ࣪ ་ ˖ ʿ𖥔 ִ ་ ، ˖ ࣪ ་ ˖ ʿ𖥔 ִ ་ ، ˖

your reblogs and replies are always appreciated dearly☆

[yearsbecomingcool]

I have somewhat of any idea for the Seth fic maybe readers in the industry and meets him on his scouting trip like that one scene (how did that girl not melt seeing that hot tech nerd suited up) anyways telling you about his company w subtle flirty banter and later calling so he can show you around possibly leading to other steamy things once seeing your work 🤷‍♀️

idk im trash at putting out ideas so do what you will with this im excited for anything you put out for his characters! -⭐️

we're ending it on the phone | seth warshavsky

donate to gaza here | masterlist

pairing | seth warshavsky x adult film star!f!reader

synopsis | after seth tries to recruit you to join his site you call him back with some questions.

warnings | 18+!! mdni!!! sexual content, adult film star!reader, switch!seth, switch!reader, bisexual!reader, inaccurate depictions of the adult film industry, phone sex, mentions of bdsm, panty play, humiliation, degradation and mutual masturbation.

word count | 4.2k

a/n | if you're thinking about watching pam & tommy, don't!! it was made without pamela's permission and knowledge and is beyond disrespectful to her. it's not worth your time and fred has barely any screentime as seth. seth is also just a massive piece of shit in the show and real life so i'm characterizing him very differently in this fic. if you want to watch fred as seth stick to edits and scene packs! this was going to be longer and include them going to his studio for a tour but it just wasn't coming to me like i was hoping it would so i decided to just cut it after the phone sex so i hope that's alright!! i might do a part 2 because i had an idea for another seth fic anyway.

taglist | @slaytheusurper @samslvrgirl @janis01127 @kawaii1kitten @mvnqvinn

Another day another shoot at some barely decorated mansion in the valley. You had been in the business for a little over the year, skyrocketing to popularity pretty quickly for someone so new. You’d practically done it all to get your start, softcore, hardcore, girl on girl, guy on girl, threesomes, orgies, you’d even done a few fetish films. Whatever it took to pay the bills and get you better paychecks you were down for. Today you were filming something completely boring, you’d seen about a million different versions of this but your agent promised the payout would be great so who were you to argue? You’d be playing some spoiled sorority girl fucking her professor to get a better grade, how innovative…

The production company had rented out a mansion for a couple days, a pair set up in every room for filming to make the most out of the money they’d spent renting it. You were scheduled to film in the study room with another actor you’d worked with before, he was nice and your films always turned out great but you were getting sick of filming with the same people constantly. It didn’t help that your filming schedule had been so packed that you had practically lost any and all time for a life outside of work, you were starting to grow bored of it all, you needed to switch it up for a change. When you got ready that morning you didn’t put in that much effort, leaving your face bare and your hair untouched. You trusted the hair and makeup artists would know better than you. You wore your usually filming day outfit, some comfy loungewear and a pair of slip on vans. The drive to the mansion from your apartment wasn’t awful, you’d definitely had longer and shittier commutes before. 

When you arrived the set was buzzing with activity, like always on these big shoots there were people everywhere. The crew was all over the place, you were directed to the basement where the hair and makeup team was set up to get everyone ready. When you walked in there was already a pair filming a penetration scene on top of a bar. Yours was planned to be more than just penetration, there’d be some spanking, restraints, oral, edging, and of course penetration as well. You made your way to the basement, joining the other actors. You made small talk with your scene partner while the girls got you ready, he was a bit older than you and was pretty much always cast in some sort of dominant role. You’d been cast in a multitude of submissive roles lately, you were a little tired of it. You wanted to make someone else come undone for once. Your eyes were heavily lined and smokey and your lips were slathered in so much gloss you could practically feel it weighing you down. You made your way to wardrobe, being dressed in a cropped t-shirt that had the neckline cut off so it slouched off one shoulder, no bra underneath of course. They’d paired it with the tiniest pair of cut off shorts you’d seen in your life, a hot pink thong poking out the back, the strings pulled up onto your hips. 

They offered you a robe to wear until shooting started but you declined, heading upstairs to go smoke by the pool. As you head up the stairs you see a man, if you can really call him that. He looked college aged and completely out of place in his suit that was a bit too big for him, the arms fit just a bit too long. His blonde hair had been styled nicely, he was trying to look powerful but instead looked like a kid playing in his fathers suit. He looks up at you with a smile, beckoning you over. You glanced around the room, considering if you should, but your curiosity got the best of you and you made your way over to him. He reached out to shake your hand, “I think I’ve seen you before.”

You roll your eyes at his shitty opener, shaking his hand. “If you’re a perv, which you probably are, then I’d assume you have. What are you doing here exactly?”

He eyes you shamelessly, “I’m Seth Warshavsky, I’m here for a few days trying to scout some talent. You seem like you’d be a good fit for what I’m looking for.”

You sigh, “Listen, if you’re trying to get me to switch over to your production company you’ll have to talk to my manager. I’ve been with this one like my whole career, I don’t think they’re gonna be happy if I jump ship now.”

He nods but he’s not really listening. “Just give me a chance to explain. I think you’ll like what I’m offering. You obviously enjoy what you do but aren’t you tired of getting fucked how someone else chooses? Wouldn’t you want a chance to enjoy your shoots more? This would be porn all on your own terms, you pick what you do what, what you wear, how you look. Doesn’t that sound better than all this?” He nods his head in the direction of the pair shooting on the couch, the man is plowing into her at a punishing pace, her moans sound faker than ever. You know she’s not actually enjoying herself.

“What exactly are you proposing here, Seth?” You ask, leaning against the wall. 

He hands you his card, “Internet Entertainment Group. We’re based in Seattle, we run a cam site, the highest quality available. All the other companies trying to get into online porn don’t have a chance against us. You’d make your own schedule, you’d pick what you wanna do for your streams. You’d have all the control. It would just be you, a camera, and the live stream chat. People would pay per minute, pay to request certain things, they’d be able to tip. There’s a lot more money in it than you’d think. Why don’t you give me a call tonight after you’ve had time to think about it, yeah?”

You take his card, stuffing it into your carton of cigarettes. “I’ll think about it…”

“And what was your name? I don’t think I caught it.”

You smirk, “That’s because I didn’t tell you my name. Just call me Vixen.”

He nods, “Alright then, Vixen. I’ll be expecting a call from you later, yeah?”

“If I remember,” you say, walking away to go smoke out back. 

You lounge outside by the pool, sitting on an unoccupied deck chair and smoking with another actress. “Did he ask you to join his little company too? I’ve heard from a few other girls that he’s been making his way all over Cali to try and recruit some girls for his site.” Asks Gigi. You’ve known her since you started, she’s only a few years older than you are and was one of the first bigger names you got to work with.

