#fury funnie scream

[bugfail]

yeah man

[notbecauseofvictories]

inexplicably sad about the loathly lady. I just can't imagine being brave enough to ask anyone whether they would prefer you be attractive in the sight of their friends, or attractive when they fuck you. that those are the only two options. I can't stop thinking about how there are many other answers to that question, and almost all of them are wrong.

[indiestsnake]

would you guys like me to explain all seven stacks of self hatred Aven canonically has in Grace and fury

no I am not joking yes I counted

[aleksatia]

10 Ways You Ruin His Day (and 10 Ways You Ruin His Self-Control)

I originally made this list as character notes for future stories — I love digging deep into their dynamics and really breaking them down. But honestly? I couldn’t not share. Would love to hear your thoughts too: what do you think drives them absolutely mad, and what turns them into helpless fluff puddles? 🖤

🍎 Top 10 Things That Make Caleb Absolutely, Irrevocably Mad

1 He doesn’t know where you are Even when it makes sense. Even when you’re safe. Even when he’s on the far side of a tunnel with no signal and too much time to think. The silence eats at him, turns every breath into a countdown. By the time he’s back, no one on the base dares talk to him until you’re in his line of sight again.

2 You come home with a bouquet of flowers from another man It’s not jealousy, really. It’s… fury dressed in olive green. You’re standing there, smiling, saying some poor man gave you flowers because you saved his life. Great. Fantastic. Caleb’s thrilled that his girlfriend is both competent and accidentally irresistible. But now he has to pretend this isn’t bothering him while mentally comparing the man's face to strategic punching surfaces.

3 You climb on unstable furniture to reach something You know, nothing fancy—just a stack of books on top of a chair that’s on top of a bench. And you? Balancing like a gremlin in fuzzy socks. He walks in and suddenly the war flashbacks begin. You think it’s funny. He thinks it’s a workplace hazard, and you are the HR violation.

4 You rearrange his model planes He adores you. Worships the ground you walk on. Would throw himself in front of an oncoming dropship for you. But if you dust his shelf and dare to reorder his starfighters and aircrafts by vibes instead of model number? He's already rewriting his will. In blood.

5 You do something reckless and then smile about it You say “relax, I had a plan.” He hears: “I almost died, and I’d do it again, because I’m cute and unstoppable.” That smile? That grin you give when you know exactly what you did and you’re proud of it? That’s why he needs stress meds. And maybe a punching bag with your face on it. (Lovingly.)

6 You casually mention the girl he used to date You say it with a smirk, like it’s just some harmless teenage memory. But he doesn’t see her—he sees you. You, standing in the doorway that day. You, catching him with her, both of them half-undressed. And you looking at him like something cracked between you. Back then, you were off-limits. You were the girl he wasn’t allowed to want. So he wanted someone else. Easier. Safer. And now, years later, you bring it up like it’s nothing—while he’s still trying not to remember how badly he wished it had been you.

7 You weren’t his first kiss—but worse, he wasn’t yours It never comes up. Not out loud. But he remembers. Vividly. The hallway. The way your face lit up. The boy leaning in. You smiling. And Caleb—watching from across the room, fists clenched, jaw tight, playing the role of older brother when his whole body screamed mine. You never talk about it. But he never forgot. Never will. Because that moment should’ve been his—and someone else took it first.

8 You walk away during a fight, or shut down emotionally You call it “space.” He calls it “psychological warfare.” You shut down. He short-circuits. Nothing drives him more insane than trying to fix something while you’re actively ghosting him across the living room. He’d rather you screamed. Threw something. Anything. But this quiet? This distance? That’s the one thing he doesn’t know how to fight.

9 You cry—especially if it’s because of him And then he’s done. Game over. His spine straightens like he’s under military command and his entire soul just went through the paper shredder. You cry, and suddenly he’s the villain. You say “it’s not your fault,” but that doesn’t matter. He’s already rewriting the past and taking full responsibility. And yes, he’ll suffer in complete silence. Like a man.

10 You secretly try to uncover what he’s hiding from you You call it curiosity. He calls it a breach of protocol punishable by full emotional lockdown. You think you’re clever. He thinks you just walked into classified territory barefoot, blindfolded, and with a target on your back. You were never supposed to see that side of his world. And now that you have? He doesn’t know whether to yell, hold you, or lock you in a room with military-grade firewalls and a blanket.

🍎 Top 10 Things That Turn Caleb Into a Complete Fluff-Mess

You wearing his dog tags / uniform shirt / flight jacket Instant puddle. No chance. He sees you in his gear and his brain just... shuts off. All he can think is mine mine mine, and he gets this dumb, soft little smirk like he’s trying so hard not to combust.

You falling asleep on him—especially mid-conversation You’re curled into his side, mumbling something about dinner plans, and then: silence. He looks down, sees you asleep on his chest, and that’s it. Whole day ruined. Cancel all missions. He’s not moving.

You bringing him coffee exactly the way he likes it—without asking That quiet, thoughtful act? Hits him right in the soldier-shaped heart. He doesn’t even know how to process being taken care of, so he stares at the cup like it just proposed to him.

You absentmindedly touching him—fiddling with his fingers, tracing scars, playing with his hair He pretends he doesn’t care. He does. He cares so much he forgets how to breathe. Just turns into a warm, red-eared statue trying not to whimper.

You whispering “I trust you” or “I feel safe with you” in a soft moment Core memory unlocked. He stores that one like sacred intel. Will literally whisper it back to himself at 3 AM when he’s lying awake, missing you. It breaks him in the best way.

You clinging to him in your sleep / pulling him closer without waking up Caleb.exe has stopped functioning. He will lie perfectly still for HOURS if it means not disturbing that moment. Bonus points if you mumble his name while doing it.