“Yep. Kind of shitty to come onto our sets where we’re working to recruit, don’t you think?”

She takes a drag from her cigarette, her bubblegum pink lipstick staining it. “Mhm, he’s one of those Silicon Valley tech bros trying to revolutionize whatever industry they can get their hands on. I don’t know why he doesn’t stream himself, he’s cute enough.”

You laugh, “Oh I’d pay to see that. What do you think he’d be like?”

Gigi hums, trying to imagine it. “Hmm…maybe he’d be one of those whiny types. He’s cocky but I doubt he has the stamina to back it up.”

“I do like the whiny ones…there’s no better feeling than pulling a man's hair and hearing him whimper like a little bitch,” you giggle, taking a drag from your cigarette. You watch from the deck chair as he approaches another girl, he’s much shorter than her, it’s quite entertaining to watch him try to sell his idea to women who have no interest in what he’s selling.

“Amen to that…” 

You hate to say it but the longer you film the more you think of Seth's offer, getting paid to masturbate and talk sounds like a dream. Obviously it’s a lot more than just jacking off and yapping but as your scene partner pounds into you pleasurelessly it starts to sound more and more appealing. You can picture it now, dressed up all pretty on a bedroom set, spreading yourself open in front of a camera, taking your time with your pleasure. Teasing yourself for your viewers, letting them think they have control, taking their money while you get yourself off. Okay it’s definitely more appealing than whatever the hell Jack is doing to you right now. You fight the urge to move his hand to your clit, you’d done it before and gotten yelled at for going off script. Your moans get more and more fake as it goes along. By the end of the day you’re sore, sticky, and in desperate need of a shower. 

Once you get home you’re quick to strip off your clothes and jump into the shower, you spend your time getting yourself clean, letting the warm water wash over you as you massage the muscles in your arms. You make a mental note to go to a massage parlor sometime this week, it’s been too long since you’ve been and you know you’re gonna feel like shit in the morning. Once you get into bed you start to think of Seth’s offer again, you grab your purse off your nightstand and dig your carton of cigarettes out of the bag. You pull the business card out of where you’d stashed it earlier and flip it around to look at the number. You chew at your lower lip trying to decide if you should call, you tap your manicured nails against the phone sitting on your nightstand before muttering, “Fuck it…” and dialing the number. 

You nervously play with the phone cord as you hear it ring, it goes on for a while and you consider just hanging up but finally he picks up. “Hello?” His voice is raspier than normal, you glance at the clock. Shit, it’s 1am, you probably woke him up.

“Hey it’s-” you almost say your real name, “Vixen…we uh, we met earlier today at that shoot in the Valley.”

He chuckles, carding his fingers through his hair. “I remember you, I didn’t expect you to call if I’m being honest.” You can hear the TV playing faintly in the background. He picks up the remote to pause the VHS he was playing.

“Yeah? You didn’t think you sold me on it?” You tease, laying back against your pillows, making yourself comfortable. Something about his voice is starting to make you want to dip your hand between your thighs, he could read the dictionary aloud and it would still get you squirming.

“If you want me to be honest I really didn’t, you seemed pretty set on staying with your job. How was that shoot, by the way? You looked nice…” He glances up at his TV, he had gone to a video store by his hotel and rented a few of your films. Your latest film, ‘Sorority Sluts II’, sits paused on the screen. You’re tied up on the screen, a panty gag stuffed hastily into your mouth. Your eyes are screwed shut in pleasure as another woman presses a wand to your clit. He has to admit you’re his favorite he’s watched so far, your moans could be enough to make him come. 

“Do you want the truth? I mean, have you worked in the industry outside of your little cam site?” You ask, thinking back on your shoot from earlier.

“I worked as a production assistant for a bit but besides that it’s really just been cams…so why don’t you give me a little scoop into the reality of being a big time pornstar…” He jokes.

His laugh makes your cheeks heat up, he sounds cute when he laughs. “When I first started I never would’ve thought I’d say this but it was so goddamn boring…I used to enjoy it but after a certain point it all got monotonous I guess. They really want us to stick to the script so there’s not a lot of room for real pleasure, y’know?”

“So you are faking it on these tapes?”

Your face scrunches up in confusion, “Are you watching my work? I’m flattered that I looked so hot when you saw me today you just had to go out and buy all my tapes…”

He scoffs, “Don’t get ahead of yourself, babe. I actually rented them. I just wanted to get more…familiar with your work just in case you called.” The lotion and tissues sitting on the nightstand begs to differ.

“Yeah, so what do you think, am I any good?”

He rolls his eyes, “Are you kidding me? You’re a fucking star. If you come to work for me I really think you could make more than you are right now, you’d have more fun too. I bet you sound so pretty when it’s real, people are over the scripted shit, they want to see something real. Why do you think sex tapes are getting so popular now?”

“You have a lot of good points…I really have to talk to my manager about this though. I have a contract and everything too…” you sigh.

“But you want to do it? Is that what I’m hearing?” You can practically hear his smile through the phone. His eyes flick back to you on his screen and he licks his lips.

“Yeah, I am. It sounds nice, it sounds better than what I’m doing now.”

“It will be, I promise. Every girl who’s switched over is making way more now.”

You look up at the ceiling, wetting your lips with your tongue. “Which film of mine were you watching when I called?” You ask curiously, starting to spread your legs. You start to trail your hand between your thighs as you wait to hear what he says.

“‘Sorority Sluts II’. You play a lot of sorority girls huh?”

You chuckle, “Yeah, the studio decided I just fit the look I guess…what do you think of it?”

His eyes widen, he can tell what you’re really trying to ask. “The way these girls are hazing you is pretty hot. This seems like it would’ve been a fun shoot…how many of these moans were fake?”

You think back to when you filmed it, “Not many are fake in that one actually. The humiliation films are always able to get me off so easily. I mean can you really blame me? All these pretty girls pinning me down and making fun of me, stripping me down, getting me off…that shoot was a fucking dream…”

“So should I be looking to see if any of the girls would want to stream with you then?”

You laugh, rolling your eyes. “Are you taking notes right now, you fuckin’ nerd?”

“No! I just-” You cut him off.

“Turn off the business part of your brain for like five minutes…you have a nice voice, like really fucking nice. Like I would get off to you reading the dictionary nice…I…what are you wearing right now, Seth?” You haven’t felt this nervous since you were a teenager trying to not get caught having phone sex with your first girlfriend. 

He chuckles, laying back and “Are you trying to have phone sex with me right now?”

“Yeah…do you…do you not want to have phone sex with me?” You sound pathetic. 

He laughs, “I do, I just wasn’t expecting this.”

“So…what are you wearing Seth?”

He sighs playfully, “That’s really the line you’re going with here? You’re a pornstar and that’s the best you can give me? C’mon babe, you can do better than that.”

“Okay to be fair I didn’t write any pornos, I just starred in them okay!” You say defensively.

“Fine…I’m wearing,” Seth looks down at his outfit, “A white t-shirt and some black boxer briefs. What about you, babe?”

“I’m wearing a white tank top and some white panties with a cherry print on them.”

He chuckles, “Cherries huh? Cute.” He tries to picture you laying in bed wearing them.

You chew nervously at your lower lip, “Did you get hard watching my films?”

“How could I not? You looked fucking amazing…you look so good tied up and writhing under their touch. The way you’re just helpless and at their mercy…god…” He can’t help but reach down and squeeze himself through his underwear. His eyes flicker over to the screen, your face scrunched up in ecstasy.

“You wanna tie me up, Seth? Use a vibrator on me, or maybe eat me out? You seem good with your mouth, you think you could make me come undone for you?” You ask, your hand trailing down to your panties. You play with the frills that line the waistband.

“Of course I could, I’d have you writhing in seconds,” he says cockily.

“You sound so confident,” you giggle. 

“I have the proof to back it up…do you wanna start touching yourself for me?”

“Mhm, where should I start?” You feel nervous, as if you’re a teenager again.

“Start by playing with your tits over your tank top, play with your nipples too. Get them hard for me, close your eyes and pretend it’s me doing it,” he instructs. 

You use your shoulder to keep the phone in place as you trail your hands down to your breasts, you close your eyes and knead at your flesh, whining softly into the phone. Seth smiles when he hears you, “So fucking pretty…” 

You roll your nipple between your thumb and forefinger, whimpering his name as you squirm under your own touch. Seth teases himself over his underwear as he listens to you whine and squirm, “If I was there with you I’d mark up those perfect tits, make sure the next time someone saw you undressed they knew who had you last. You going to set with my marks all over you…I wouldn’t start with your tits though, I’d pull you into my lap to straddle me first. I’d kiss you, soft at first, get you nice and comfortable before I pull you closer by your hair. I bet you’d whimper like a little bitch, wouldn’t you? I’ve seen how you take pain, it’d be so pathetic. I’d kiss down your neck, mark you up there too, leave marks in places not even a turtleneck could hide. Then I’d move onto your tits, I’d be rough just to keep those sad little whimpers going. Biting at your sensitive tits, pulling and twisting at your nipples, god I bet it’d get you wet so quick. You’d like it, wouldn’t you?”

You whine at his words, nodding as if he can see you. “I’m already wet just from imagining it…I’d be a fucking mess in your lap. If you think I’m whiny now just wait till you get me in your lap for real. I’m not like I am in my films y’know, in real life I get so much more pathetic, much more squirmy. You’d probably like that, huh?”

“‘Course I would, a pretty girl whining and squirming in my lap is like my perfect wet dream.” He chuckles. He reaches over to the nightstand and pumps some lotion into his hand. He ducks his hand beneath his waistband, wrapping his hand around his cock. “Touch yourself for me, do it over your panties. Y’know what, grab the waistband for me and tug those pretty little things up your cunt. Make it tight for me, hold it in place and play with your clit over your panties.” 

“You want me to give myself a wedgie?” Your brows furrowed in confusion, it’s an odd request.

“Don’t think of it like that, just try it for me, yeah? It’ll feel good, trust me.”

Your cheeks heat up with embarrassment as you reach down, curling your fingers around the frilly waistband of your panties. You sigh, embarrassment filling your chest as you slowly pull up the waistband. The cotton fabric pulls taut against your cunt creating a friction you would’ve never imagined could be so pleasurable. You whine as you hook your fingers into the leg holes, tugging it up, starting to feel it push your lips apart. “Seth…I can’t believe you’re making me do this, it’s so embarrassing…” You whine, your hips bucking up involuntarily as you pull harder. The fabric presses against your clit making every move even more pleasurable. 

“If it’s so embarrassing why are you doing it and whimpering like it gets you off, hm? Keep pulling for me, be a good girl. Make it tight. Pull till you can’t take it anymore.” 

You whimper as you tug the fabric between your lips, holding it tight against your cunt. It’s biting into you painfully but despite that you’re soaking the fabric. You can feel your cunt pulse around it, clenching at the fabric. “I-I think it’s tight enough…”

He smiles, pumping his cock at a teasingly slow pace. “Play with your clit for me, soak those panties like the good girl I know you are.” 

You start to rub your clit over the taut fabric, the added friction from your panties makes you whine even louder into the phone. You grind your hips against your hand, “Stop teasing and let me play with myself properly.” 

“Hm…why should I?” He teases.

“I gave myself a fucking wedgie for you, don’t be a dick!” You groan in frustration.

“Fine…go on, you can touch yourself.”

You slowly pull your panties back down, the crotch soaked with your juices. You wince at the unexpected burn as you pull your panties out of your most sensitive area. You slowly insert two fingers inside of yourself, using your thumb to play with your clit. You’re mumbling into the phone, “Seth, you gonna let me come tonight? Gonna get off to my moans again? How many of my tapes did you jack off too tonight, hm?”

He starts to pump his cock at a faster pace, “Fuck…four? I think, yeah, four. I haven’t finished the one that's on right now.”

An idea pops into your head and you smile at the thought, “You wanna finish that tape while you’re on the phone with me? Wanna tell me what’s happening in it?”

“Yes ma’am…” He presses play on the remote, the tape starting up again. He starts narrating the tape to you, “You’re tied up, a blonde woman is pressing the hitachi wand to your clit. You’re moaning like a pathetic little bitch, writhing around, trying to escape the sensation. God you’re fucking helpless to it, poor baby can’t help but enjoy it.” His pupils are blown as he jacks off. Your movements speed up as well, imagining he’s the one doing it to you. 

“I sound pathetic, yeah? Do I sound like this?” You start to imitate your moans and whimpers from your tapes. That really gets him going, he squeezes his hand around his cock.

“If you do this I won’t last much longer,” he whines.

“Good,” you laugh breathily. 

“You gonna sound this pretty on stream, baby?”

You roll your eyes, “What’d I say about business talk, hm?”

“Sorry…sorry…just imagining you all dolled up teasing your viewers. Bet you’d use toys and tease yourself for ‘em…pretty girl edging herself for her audience…” He trails off, imagining your future streams.

“I’m gonna be your favorite, hm? Gonna spend your days jackin’ off to me ‘stead of doing work, aren’t you? Fuckin’ pervert…bet you like me talking mean like this, don’t you? Admit it, Seth. Tell me how much you like it, you fucking perv.”