You defending him when someone questions his methods or past He’s used to being the shield—not having someone stand in front of him. The second you raise your voice on his behalf? He falls in love with you all over again. Might even cry. Secretly.

You gently helping him out of his gear after a long day Soft hands on his buckles. A kiss to his shoulder. A low “You’re home now.” That’s how you make a Colonel melt. His fingers twitch like he wants to worship the ground you walk on.

You surprising him with something dumb and heartfelt, like a handmade gift or bad sketch of him He acts gruff—says “the hell is this, Pips?”—but then puts it in his locker or keeps it in his chest pocket for missions like it’s sacred treasure. Because it is.

You calling him “baby” / “handsome” / “sweetheart” when he least expects it He acts like it’s annoying. It is not annoying. It turns him into actual butter. If you do it with a teasing smile? He short-circuits. Might drop something. Might combust. Definitely blushes.

🩺 Top 10 Things That Make Zayne’s Calm Snap Like a Microsurgical Thread

You ignore his instructions when you're sick You had a fever of 102°F. He left explicit care instructions—bed rest, fluids, minimal movement. You, sweating and glassy-eyed, decided this was the perfect time to rearrange the furniture. When he came home and found you dragging a bookshelf across the room “because the light felt wrong,” he genuinely considered sedating you. Not as punishment. As damage control. For both of you.

You order greasy fast food instead of going somewhere “nutritionally viable” He offered to cook. You said no. Twenty minutes later, you’re eating fries from a paper bag while half of it spills on his clean table. You grin. He stares. Not angry at the food. Angry because you rejected his precision, then settled for processed chaos.

You leave wet towels on the floor after every shower He’s not sure when it started. Day three? Day five? But every time he walks into the bathroom and steps into cold, soggy cotton, something in him fractures. You claim you “forget.” He suspects a psychological experiment.

You casually mention spending time with male friends You think it’s harmless. Lunch with Caleb. Training advice from Xavier. You light up when you talk about them—and that’s the problem. Zayne doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t raise a brow. But the sudden over-fixation on his email inbox says everything.

You receive a speeding ticket. Forty miles over the limit. You wave it off like it’s a funny little anecdote. He sits in absolute silence, calculating the stopping distance of your car vs. standard reaction time at that speed. You think he’s judging. He’s actually trying not to scream.

You poke his ass. Specifically, between the cheeks. You call it “affection.” He calls it “emotional terrorism.” He flinches like he’s been electrocuted, whips around with murder in his eyes—and you’re giggling like a gremlin. Later, you regret nothing, but your thighs may beg to differ.

When you diagnose him with internet psychology You’ve read one book on attachment styles and watched three reels about emotional unavailability. Now you’ve decided he has "clinical avoidant tendencies with a hint of fear-based control fixation." He stares at you, deadpan, like he's about to perform your autopsy.

You keep spoiled food in the fridge and expired meds in the cabinet You say “it doesn’t smell that bad” or “maybe it still works.” His eye twitches. His gloves are already on. He’s not even mad at you—he’s mad at entropy. You’ve become its agent.

You watch reality shows. About infidelity. Willingly. You claim it’s “just background noise.” But he walks in and hears someone scream “that’s not even your baby, Kyle!” and your eyes are glued to the screen. His soul briefly leaves his body.

You washed his white lab coat. With your pink unicorn pajamas. It’s not just the color. It’s the betrayal. The symbol of his clinical neutrality now smells like bubblegum and looks like cotton candy. You say it’s cute. He looks personally violated by the washing machine.

🩺 Top 10 Things That Make Zayne Soft Against His Will

You bring him lunch at the hospital He never asks. You just appear—arms full of neatly packed containers, face lit up like this isn’t the third double shift he’s worked this week. He complains about the timing. The smell. The disruption. And then eats every bite with frightening focus. You leave. He stares at the empty container like it’s proof someone still believes he’s human.

You quote him back to himself like a philosopher You remember something he said weeks ago—some throwaway line about time or structure or entropy—and you drop it casually in conversation, like it’s wisdom from an ancient text. He doesn’t know how to react. You turned his logic into poetry, and he’ll never recover from that.

You wear the little seal keychain he made He didn’t think you’d keep it. Let alone turn it into your everyday keychain. But there it is—always with you, worn smooth from touch. You twirl it absentmindedly while talking to him, never noticing the way his gaze lingers. Never realizing how something so small can hit him so hard.

You put a photo of the two of you on his desk It appears one day. No fanfare. Just… there. A moment frozen in light, sitting quietly beside his surgical reports and diagnostic schematics. At first, he moves it to the edge. Then back to center. Now it lives next to his pen. He doesn’t talk about it. But it’s the only object on that desk he wipes clean with his bare hand.

His work shirt smells like you You borrowed it that morning, wore it while dancing around the apartment with wet hair and no real purpose. Hours later, when he pulls it on between rounds, the scent hits him like a loaded memory. He short-circuits mid-button. Everything feels warmer than it should.

You leave your phone with him while you shower No password. No hesitation. You toss it into his lap with a breezy “can you clear out whatever’s making it lag?” and vanish behind steam. He sits there, phone in hand, suddenly trusted with everything. He opens nothing. But the fact that you’d let him? That’s the part that shakes him.

You ask for his opinion on minor discomforts A papercut. A weird freckle. A suspicious sneeze. You hold out your hand, utterly serious, asking what he thinks. It’s laughable. Ridiculous. And it absolutely wrecks him. You could ask a dozen others—but you ask him. Like he’s the one who makes things better.

You’re on top He likes control. Precision. Strategy. But when you climb into his lap, all instinct and fire, hands braced on his chest and lips already parted—his brain stops cooperating. There’s something about you taking the lead that makes him unravel. Quietly. Violently. Completely.

You argue with him about complex theories—and mean it You don’t just nod. You push back. You challenge. You quote sources he hasn’t thought about in years. You spark. You flare. And he watches, fascinated, lips twitching with something dangerously close to pride. No one does this. No one dares. But you? You never flinch.

You whisper “I love you” in your sleep It’s not loud. It’s not even clear. Just a faint breath in the dark, like a dream half-remembered. But he hears it. Every time. And though he never says a word in return—not while you're sleeping—his fingers tighten around your waist like he's anchoring himself to the only thing that matters.

🎨 Top 10 Things That Make Rafayel Absolutely, Irrevocably Annoyed at You

You told him his painting was “nice” You stood in front of a piece that cost him three sleepless nights, a minor existential crisis, and two broken brushes—and said “Nice.” Just like that. No gasp, no poetry, no tears. He aged five years on the spot. Somewhere in the distance, a violin cried for him.

You dragged him to a cat exhibit You thought it would be cute. Enrichment. A bonding experience. Instead, he spent the entire time perched on edge, eyes darting like prey. You said “they’re just kittens.” He said nothing. He was too busy making sure none of them came closer than ten feet.

You cleaned his studio You thought you were being helpful. But you moved The Pile. The sacred, unholy, perfectly calibrated mess. Now he can’t find his favorite brush, and also he’s deeply offended by how cheerful you looked doing it.

You didn’t reply to his messages for over an hour He sent three texts, one meme, and a “thinking of you 💭” voice note. You replied 67 minutes later with “sry was showering.” By then, he’d already decided you were breaking up with him, joining a cult, or possibly dead. He had a whole monologue planned. And now you’ve ruined it.

You cut your hair He loved your long hair. Adored it. Worshipped it. You showed up with a sharp little bob and said “it’s just hair.” It is not just hair. It is the collapse of a visual era. He’s still adjusting. And by adjusting, he means mourning with wine.

You made fun of his driving You muttered “technically, you were meant to let the tram go first” He muttered “technically, silence is golden.” His driving is instinct. Vibe. Energy. If you didn’t want drama, you shouldn’t have sat in the passenger seat of a man who parallel parks like he’s in a ballet.

You woke him up too early He went to bed at 4 a.m. because inspiration struck. You woke him at 7:12 like it was nothing, and said “you have that interview, remember?” He does remember. He also remembers specifically telling you that if he ever falls asleep before sunrise, you are to let him die peacefully, cancel all earthly obligations, and throw his alarm clock into the ocean where it belongs.

You hid your phone screen when a message came in You were probably teasing. Just being playful. But now he’s spiraling. Who was it? Why the secrecy? What do you have to hide? Congratulations—you’ve just activated his inner opera villain.

You got jealous Which is absurd. He’s the one who invented possessive affection. But you being jealous? That makes him unreasonably indignant. What do you mean you “didn’t like the way that gallery girl looked at him”? Of course she looked. But he didn’t see her. He saw you.

You burned the bacon You say “it’s fine.” He says it’s charcoal. The entire kitchen smells like culinary war crimes. And now he’ll have to burn incense and replant three garden beds to recover emotionally. Who even let you near the stove? Who hurt you? Was it… the bacon?

🎨 Top 10 Ways You Accidentally Turned Rafayel Into a Purring, Love-Drunk Work of Art

You massage his head He’s mid-rant. Arms crossed. Absolutely furious about the lighting in that gallery. And then your fingers slip into his hair—and just like that, the war is over. His entire body melts like he’s been tranquilized. He’ll deny it later, of course. But the way he leans into your hand? Case closed.

You claim him in public It’s an art gala. He’s dressed to ruin people. And then you slip your arm through his, fingers just tight enough to say mine. You smile like a goddess. He pretends he’s unaffected. Inside, he’s writing vows in ten languages and considering printing matching business cards.

You actually listen to his advice He knows he can be dramatic. Unfiltered. Emotionally volatile. But when you sit there, really listening, nodding like his words matter—you destroy him. Suddenly he’s not the chaos. He’s the compass. And that? That’s love.

You share every detail of your day over dinner You talk about everything—the lady at the store, the funny email, the awful latte. You give him your day like a story, like he’s the only one you wanted to tell. He leans in, listens too closely, files away each emotion like a collector of rare art.

You’re always down for his wildest ideas It’s 3 a.m. He wants to hike 2.5 miles along the beach, take a boat to a tiny island, and watch the sunrise with wine. You say “give me five minutes.” And just like that, you become the only person worthy of his wildest, most beautiful chaos.

You let him photograph you Nothing compares. Not awards. Not praise. Nothing rivals the moment you look into his lens—bare, unfiltered, unashamed. Especially when you’re nude, glowing, and laughing like the world doesn’t exist. That’s when he falls in love with you all over again. And again. And again.

You let him choose your dress You come out in the one he picked. Elegant. Perfect. You spin for him. And the way he watches you? Like he made you. Like you’re the gallery and he’s the only one with the key. It’s not fashion. It’s trust. And he adores you for it.

You sing when you don’t know he’s home Wearing socks and earbuds, dancing with a broom, serenading your way through burnt pancakes. You’re off-key. Glorious. Real. And he stands in the doorway, silent, just watching. Because in that moment—you’re not posing. And he’s never loved you more.

You take care of him when he’s sick He has a fever of 99°F and insists he’s fading. You bring tea, stroke his hair, whisper that he’s “very brave.” You don’t mock him. You take his dramatics seriously. He will never forget it. He may also write you into his will.

You join him in the bathtub without asking He’s already halfway submerged, music playing, steam curling in the air—and then you slip in behind him, no warning. You nudge your legs around his hips, hand him your shampoo, and let him wash your hair while you giggle. He tries to act unimpressed. But when he starts kissing your toes? Yeah. You win.