Your words go straight to his cock and he can feel himself getting closer, “Of course you’re gonna be my favorite…prettiest fucking girl I’ve ever seen, might have to pay you for a private stream sometime…” He’s practically fucking his hand at this point. The two of you are a mess of  moans and whines, his narration of the tape quickly stopping as he feels himself getting closer. 

“Gonna come…let me come, please…” You mumble. Your skin feels like it’s on fire, you need release more than you need air. 

“You can come baby…come whenever you need, such a good girl, already earned it,” he mutters, hips bucking up against his hand. 

It doesn’t take much longer for the both of you to come, he’s first, your name mixed in with a few swears spilling from his lips. The same comes from you only seconds later, curling into yourself as you work yourself through your orgasm. The only sound coming from the phones is the two of you trying to catch your breath.

“Are you gonna come see the studio?” He asks, his voice softer now.

“Mhm…gonna talk with my manager ‘bout it, I’ll keep you updated.”

“Good girl…thank you for calling, I had a nice time with you,” he says shyly.

You can’t help but smile at how soft his voice got, “So did I…I’ll call you again sometime, promise.” You hang up before he can get another word in. You look up at the ceiling, “What the hell did I just do?”

[pushingdaisies1]

Nasty Dog . . . ♡ ↳ (part two of ''kinda hate you - kinda love you")

(✧ ˚.) PAIRING-> James "Logan" Howlett {A.K.A} Wolverine x "X-Man" Reader >_< (✧ ˚.) SUMMARY-> You kept on replaying that moment with Logan in your mind. Something small definitely put you on one hell of a roll. It made you think a lot more about what you two shared. Especially if it was even something to hold on to as much as you did. Antagonizing him over breakfast about how much of a show-off he can get, he complies to help you with your class. Specifically when he overhears you talking about your lesson plans. Hand-to-hand combat and you need another demonstrator? Sign him up big time.

(✧ ˚.) AUTHORS NOTE -> hi party people!! gonna make this part short so I don't fill half of this post with my yapping. like I've repeated over the last two(?) , tysm for all of the love. its funny x-men has reignited my writing hehe haha. i wanna write for logan more nd also do professor x?? james mcavoy my love? anyways , u and logan are so weird I'm loving it so hard. also might open up requests for x-men so I can write for the whole bunch. ESPECIALLY lolo , the honey badger of my eye 100%. Hope you enjoy and comment if you'd like to be on a taglist for my works!! (most likely will be doing a lot of x-men stuff until I run out of ideas.)

(✧ ˚.) CWS (?)-> again this is supposed to take place within the context of X-Men 97/X-Men animated series , second person pov , descriptions of combat/sparring, kinda alluded to you two being fwb?? lowkey more complicated but, YALL DONT FUCK SRRY but definitely some suggestiveness , you and Logan kiss n argue and not so makeup so idrk if that counts for hurt/kinda comfort???..

Like the night before that, you were pacing back and forth around your room. The place you would stay most of the time if you ever even had a day off. On your nearby desk would lay students' reports. Ranging on physical fitness and endurance, health studies, and so on.

Ororo sat crisscrossed on your bed as she watched you. Her expression was grim as she looked down into her tea. She was originally planning to go to bed. Though you came to her with troubles plaguing you. X-Men are like family to one another, so she spared you her time. Your worrying made more sense once you gave her the slightly skimmed-over details. You left bits and pieces out of the story for your own sake.

“So he.. and then you…?” She questioned, voice low and face absent in thought as she cringed in realization. You quickly nodded as you held your hands to your face embarrassed. "I know Ororo! It's really ... really bad." Storm couldn't help but crack a small chuckle seeing how frazzled you were over Wolverine. It looked like there was smoke coming right out of your ears with how huffy and puffy you were. "Wow, breath for me. The only thing you should be passing out onto is your bed, not the floor." She assured as she set her cup aside on your nightstand. She got up to look at you face to face. Gently taking your face in her hands. The most, and I mean the most you told Storm was a very cut-down version of the story. Nothing about the nights you were whisked away into his room. How you two used each other consensually as another body to rip into and hold when nights got long.

It's not like you two had nothing. There was a spark undeniably there. But to you, it felt like his eyes would always be for Jean. It's not like you couldn't see why he was infatuated with the redhead. You've known her long enough to know that she would always stick things through with Scott.

Logan was always a fan of the hunt, you were like a place where he could bury his bones. You were familiar, you never had plans to leave his side.

Besides, for the sake of your affair with Logan, it was best not to complicate things. That was before he decided to throw out some choice words. Words that made your chest tighten and sweat rise through the roof. She rubbed under your eyes with her thumb as she guided you to look back at her. "Whatever you and Logan have going on is truly none of my business. Nor the team's business at all." She explained, hearing her speak was so calming. Her tone was always so smooth almost ethereal. "As your friend and your sister, I can't sway your hand either." From the day she arrived in the mansion, Ororo was like your constant. You relied on your friends sure. But like her and Jeans shared kinship, you had something similar with her. Which is why it hurt even more with your dilemma. "Logan is not a perfect man. I know you are stronger than this. You know what's good for you. The X-Men will always have your interests at heart, yes. But it's you who has to make this call." She hummed as she leaned her forehead against yours. "Sadly the ones we yearn for sometimes, or even will always have their heart set on another. You are better than that. You and him can mess, sure. But one day it will end and he'll go back to pining over our Jean." She spoke sweetly with a sympathetic smile. She was right like always.

She looked at you once more, forehead still against yours. "It is you who has to move on to someone who will put you into perspective."

A comforting embrace from Ororo absorbed you. It felt as if you were embraced by the world. Clinging onto her tight, she stopped the storm weathering inside of you. Gently rubbing your back she'd let the silence ruminate inside of your bedroom for a while. "Take some time dearest, maybe speak to him if you can." She murmured into your hair. "Maybe you two just need some needed distance? Because he's definitely missing out on one extraordinary creature." A small smirk grew onto her features as she separated your hug, you complying of course. "All I know is that you deserve whatever honesty you can squeeze out of that man." She acknowledged with the smile you always related to hope. Ororo was your consciousness, she was pretty much one of the most level-headed of your team. You thanked the fate that brought Ororo into existence. Without her words of real wisdom, you would still be spiraling in your bed like a clown. "Thank your Ororo, truly I do mean it." You spoke with a humble smile as she chuckled softly. "We're family, I'll always guide you by any means necessary." She replied, giving you one final look of affirmation before reaching the door. She opened it gently, letting the air open it wider before her eyes wandered to you one last time. "Sleep well, don't let yourself run mad because of him." She purred, leaving you alone. You stood there with yourself. Sucking in a breath of air you knew what was needed. The haze in your continuous stream of thought cleared. With one more look around at your walls, your eyes turned to your bed. You fell right in under your warm and fuzzy blankets. You were practically knocked out as soon as your head filled the pillow. Tomorrow you should be fine, tomorrow will be a better day. Quickly night turned to day. You were awoken by the sound of the students playing on the nearby basketball court down below. Your shoulders eased some more once you saw the empty hall in front of you. No one to interrupt your morning stroll down to the kitchen, where you knew by now someone had to be in there. You quickly jostled yourself down the stairs as soon as you caught a whiff of food. By just a tiny sniff you knew it was Gambit cooking. Your stomach cheered and roared as you rounded the hallway. Coming into the kitchen, Gambit was already dishing some of his beignets up. His hair was up and swooped as he wore a cropped t-shirt, with a colorful display of artwork on it that you didn't really want to decipher. Surprisingly it was a pretty quiet morning. But then you realized why when looking at the clock. The biggest surprise was that even Gambit was up this early. Scott too, as he was sat down with a newspaper on and his regular shades. Gambit swung around seeing you, fresh beignet in hand. "Cher, good morning to you!" he greeted you with a sing-song tune. He stopped at no time dishing up the last batch. You cracked a sleepy grin as you rubbed one of your eyes. "Am I in heaven? I don't think I've ever seen you whip something up this early." You joked as you found a seat at the table. "Gambit is in a good mood this wonderful day, no?" He purred as he smacked on his final touches. Scott looked up from the paper with an eye roll. Only noticeable with the way his head tilted. "He accidentally charged his alarm clock, woke me and Jean up." He snickered, taking another sip of his mug. The sweet smell of sugar and cinnamon filled the air. If you had no self-restraint, he'd be having to remake that entire batch after five minutes.

"Alarm clock? I thought you said Gambit works on his own time?" You turned to Gambit with a raised brow as he leaned against the island counter. He looked away with a small smirk gracing his lips. "I listened to the missus." He shrugged carelessly as you couldn't help but hold back a laugh. His and Rogue's back and forth always made your mornings lighter. Soon the kitchen filled with everyone else. Jean happily greeted Scott with a kiss on the cheek, sucking your wandering eyes into conversation. Rogue soon followed, coming into the kitchen and stretching like a cat. Gambit was already climbing up her tree, given their whole "deal." Their coy and flirtatious banter always brought a smile to your lips , making you get all idealistic-y.

Jubilee and Storm were one of the last to follow. Jubilee of course decided to sleep in late, what teenagers do. Storm explained her absence due to deep talks with the professor.

She especially looked at you with a kind-eyed smile, peacefully soaking in the team's chatter as she too gathered herself food. Jubilee clung to you the entire breakfast. Not like at your hip, but you were one of the ones she got close to immediately. It made sense and you didn't mind her popping into your meal to ask about how this all was supposed to work. "I thought since I'm an X-Man, I didn't really have to DO school here?" She thought aloud, beignet and soft blueberries halfway in her mouth. You answered her question swiftly, relishing in your thirst diminishing.

"It's different since you are still a kid." You hummed, taking the last bites of your plate. "Besides, the extra training besides just on-the-field stuff could help. Danger room drills aren't the only thing a young X-Man like yourself should be going over."

She sighed while resting her chin on her knuckles. "I know, just feels so bogous!" She scoffed playfully, serving herself a big bite of food. Your heart rate was exhilarated by some once you heard Storm greet Logan a "Good Morning." The two of you haven't spoken much to each other. Outside of short-term missions and war room meetings. You weren't surprised when the both of you so quickly made and lost eye contact. He grumbled in response, you weren't surprised. You could hear his confused murmuring as he rummaged for a cup. You spoke up from where you sat at the table. "On the counter, got bored, and knew you would be hankering for a pick me up." You turned back to face him in your chair. You were even taken surprised that you made the first "move." In response, he flashed you a toothy grin. "Looks like someone kissing ass this morning." He gruffly spoke, making up his own hefty plate.

As usual, the professor stayed off in his study. Everyone at the table talked amongst themselves. You couldn't remember how you and Logan started pestering one another. No shocker Gambit with a shit-eating grin amped up the bragging. One minute it was lesson plans, another it was Logan talking about how he could easily show you up during your lesson. Chest puffed, his arms crossed somewhat. He picked scraps out from in between his teeth using a free claw. It gleamed in the shimmering sunlight escaping into the room as his mouth continued to run. "Come on! I'm always the one saving your ass." He chuckled with grit as he finally was able to get out of a piece of that egg. "The other way around Grandpa." You snickered with your teeth on full display. Jean tried to put a stop to your and Logan's childish spat. If you could even call it that. One remark after another and soon he was agreeing to help you in the dangeroom later on in the day. Just your luck, it was foolish to even think this would have no hiccups. You passed through the day doing regular tasks. When the professor wasn't alert about any new trouble, or the school wasn't in shreds it was pretty peaceful.

You spent your time diligently working over those same tasks you despised when you had your hunger for excitement. The quietness around the school was comforting.

Time swept you away before you could realize it was time for your class. Young mutants swarmed into your room, chipper and excited for what today brought. You never expected to enjoy teaching this much. Quickly as the chatterboxes chattered, you soon quieted down the bunch. Greeting your students, you stood up from behind your desk. Rounding up to the front to address the entire room. Diligently you went over the topic for today's lesson. Today it was time to focus on hand-to-hand sparring. Being a mutant did mean having powers at whoever's disposal. But just in case the situation arose of being unable to use those powers, there was always a "plan b" needed at the ready. Most of the students were either paying attention first row or loosely clueing into what was planned for the hour. You didn't really mind, hearing a teacher talk no matter how vibrant they were would never stop being annoying. In the middle of your rapid explanation, you were interrupted by the door swinging open. No thanks to a lot of the doors in the school being a lot more noisy. In the doorway stood Logan, posture steady. With the amount of flannels he wore you wouldn't be surprised to see them being eighty percent of his closet. "I was needed, so here I am." He announced with a bitter sound as he cleared his throat. His arms fell to the side of him almost like he was showing himself off. You immediately perked up as you forgot one small detail. "I forgot to mention, everyone to the danger room!" You instructed as your hands gestured to the doors. Soon bodies started to move as Logan sauntered up towards you. His hands shoved deep in his pockets. "Y'know, I'm gonna kick your ass demonstration or not." He blabbed with that same stupid smirk on his face. You always wanted to wipe it straight off of his face. You turned to him with a pointed look as you whispered to him a threat. Less of a threat and more of an invitation. "Oh sure, missed you pinning me down. Forgot how your hands felt." You hummed before pushing past him. It was only you two, as by now most of their students were already making their way towards or were already in the danger room. Faintly you could hear the slightesting crackling of a chuckle from him. You were going to wipe the floor with his stupid hair.

Finally, everyone was inside and ready. You made sure to wrap your hands since you and Logan were sparring. Given that it was only for demonstrating purposes. But if you really tried, packing a punch into Logan was a lot harder than expected. Can't forget the metal skeleton that lay behind that stupidly handsome rugged jaw.