✨ Top 10 Behavioral Anomalies That Triggered Xavier’s Internal Alert System

You break an agreement—even if it's “just a small one” It’s not about control. It’s about structure. You promised. And when you bend the rules—just slightly—he doesn’t react outwardly. No visible shift, no sharp breath. But something behind his eyes goes cold. Because for him, even small deviations mean recalculating everything. And that means risk. To you.

You create drama “just to get a reaction” You push. You poke. You escalate. And he gives you… nothing. No outburst, no flinch. Just that flat, unreadable stare while he mentally exits the room. He doesn’t get angry—he just shuts off the part of himself that wants to stay.

You refuse his protection—on principle You call it independence. He calls it a strategic vulnerability wrapped in pride. He won’t argue. He’ll just be one step farther back the next time, quietly cataloging how to stop caring just enough that it won’t kill him if something happens.

You call him cold—especially when he’s holding himself together for you You see stillness. He feels restraint. You accuse. He remembers what it takes to not become the darker version of himself. If only you knew how much energy it took to stay composed. If only you knew it was for you.

You’re late Five minutes. Ten. No message. No explanation. And his pulse ticks upward—not with impatience, but with pure, trained alertness. He starts looking for signs. Traffic reports. Emergency alerts. By the time you arrive, he’s smiling. But it’s the tight kind. The kind that says never again.

You skip training You’re tired. You had a long day. You say you’ll make it up later. He doesn’t argue. He just recalculates survival probabilities and mentally adds you to the list of people who might die because they were unprepared. And he will blame himself for letting you get soft.

You pull away from his touch when you're angry It’s not the rejection. It’s the meaning behind it. He reaches out—small, careful, calculated—and you shut the door in his face with a single backward step. He doesn’t try again. He doesn’t ask why. But the space you leave behind? It echoes.

You use a photo of Lumiere as a bookmark You think it’s cute. Maybe even sweet. He sees it—and freezes. He’s not jealous. Not exactly. But the idea that you might admire that version more—the legend, the mask, the sharpness—it unsettles something deep. Something he can’t name.

You secretly believe you’re not good enough for him You never say it out loud. But he sees it—in your deflections, your nervous jokes, the way you doubt his love like it’s a glitch. It doesn’t anger him in the usual sense. It just…hurts. Because you’re the only one who never had to earn it.

You throw yourself in front of him during a mission It’s instinct, you say. Split-second decision. You didn’t even think. And that’s the problem. He does. Always. Every variable, every movement, every risk is accounted for—except you breaking formation to protect him. You think it’s brave. He sees it as catastrophic miscalculation. Not because you acted without logic. But because you decided his life was worth more than yours. And that? That’s the one conclusion he refuses to accept.

✨Top 10 Things That Quietly Break Xavier’s Walls and Leave Him Unreasonably Soft About You

When you start reading the same book he’s readingYou don’t announce it. You just show up with the same title, a few chapters behind, and start casually asking questions. He plays it off. But inside? He’s spiraling. Because this—this—is how you speak his language. Silently. Precisely. Together.

When you knock on his door like you’re trying to break it downIt’s loud. Impatient. Inappropriate for the hour. But he knows that knock. That rhythm. That you. You need him. Not his solutions. Him. And somehow, that chaos pounding on his door feels more like home than anything else.

When you hug him from behindYou wrap your arms around his torso mid-task, face pressed between his shoulder blades, palms splayed across his chest like you’re anchoring yourself to something ancient and steady. He stills. Every time. Like someone just whispered a secret to his bones. He never asks why. Never moves away. He just tilts his head slightly—listening, as if your silence said everything he needed to hear.

When you touch his sword (the actual weapon, calm down)He never lets anyone handle it. Not even for cleaning. But your fingers skim the hilt, gentle, curious, reverent. And somehow… it’s okay. You’re not just touching steel. You’re touching him. And he lets you.

When you act like a little girlYou scrunch your nose. Say something ridiculous. Blush like you didn’t mean to. And he watches—utterly disarmed. Because he knows exactly what you want. You want him to carry you. Wrap you up. Keep you safe. And he will—without hesitation.

When you join him on a morning runYou complain. You lag. You swear this is “not your vibe.” But you still show up. Same hour. Same route. And when you match his pace for those few precious minutes? He doesn’t say it—but he’s proud. Painfully proud.

When you share your dreams—and say “we”You’re rambling. Light spilling from your words. Talking about the future, the maybes, the next steps. But you don’t say I. You say we. And that sound? That tiny shift in grammar? It settles deep. Irrevocable. Permanent.

When you make matching braceletsYou say it’s silly. Handmade. Slightly uneven. There’s a charm shaped like a rabbit. He never takes it off. Not in combat. Not in sleep. It rests against his wrist like a pressure point—and grounds him better than anything else.

When you remember his habitsYour shopping list always includes his cinnamon. His brand of shampoo. The exact instant noodles he pretends not to love. You don’t make a show of it. You just know. And that knowing? It destroys him in the softest possible way.

When you trust him completely in bed—even when his darker side surfacesThere’s a moment—quiet, charged—when the softness shifts. He waits. Watches. Braces for resistance. But you don’t pull back. You open your hands. Arch into him. Let him take control without fear. That? That’s what breaks him. Not the pleasure. The trust.

🖤Top 10 Things That Push Sylus Into Maximum Sarcasm and Mildly Homicidal Disapproval

Your outdated, unreliable weapon Yes, he gets it. It’s vintage. It’s “standard issue.” It’s approved by the Hunters Association. Congratulations. That won’t matter when it jams and gets you killed. Every time you return one of the sleek, upgraded firearms he hand-delivers like he’s your personal armory concierge, he has to resist asking if you've already made a draft of your death wish. Alphabetically sorted. With floral headers.