You paired students off to see how they worked without any use of their powers or special abilities. As a sort of example to anyone up next. After a small mistake by two of some students, you brushed them aside without any pestering. They tried, but maybe now that teacher example should be coming in handy.

Setting up the room, you sequenced it before rushing downstairs to the room itself. Of course, Logan ran right in behind you. "Now - me and mister Howlett are going to give a demonstration. Please watch as that'll be needed for anyone else I haven't sent in yet." Finally, the command commenced as the room quickly shifted into place. It was the simple danger room. White walls and white flooring are suddenly the only things around you two. Finding your stance you stared Logan down. He, not surprisingly, brought back that same sort of fervor and even more. Fists were up and it was time to fight. It was like two predators trying to dominate the other into becoming their respective prey. Your fighting styles clashed in the best of ways. You were quiet when it came to making the first attack. You knew how to be stealthy on your feet. Especially quick when diverting oncoming attacks from enemies. Logan was very abrasive especially when it came to how he attacked opponents. Run in first and think about the consequences later. Quickly you were able to ambush him. Throwing him for a loop once the bottom of your feet met his backside. It was like landing on solid ground. He groaned as he fell back, but that smirk still lay smeared on his lips.

You knew his weak spots and he was the same. Every single point, the two of you could find without even a poorly timed guess. For only a demonstration you two went at it for a while. His knuckles met your frame and so did yours. It was a dance of dominance, as old as time still stands. You soon did realize how much time your sparring was stretching. You still needed to at least have four or more students go up. By the time you two escaped each other's limbs as you had him pinned to the floor only just moments ago, you looked up to see your students.

Some were either paying attention or again, too absorbed in the conversation other classmates were having. Jubilee stood there a little bit taken aback by how you and Logan went at each other. I mean that was brutal but was the huffing and puffing needed? You two looked as if you were about to do the finishing blow to another. "Alright!" You said with an exhale. "Now use that when going head to head with your partner. Treat them as a peer but also as another fighter. Going against a fellow student doesn't mean you cant test out what you learned." You threw out teacher voice , quickly announcing which kids were next. You and Logan made your way back to the observational area of the danger room. The ascend back up was pretty quiet between the both of you. It was the same when you made your way back up and observed the rest of the class.

Soon enough you dismissed your students. Then there was only two , you and Logan. You stood there looking over the empty dome down below you. Logan soon walked up behind you.

Silence was never you shared kind of vibe. So you were somewhat joyous when he snuck a small kiss from you. Pecking the nearest edge of your lips , you came back at him with an embrace of those same lips.

Hungry and desperate like the usual. Internally you fought with yourself. You and Logan as companions and friends didn’t make things any easier. This sneaking around made you feel dirty. You didn’t want to be second pick.

It was you who stopped the exchange. Logan looked back at you with a blank expression. He couldn’t deny that the consistent dynamic between you two did make him guilty. He respected you tons but Jean would always be something he could never get his hands on. Some bastardoues part of him knew he liked that cat and mouse game. He would always wait for her , you and him were a different story.

“I can’t Logan.” You mumbled as your limb’s disconnected once again for good this time. This time it wasn’t with such passion. “This , us , I can’t do this anymore.”

His blank expression stayed as he almost barked out. “What do you mean? Yah never really said anything before, this makes no sense.” He rasped as his throat cleared a little.

The way his hazel eyes looked back at yours was a sight to see.

“I don’t like this charade. I like you but.. this thrill is gone.” You sucked in a breath as you stood apart now. “I mean I don’t just like you. What I feel for you is like nothing I’ve felt for another man. But here you are , waiting like a frail dog for Jean to finally drop Scott.”

He scoffed almost in your face. A part of him knew his yearning for Jean was pathetic. That he didn’t have a chance ever with her. Almost like she subconsciously infected his thoughts with only her. He knew though that it was just him being a fool , for you and for a woman that would never truly reciprocate his affections.

“You should have just said that , bub. I didn’t mean to waste your time parading around like a joke.” He shook his head , hands going deep into his pockets just like how he arrived. He slowly started to walk away. Bordering on leaving , finally you were honest.

“I love you Logan! There I said it!” You shouted , hiccuping like an idiot as you held your chest. That same flustered sensation spread throughout your lungs. “I’ve been in love with you ever since the night we made this stupid thing official. Ever since I felt your lips on mine.” You gritted out , fate was twisting your hand.

“But I respect myself too much to be so blind. I respect you too much to let us do this back and forth. I want something real with you. I want your words of praise to mean something. I don’t want these lies , I want you to love me. Because I do , and this whole poor man’s game of checkers deal isn’t what I want.” All of the hot air was gushing out of you as you went on and on about how you were internally struggling.

He looked back at you for a good minute. Burning silence was in the air. Before he spoke the word that stabbed you right in the heart.

“It’ll pass.” Then soon after he left you alone. In a puddle of your own feelings. You crumbled to the floor like a child. You held yourself up as you wiped your eyes of any free falling tears. You hated that someone so flip floppy with your feelings made you like this.

The heart of a lover was now eaten in two. Now it was your turn to piece yourself back together. With gritted teeth you got up a while later and collected yourself.

You would always be his fool. That was the worst thing about your desire for the Wolverines affection. Just the corner of your heart set for him was now bruised and battered.

ꔫ✉ reblogs/interaction is appreciated <3 (im so sorry if the ending feels rushed , i was in the mood for Logan angst 😔)

TAGLIST:

@pussy-f41ry @weallhaveadestiny @malfoys-demigod @dojacatswink @keenchaosdonut @emilyprentiss06 @honda-odyssey-fucks-hard @sl4sh3r

[whenlilyfallsinlove]

sheldon cooper x reader??? thanks 😍

my first request!!! hope you like it :)

girl from the train station

"WAIT!" sheldon's voice called at the train that had just driven off. oh he was so screwed. his mom would be so mad; this had definitely put him off breaking rules for life.

he sighed and looked round to see if there was anyone he could ask for help. then he realised he was in germany, of course there wouldn't be many people that could help him! his german was good, but it could only take him so far.

"hey, are you okay?" your voice interrupted him from his thoughts. he looked up to see you, standing in front of him, a sympathetic smile on your face.

"hallo-." sheldon begins in german but you cut him off.

"i speak english, i'm here visiting family." you chuckle. sheldon finds himself smiling slightly as well, but quickly stops.

"oh well.. i'm definitely not okay, i just missed my train in a foreign country and my mom's going to kill me because she thinks i'm at the library." sheldon says, in a panicked tone.

"calm down," you say comfortingly, "i think my mom can help you get home."

"really? that would be wonderful." sheldon breathes out a sigh of relief.

"yeah.. i'm y/n. by the way. nice to meet you." you hold out your hand for him to shake.

"sheldon." he looks at your outstretched hand, and reluctantly shakes it.

you give him a confused look.

"sorry i don't really like physical contact, no offence but i don't know what germs you have." he states, matter-of-factly.

surprisingly, you laugh. "fair enough."

sheldon smiles slightly back. you seemed a nice enough girl, he felt like he could trust you.

"right, you're in luck, we just dropped my dad and brother off here, so we'll be able to take you back to your mom." you say, and lead him to where he had just bought that damn strudel that made him miss his train in the first place.

"mom" you approach a woman that looked like an older version of you, "sheldon missed his train home and has no way of getting back!"

"now now honey calm down." your mom says then turns to look at sheldon, "do you know where you're staying?"

sheldon nods and tells her where he's staying.

"oh, that's right around the corner from my parents, that'll be easy then, you can come with us if you'd like." your mom smiles at him.

"i.. would like that." sheldon nods.

"great!" you cheer. sheldon looks at you. although you weren't his type of person (then again, who was?), he found you endearing.

"let's go then!" you say, and the three of you walk to your mom's car.

"would you like to sit up front sheldon? i'm feeling generous." you smile at him.

"no thank you, it's statistically safer in the back." he says, but then sees your face drop a little. "thank you though." he adds, and smiles at you.

"that's fine, i'll keep you company." you take a seat beside sheldon in the back.

your mom starts the car, and then you were on your way back to sheldon's hotel.

"so where are you from sheldon?" you ask, wanting to find some things out about him.

"medford, texas. what about you?" he nods.

"nice, i'm from (insert place here)." you respond.

"how come you're in germany anyway, sounds like a long way from home?" you chuckle.

"i'm here at grad school." sheldon responds.

"grad school?! wow you must be a genius." your eyes widen.

sheldon sees your reaction and chuckles.

"i am, i started college at 11." he subtly brags.

"11?? woah!" unlike many other kids his age, you seemed impressed and in awe of him. he liked that.

"yeah." sheldon says.

"i wish i was as smart as you." you look at him.

"it's just a natural gift." he responds. "i'm sure you're good at other things that i'm not. for example sports."

you giggle. "maybe i am. then."

for the rest of the car journey, you and sheldon talked about yourselves. sheldon learnt you came to germany quite a lot because your grandparents lived here, you had an older brother who annoyed the living hell out of you (he could relate) and you were a swimmer. he found himself quite enjoying talking to you, and was quite sorry when he arrived back to his hotel.

"here we are, it's been a pleasure driving you home sheldon." your mom speaks up from the front.

"thank you so much for driving me." he smiles politely.

"mom, please can i walk sheldon in!" you beg.

"alright, but don't be too long." she smiles fondly at you.

"come on." you say to sheldon who thanks your mom again and you walk up to his shared room.

you reach to a stop outside of his door and sigh.

"well.. it was nice meeting you sheldon." you smile sadly at him.

"and you. i had a great time talking to you in the car." he smiles back.

"yeah uhh.. maybe i could give you my number, in case you'd want to talk again..? you can tell me more about your string theory." you feel your face heat up and look down.

sheldon's eyes widen "uhh yeah okay." he surprises himself.

"here." you take hold of his hand and write your number on it, using a pen from you pocket.

"i'll call you." he nods. "well goodbye y/n.."

"bye sheldon." you reply and before he can stop you, you place a quick kiss on his cheek and walk off.

sheldon brought his hand to his cheek, open-mouthed. first, he lied to his mom, then he snuck out, and now he had just been kissed by a girl!

maybe today hadn't been so bad after all.

[artisiumstudios]

I have an AU called A Better World For Stan that I am writing, and like, I decided to symbolize that the characters are kind of the "inversion" of how they are in canon by inverting the color that represents them in their clothes like, Caryn dress Cyan, Filbrick dress Blue, Older Brother Shermie dress Vermilion, Teen Ford dress Blue. What do you think?

To anon, my apologies that it took this long to respond (Also I was going to respond to the first one but I accidently deleted the first part on my phone, THANKFULLY I also had it pulled up on my computer so I could just take a picture (dont ask why its not a SS) But anyways

Edit: nope I’m just dumb and didn’t realize I posted the other, not deleted but anyways🤦🏻‍♀️

I LOVE THE IDEA!

Also I think this is one of the few AU's where ive heard shermie being described as indifferent/aloof brother! A lot of people (including myself) usually write him as either being the baby or even having him be someone who was drafted into the war, or just simply trying to escape his abusive household and start his own family. But I like the idea that perhaps his fathers influence had a bigger impact on him that caused him to feel indifferent to his siblings.

now with that said-

A MODERN AU? Does this mean he is currently living somewhere in present time (or around the time dipper and mabel are from? If so, does this mean he'll have to get accustomed to modern technology? (meaning he has access to the internet and oh look he has daddy issues not a surprise-)

Is Ford still really into anomalies? Will he assume Stan is some kind of anomaly or will he believe that he's from an AU? How will their parents react to Ford bringing in Stan?

I can just imagine Stan's freaking out because if these versions of his parents are any similar to his, Filbrick will not be amused and he doesn't think he can handle being kicked out again.

"Ford are you su-"

The bell of the pawn shop rings as they step inside. Sitting in front of the register is Filbrick, newspaper covering his face.

"Ya back?" He asl, his voice still stoic as always, setting Stan's nervousness through the roof.

"Yup! And look who I brought!" Ford announces excitedly as he grasps Stan's hand preventing him from leaving anywhere.

The newspaper is dropped onto the table as Filbrick stares at Stan, his eyebrows slightly raised in surprise, "Well, that's something new." he stands up, the stair squeaking against the old wood making Stanley flinch. His hands shakes as his father makes his way over, his signature sunglasses helping hide any emotion.

"Uh- I" Stanley stammers looking for an opening or anything to-

"What's your name champ?" Filbrick asks. The nickname causing Stanley's brain to short-circuit. It endearing, so unlike his father. Its tone isn't filled with venom but rather patience, its not demeaning, meant to bring out insecurities or hurt. It's a nickname he's heard other dad's call their son; one he's always hoped to hear.

"It-it's Stanley, sir." e cringes at the stuttering.

"Stanley? HA!" now Stan's really surprised. Laughter, his father is laughing and not in disbelief but a full hearted laugh filled with joy, "How peculiar, me and my wife-"

"My wife and I-" Ford interrupts and now Stan truly is shocked because no one interrupts Pa without getting backhanded but here is Ford standing proudly and almost smugly as Pa just huffs playfully.

"My wife and I, were actually considering that name for a long time. Twins run in our family so we thought that if this one had one we would have named them Stanley and Stanford."