You chew gum—and pop it It’s not the gum. It’s the snap. The sudden, violent pop of sugary air bubbles that hits his trauma response like a trigger. He knows it’s just a noise. His shoulder still twitches. He’s this close to reaching into your mouth and extracting the gum like a gentleman. A very sarcastic, deeply annoyed, half-feral gentleman.

You try to shake your tail (him) You use stealth tech. You block your signal. You go dark. Adorable. You’re forgetting that the very system you’re relying on was developed by his own syndicate. The only person who ever really evades Sylus is Sylus. And maybe the cat that lives under his car. But not you. Never you.

You don’t introduce him as your boyfriend to your old classmates You panicked. He gets that. You called him “a friend.” And now he’s deeply committed to the bit. For the next seven days, every time you said anything, he replied with “Of course, as your friend…” in front of waiters, dealers, and one extremely confused ambassador. You only managed to shut it down by hastily posting a photo of you two with the caption “my boyfriend and the love of my life.” Acceptable recovery. Barely.

You refuse to use his resources His private jet? Untouched. His cars? Collecting dust. His black card? Sitting unused like some kind of insult in your purse. You say you’re “independent.” He says you’re actively offending his entire lifestyle philosophy. Do you have any idea how disrespectful it is to ignore an entire walk-in wardrobe prepared for you in his estate? Honestly, it’s almost admirable. Almost.

You once smoked a cigarette, and he saw it He didn’t say anything. At the time. Just looked at you. Silently. Like someone had drop-kicked a kitten in front of him. He’s not judging. He’s just picturing your lungs in an ashtray. And adding another page to your death wish list.

You speak in riddles and expect him to “get it” You want something—time away, a trip, his attention—but instead of asking, you sigh dramatically and murmur, “It’s fine. I guess some people just don’t want to escape the city with their girlfriends…” He blinks. Slow. Dangerous. “Was that a request, a riddle, or an emotional booby trap?” If you want something from him, Kitten, try using nouns and verbs. Not cryptic guilt puzzles.

You suggest another woman would be “perfect for him” It’s a joke. Offhand. Barely a breath. But your voice wavers—just slightly—and that ruins it. He doesn’t want her. He doesn’t want options. He wants you. And now, thanks to your charming lapse in self-worth, he has to waste the rest of the evening reminding you that this face, this power, this entire empire already belongs to someone. Guess who.

You sneak up on him You never mean to. But somehow, you're always the one person who slips past every alarm, every trained instinct, and ends up whispering behind him when his brain is still in kill mode. It takes everything in him to not react on pure reflex. You think it’s cute. He thinks it’s potentially catastrophic.

You don’t believe him when he says he’s fine Yes, he’s bleeding. Yes, his shirt is soaked. But he said “it’s a scratch,” and when he says that—he means it. His body heals like a myth. Your worried face? It makes something in him ache. Because the real wound isn’t on him—it’s in you, for thinking he’s anything less than unbreakable.

🖤 Top 10 Things That Make Sylus Dangerously Soft for You (And Yes, He’s Keeping Score)

When you finally spend his money It started with coffee. Small. Harmless. But the alert hit his phone and, for a moment, he genuinely wondered if his card had been stolen—until he saw your name. And something in him shifted. Not because of the cost. Please. He could buy the city it was brewed in. No, it was the fact you used it. You. Willingly. Now? You’re bolder—little dresses, shoes, jewelry you don’t need. And every time you do, he rewards it like you just proved you understand the assignment: what's his, is already yours.

When you give orders to his men like you're the boss You don’t ask. You instruct. Calm, certain, completely in charge. One of his men hesitates—just once—while you’re directing them to rescue a terrified kitten stuck in a tree. Sylus doesn’t interfere. He just watches, arms crossed, a grin tugging at his mouth as armed professionals scramble to obey you like you're the patron saint of lost animals. Somewhere in his mind, he’s already fitted you for a crown. With tiny cat ears.

When you secretly pet Mephisto The mechanical raven used to drive you insane. Now? You’re sneaking him treats and absentminded scratches under the jaw. Sylus sees it. Says nothing. But deep down, he knows: if you’ve accepted the bird—you’ve accepted all of him. And that’s lethal. To him.

When you make him a playlist You never explain them. Just send a link and say nothing. But he listens—every time. Alone. In his car. In the bath. Eyes closed, calculating your every choice like it’s encrypted intel. Each track? A hint. A mood. A coded message from you to him. He doesn’t ask for them. He just waits for the next one. And when it arrives, he treats it like gospel.

When you leave a trail of chaos in his car Your hair on the seat. Your gum wrappers in the cup holder. The seat so close to the wheel he practically has to fold in half. And the music? A full-volume love ballad ready to ambush his eardrums at ignition. It's obnoxious. It’s inconvenient. It’s perfect. His life, now featuring you.

When you eat from his plate You swore you weren’t hungry. You said “no carbs this week.” And now? You’re stealing fries from his hand and dipping into his steak sauce like it’s your birthright. He doesn’t stop you. He just watches you chew with that look that says: mine. forever.

When you talk and talk and talk Something happens. You spiral. Words spill. Thoughts tangle. You’re not even aware you’re rambling—but he is. He listens to everything. Stores it all. Because there’s something magical about your voice when it’s unfiltered. You don’t realize it, but he falls a little harder every time you forget to censor yourself.

When you crawl into his lap while he’s working He’s in the middle of paperwork. Calculating things. Dangerous things. And suddenly—you. Right there. Knees on either side, arms around his neck, like the world’s most beautiful interruption. He tells himself he needs to finish. But his hands are already on your hips.

When you call and ask for help A jar. A stuck zipper. A ride. It doesn’t matter. You’re a trained hunter—you’ve faced things with claws, fangs, and no name. But you still call him. Because you want him. And that? That wrecks him in ways he’ll never admit. He’s already on his way before you hang up.

When you scream his name right before you come There’s a lot he’s proud of. His empire. His power. His record. But nothing—nothing—satisfies him more than the moment your voice breaks open with his name. Like prayer. Like surrender. Like he’s the only thing in your world. Which, of course… he is.

[merlinsearlobe]

I don’t know if i hallucinated this but i swear earlier seasons Bradley said something about hoping Arthur realises Merlin has magic on his own.

And i wish, i wish, that had been the case.

That Arthur, knocked out, bleeding, injured, awakes too early and sees Merlin, eyes golden and angry, bending the power of the earth in raw wrath and fury towards their enemy.

And Arthur is bloody fucking terrified. But Merlin screams ‘not him, never him, never Arthur’ and the earth shakes and… Arthur can’t even remember what poor soul or creature had thrown him from his horse, certainly not now their body is torn apart by Merlin’s words and his flaming gaze.

Of course Arthur is terrified. Is he hallucinating? Is this some malevolent vision? His head throbs and he can taste blood in his mouth and he can see Merlin, Merlin his incompetent and clumsy and funny and innocent and soft and gentle manservant who wakes Arthur with a brilliant smile and some drivel about lazy daisies, stood like a deep and dark and threatening shadow over what was left of a once-body.

Arthur’s breath comes in short gasps and tears prick his eyes. Panic. And Merlin turns to him as he clamps his eyes shut against the image of Merlin dripping with death and anger. But deep within his shattering mind a small voice whispers to him. The voice is soft and gentle, blonde curls and kind eyes and patient hands cupping his cheek. She reminds him of each time Merlin has looked at him with pure, unadulterated devotion - his eyes deep and blue, a tiny ring of gold-green swirling around his pupils. How each time Arthur’s lain on the brink of death, and Merlin has never left his side, tending to his wounds with such tenderness that Arthur has never felt before. How it was in Arthur’s name that Merlin’s magic, Merlin’s magic, raged.

Another voice, thick and real and worried, breaks through the soft whisper of Ygraine.

Arthur felt shaking hands - how could they be so gentle when moments before it was from them that such unbridled power was released - stroke his matted and sweat-soaked hair, wiping the blood Arthur felt trickle down his cheek away. Arthur forces open his eyes, meeting Merlin’s as the gold fades to the deep familiar ocean-blue.

Did Merlin know Arthur had seen? How much blood had soaked Merlin’s hands when Arthur had lain unconscious, how many victories has Merlin won in Arthur’s name?

And deep within Arthur’s heart he knows he is safe in this sorcerer’s hands. Knows in fact he’d choose these hands over anyone else’s.

But Arthur can’t say the words just yet. He can’t admit to himself that the man he loves is made from that which he hates. Hated. Has been taught to hate. A new wound has been torn in him, one not made of blood and flesh. Because if Merlin is magic, how can magic be evil.

So Arthur lets Merlin’s hands and Merlin’s words and Merlin’s soft smiles wash over him. He feigns ignorance of what he saw.

But he watches. His wounds sit quietly: clean and placid from Merlin’s assiduous care. His face is washed from blood and grime by Merlin, who had fussed and worried as he went. Now he watches. He notices the damp wood Merlin had collected whilst the rain has fallen burst into eager flames within seconds of Merlin’s attentive hands and wonders how he never noticed before.

When they return to Camelot, limping but alive, Arthur notices the stone-deep warmth that graces his chambers. Where his room should be chilled and still from his absence instead there’s a soft and humble feeling of life suffused throughout, and Arthur realises with a small, private smile it is the same feeling that radiates from Merlin.

The lessening part of him argues he should recoil. For why is he rejoicing at feeling the touch of a sorcerer all around him. But Arthur argues back. He’s felt the saccharin, sticky grip of dark, evil magic masquerading as sweet ladies or sycophantic servants. He remembered the groggy, aching return to his own mind after Sofia had dragged him under her spell. Merlin’s gentle, joyous presence is worlds away. His magic may be hidden from Arthur, but Merlin’s grinning insults and blatant disregard for any sort of protocol meant any fears for further hidden motive besides self preservation withered immediately.

Arthur keeps watching. He notices now the shine his armour has, beyond what weary hands and cloth could ever achieve. He notices, or rather feels, when Percival’s muscled arm brings down the practice sword and Arthur - his mind worlds away - notices too late, yet the ensuing bruise is not angry and mottled but timid and quickly fades, even though ordinary chainmail would never have warded off such a blow. He notices Merlin’s unbridled joy when the two of them leave Camelot for the forest. He notices the bird that lands on Merlin’s shoulder, the whispered smiles Merlin exchanges with the creature. He notices the grass grow a little taller beneath Merlin’s feet, the way the trees bend to him as if they’re greeting a long lost friend.

Slowly, magic - or at least Merlin’s magic - loses the rotten, sharp edge Uther had imposed. Arthur begins to yearn to see the flames of the fire burning in his room reflected once more in Merlin’s eye. Still he can’t quite bring the words lingering in his throat up to his lips. Guilt begins to fester. Arthur remembers the years of Uther’s reign, how the screams of burning sorcerers - some of them so young, so young - had echoed through the cold stones of Camelot. He remembers now Merlin’s pale face and wide eyes, ghosted with tears Arthur knew not what for. He knows now.

And so when his knights bring him talk of a druid camp away to the south, Arthur stands tall, facing the court, and tells them to leave it be. That there will be no more raids (not that he had issued any since his ascension to the throne, but no formal proclamation had thus far been made). He tells himself privately he will end the ban on magic. He will forge a Camelot where Merlin will not live in fear, in a half life. The faces staring back are curious, some wary. But the one meeting Arthur’s steady gaze, wide-eyed with a shocked, gentle, proud, smile and slightly trembling hands gripping the wind jug, is that which Arthur cares about. He gives a slight nod. Too subtle for anyone else to notice, but as obvious and clear to Merlin as it ever could be, the two of them long since having needed words to communicate.