Ford leans over, his hand covering his mouth as he whispers, "They are not the most creative when it comes to names."

"Hey!" Pa roared, "I heard that twerp!"

"Tell me I'm wrong."

And he's not wrong but this is because why is this Pa so loving and caring and- oh. He's crying. Before he knows it he's enveloped in a bone crushing hug being asked if he's okay, the tremors worsen because this is all he's ever hoped for and he doesn't remember the last time his father ever hugged him. He's crying and everything is so wrong and he feels guilty but it also feels right.

Anyways-

I thought about how Ford would find Stanley and what better way than to be on the beach exploring when he finds him and offers to bring him home to clean him up. And Stan who's still dazed agrees without thinking only to realize that his parents must be hope and all of this to happen because holy shit what is going on?!

Also I love color symbolism! Especially because blue can signify calmness, serenity, trust, and stability-- something Stan's OG Filbrick isn't-- but can also represent sadness or depression (maybe this FIlrbick is more opened about his emotions and is much more encouraging of the kids to speak about their feelings and maybe even encourages them to actually seek professional help if they need to. Also I'm a sucker for Audhd Stan so perhaps he can even get a proper diagnosis?)

Cyan is often shown to represent serenity and mental clarity, maybe this means Caryn is more present in her children's life and perhaps is an actual psychic (or if you have the headcanon that she might be one, perhaps in this AU her powers are more present! And perhaps that's why FIlbrick, Ford, or Caryn aren't shocked with Stan appearing.)

But overall I love this idea and I hope you post more about it! And please tag me so I can see it!

(side note because I must know, does OGFord ever find out what happened to Stan? Does he tell their parents? Will they even believe him or do they just decide to believe that he's dead? Do they hold a funeral? What if OGFord still summon bill but instead of being to find out why weirdness travels to GF, it's to find his brother! What if he still falls through the portal? Does he doom his world and is left to travel the multi-verse, or does he still have a home to come back to? Does he eventually find Stan and tries to convince him to return? Does Stan even want to return? So many questions but anyways-)

[elllisaaa]

Do you plan on making any bf kim seungmin or yang jeongin bf hard thoughts i loved your other ones and I'm looking forward to these when/if they do come

here are the bf!thoughts for jeongin and here is a link to the seungmin version ! i hope you'll like them even if it took me months, thank you for the love <3

BF!JEONGIN who's dedicated to you in a silent way, but in a way that makes your heart melt when you think about it.

jeongin isn't really good at expressing his emotions and feelings through his words, sometimes he doesn't know how to word them. but that doesn't bother you because he does show you his love through a million other things. for him, actions speak louder than words. his little ritual when he knows he won't be able to see you for a few days, or that you're going through a rough time, is to leave you little notes all over your apartment. sometimes, it's just an "i love you", and some other times, it's praises and words of comfort. anyways, it almost makes you smile and you never fail to send him a little heart through text messages to thank him. it's easier for jeongin to tell you how he feels through words on paper than by telling you. when he needs to communicate something that he cannot get off his chest by talking, he writes you letters. and maybe it isn't a traditional way to reach out to your partner, but it worked for him, and it worked for you too because you got him. and as long as he lets you know how he's feeling and what goes through his head, no matter the way he's doing it, it's enough.

"i wrote you a letter baby, i really needed to tell you this."

jeongin is pretty known for his aversion to physical touch, especially when it isn't from the right person. so it is no surprise to you that he's not always seeking your touch or your comfort, and you don't mind at all. the only time where he becomes really clingy is when he's tired, after a long, stressful day. in these moments, he only seeks out the comfort of your warm embrace. he doesn't necessarily talk about what happened, but he loves to listen to you talking instead, while you run your fingers through his hair - he likes to be babied like this. it doesn't mean that jeongin doesn't let you touch him otherwise. even if he doesn't seek out the physical contact, he lets you take his hands or hug him if you need to and he likes to do it for you. he likes knowing that you need him, that you express your love for him in that expressive way. jeongin also definitely has a passion for holding your hands in every circumstance, and comparing their sizes. he finds it so cute how your smaller hands seem to drown in the hold of his bigger ones.

"give me your hand, baby. i don't want to lose you in this crowd."

despite not knowing how to articulate his thoughts in words most of the time, he's a really good listener. when you need to talk and spill out your feelings, he's always there to hold you close and let you tell him everything you have in your mind. he doesn't always has the right words to to help and he doesn't always know what to do to make you feel better, but it doesn't matter to you. his presence is enough to soothe you and help you feel better. another thing that he likes to do with you is matching your outfits. even if you don't spend the day together, you're almost always matching your outfits. it's like a way of being there in each other's day. so of course, he always asks for pics of your outfits, and he always compliments you on them of course. jeongin basically shares his closet with yours, and the same way around goes as well. everytime he has a day off from work, he brings you out to do some shopping with him. and of course, he doesn't even let you pay for anything.

"you look so good in my clothes, baby."

BF!JEONGIN who wants to spoil you just as much as loves to make you cry underneath him.

to be honest, jeongin just feels lucky to be with someone like and to be able to have you like this. so most of the time, he goes with the flow and the mood of the moment. if you want to get on top of him and ride him, he's all in. and if you want him to press you down on the mattress, he's not complaining either. just being inside of you makes him lose his mind. and simply the thought of it can drive him crazy too, especially in situations it shouldn't. that would be a regular occurrence for him - to fuck in the most unusual contexts and places just because he can, just because he knows you won't say no. what gets him going the most is the thought of someone catching the two of you in the middle of something unholy. just thinking about someone - especially one of his friends - hearing or interrupting you always makes him cum the hardest.

"don't hold back your sounds baby, i want them to hear how good i'm making you feel"

whenever jeongin wants to be in control, he doesn't let it sleep away, never. his hands are firm and rough on you, his words are borderline degrading and his thrusts are mean, almost punishing. he loves to torture you, especially with his fingers because he knows how obsessed you are with his hands. he'll either edge you or overstimulate, depending on his mood. but either way, he wants to hear you beg for it, to hear you beg for him. jeongin asks you to tell him what you want, and then he makes you beg, over and over again until your voice is broken and you're on the verge of tears. 

"yes, that's it baby, beg for it, tell me how much you need me."

but when jeongin lets you take control, he lets you take control entirely too. he trusts you with his life, so he literally lets you do anything you want to him. but you both know that the thing he likes the most is when you become rougher too. he loves it when you pull on his hair, when you wrap your hand around his throat or when you slap him across his face. he goes crossed-eyed whenever you hurt him. leave marks on his body too, leave them where they can be seen and so that they mirror the ones he left on your body too. seeing the scratches your nails left behind on his back the morning after, and feeling them sting everytime he moves at dance practice the next morning. 

"don't hold back, hurt me more..."