Merlin has a lot of questions. Naturally. They tumble from him as Arthur undresses behind the screen. And Arthur knows now that he’s ready. Merlin has magic. Merlin is magic. And Merlin is good. Deeply good. The words don’t quiver and cower in his throat.

And I wish Arthur had then told him. Had taken a deep breath and met Merlin’s gaze and told him he knew. That he had been scared. But he had trusted. Trusts. Loves.

We deserved Merlin fighting beside Arthur, raw devotion and power and fierce, fierce love.

[redflagshipwriter]

Snitches the cat and his favorite bat

I wrote up dpxdc fics based off of prompts I happened to see in the last day to add to the reading pile for anyone who didn't prep for the archive down time today.

EDIT

The idea for Danny as a cat came from @shycorvid, thank you so much for correcting me and letting me play in your sandbox!

Snitches the cat comes from @garbagewith-a-cherryontop (I think??? I couldn't find a definite first post!) but the fantastic linked post is the one with how I think Snitches the cat looks here.

Word count is 1053.

Tumblr reference

masterpost for my AO3 downtime fics

“Ugh- that's not- did we just summon a demon cat?”

“It's so messed up looking. Ew.”

Danny blinked and swayed on his feet. He'd had a tail a minute ago, speeding across the GZ to check in on Walker. There had been an unpleasant lurch in his stomach. And now he was on his feet. All four of them.

Wait, what?

“You fucked this up.”

His ears twitched at the sound of a slap. Danny swiveled towards the sound and then got distracted by the feeling of his ears swiveling back. Whaaaaat?

He looked down at his precious little feeties. They were adorable paws.

“Oh, you motherfuckers,” he said. It came out as a conversational yowl.

The humans looked at him from about ten feet away and five feet up. “Annoying…”

He was pretty sure they were high schoolers. There were five of them, two girls and three boys. They were all bigger than him. High schoolers were usually bigger than he was, but this was just ridiculous.

“Count yourself lucky, dimwits,” one of the older kids said. He took a step towards Danny. Danny pressed his ears flat against his head and hissed at the approach. “If you managed to sacrifice Patches to a demon, your Mom would straight up murder you.” He laughed when he said it, like anything about that was remotely funny.

Uh- what now?

Only now, Danny noticed a very distressed calico cat underneath a laundry basket on the other side of the room. There was a stack of textbooks weighing the basket down. A large rug had been rolled up and- he sneezed rapidly, eyes watering. Chalk! They'd drawn on the floor with chalk!

‘This is some incompetent summoning,’ Danny realized, way too late. ‘Did they- how did they turn me into a cat?’ He looked at his unfortunate brethren under the laundry basket. Her ears were flat against her skull and she looked scared.

He remembered the word “sacrifice” and his blood flushed hit with fury. They'd wanted him to eat her! They'd wanted something to eat miss Patches!

The teenagers froze and looked at him, aghast at the angry sounds that were coming out of his throat.

“Shut up!” One hissed. She took off her shoe and threw it at him. Danny dodged and then threw his head back to yowl even louder. Sonic attack! Aural damage, you big jerks!

“The neighbors are going to- make it shut up!”

Danny had to run, dashing over furniture and tearing his way across a crowded table to avoid being grabbed. He screamed the whole time, eager to alert whoever they were so afraid of. Someone should see!

The window burst in.

Danny stopped running, shocked. He hadn't actually expected-

Someone snatched him up from behind and smacked him on the face with a palm. His jaw exploded with pain. It cut off his yowling.

Stunned. He was still for a moment and then he struggled for his life. The grip on his ribs was way too tight-

He looked over at the sound of a sword being pulled from a sheath. Holy shit, that was bomb as hell. His eyes went wide at the sight of a heavily armored small child crouched on the windowsill. The boy's eyes were covered, but Danny could still see him look at Danny and the poor calico under the laundry basket. He sneered.

“Unhand the cat or lose your hands at the wrist, you wretch.”

Danny loved him.

The teenager dropped him. Danny caught himself with a stumble. He let out a sad mraow before he could stop himself.

Fight club baby was enraged. “What have you done to this animal?” He hopped down into the room, revealing he was at least a foot shorter than the smallest girl in the room.

Danny trotted to him and started winding around his ankles admiringly. What a good kid! He purred.

“I will be taking both of your cats with me. If you ever harm an animal again, it will be your head that is found in a chalk-”

“Robin.” A hugeass grown man squeezed himself through the window that the kid had broken. Danny craned his head up, up, up, to see him case the joint.

The older man radiated incredible judgment. “I see that you require education on animal welfare and demonic summoning. Go on, Robin.”

“That's my Mom's cat!” One of the teenagers protested. “You can't take her!”

Robin growled at her. Danny jumped in his skin at the sound.

“Then we shall return it to your Mother and her alone, when we explain what you've done.” Danny let murder baby scoop him up and purred at full volume. Hell yeah. He looked at the cowering teenagers with condescension.

“Not that fugly thing.”

Danny blinked. He ended up making an inquisitive mraow. Why was a finger being pointed at him? He was baby.

“That thing showed up, you can get rid of it. But Patches is Mom's cat, and you can't steal a cat because-”

“Batman can steal any cat!” Robin bit out, gathered up Patches, and jumped out the window with both cats in an expert grip.

That didn't sound right, but Danny just enjoyed the night air as a line pulled Robin up to where yet another masked vigilante was waiting, cackling himself to tears.

“Batman can steal any cat,” he wheezed. “Brilliant. Good detour, Robin. Can I hold one?” He held out his blue-striped palms expectantly.

He faltered when he saw Danny, visibly surprised.

Danny… was starting to feel bad. He curled into Robin, hurt. He wasn't ugly. Why did people keep reacting to him weird?

“No,” Robin said curtly. “You have damaged his pride, and Patches is still reeling from her shock.”

The man let out a sigh but let the topic go. “That's Patches, and this is…?”

Robin hesitated. “He is the Snitch.”

That unlocked cooing. “Snitches? Snitchy Snitch Sni- ow!”

Danny snapped at the hand that came way too close and he let out a warning growl. No baby talk!

Robin seemed very pleased. He rubbed behind Danny's ears. “Snitch… I suppose that Snitches will suffice. We are taking him home.”

“....Maybe, just for fun, we should take him to get treated for mange first!” The guy made jazz hands to go with his statement.

Robin and Danny both growled that time.

[f4ggydog]

shauna x reader: is there someone else🔞

minors do not interact nor read! u have been warned!

warnings: nsfw, possessive shauna, toxic shauna, manipulative shauna, controlling shauna, reader uses pussy and cunt as genitalia, fingering, degradation, twisted affirmations, just overall bad friend behavior!

Unsurprisingly, Shauna’s had another fight with Jackie. It’s the daily routine at this point. The two bicker over nonsense and then they make up. That’s how it went and tonight was no different. Only it was kind of different because the argument was in front of a bunch of people, rather than being kept to themselves.

You weren’t sure who started it. Shauna always claimed that Jackie started it, but you know Shauna’s temper could get out of hand in certain moments. Though, you did not believe she always got out of hand. There was nuance to it, some nuance that might be able to save the friendship between the teenage girls if they can’t save themselves.

Shauna trudges over to you. You can’t tell if she’s half drunk or if this slow walking is just part of her being pissed off. Either way, you don’t want to bug her with inquiries. No need to add fuel when there’s already fire.

Shauna approaches you without a word. Her face screams fury and her hands are balled into fists. Should you try to console her or leave her be? She came over to you for a reason. It wouldn’t be abnormal to suggest that she might need some consoling, no?

“You’re a funny girl Shipman,” you say, carefully patting her shoulder. “Hanging out with girls that you don’t like. It’s like you enjoy torturing yourself.”

Shauna doesn’t respond, only shakes her head. However, she nuzzles into your touch and pulls you closer. Clearly it’s a sign that you’re doing something right. So you continue.

“What did Jackie say?” You ask. “How bad was it this time?”

Shauna always seemed to run to you when shit went awry. You were like her secret friend outside of the Yellowjackets that she never spoke about. But, she didn’t know how to explain to you that she didn’t just cause problems with Jackie this time. Now Taissa and Nat currently hated her guts as well. Perhaps without a bad reason, but still temporary hatred nonetheless.

“Can’t wait to go home,” Shauna sighs. “I should’ve never let Jackie convince me to go to a party I never wanted to go to. And stupid fucking Randy had the nerve to talk to me too.”

“Yeah, he’s definitely annoying.”

“He’s not just annoying,” Shauna grumbles. “He literally smells like shit. Like if I was in another continent right now, I would still be able to smell how much his breath stunk. It’s like he’s never heard of brushing his teeth.”

You wince at the description, imagining Randy’s odor traveling through your nostrils. It’s a good thing you never really got to hang out with him. Though, you realize that Shauna had no interest in being his company. She was only forced to stick around him because he’s close with Jackie’s boyfriend. And they were the epitome of Tweedle Dum and Tweedle Dee. Or perhaps Tweedle Dum and…Tweedle Dum again.

“Do you have your car with you?” Shauna asks. “Or did a friend drive you here?”

“N-No, no. I took my parents’ car.”

“Do you even have a license?” Shauna snickers.

“Um…” You debate the proper way to answer this question. “Ummm, let’s just say that’s…irrelevant.”

“So the answer is no.”

“Yeah okay,” you sigh. “The answer is no.”

“Don’t care.” Shauna shrugs. “As long as you can get me the fuck out of this place.”

When you both your reach your parents’ car, Shauna hastily hops into the passenger’s seat. She slouches in her seat without even putting her seatbelt on. Her arms are crossed and her lips are turned into a frown.

“So,” you say. “Do you want me to start driving you home or do you just want to stay here?”

“Don’t drive yet,” Shauna demands. “I think we need to talk.”

Your eyes widen slightly, but you obey her instructions. However, Shauna’s tone throws you off. Speak about what exactly? Why does she sound like she’s about to break up with you, despite you guys obviously not being in a relationship? 

“Would you ever leave me?” Shauna asks. “Do you have somebody lined up in my place? Am I your second option? Be honest with me.”

“Shauna, what are you on about?” You arch your eyebrow. “No? Look, are you getting self conscious again because of Jackie? I know you have issues with her, but-“

“So, what if I am? You haven’t said anything nice about me the whole night.”

“N-Nothing prompted me to. I-I’m confused. What?”

“You complimented Jackie’s shoes,” Shauna reminds. “You didn’t compliment my shoes. Or my hair. Or my outfit. You didn’t compliment anything about me, but you complimented Jackie.”

“That’s cause I barely saw you the whole night, Shauna. I really think you’re looking too deep into this. Seriously, just relax.”

“You didn’t look for me because you like Jackie more than me,” Shauna asserts. “Admit it. Jackie’s better than me. So you like her more than me. She’s the queen bee so naturally everyone’s gonna flock to her. I get it.”

You stare at her with blatant confusion written on your face. “No Shauna, that couldn’t be further from the truth. I know you more than I know, Jackie!”

“And yet you still complimented her before you complimented me, so clearly I’m not good enough.”

“Shauna,” you sigh. “I don’t know what Jackie said to you at that party, but you’re overthinking this by a mile. And it’s okay if she’s influencing your mind a little bit, but there’s no need to project this on me. I didn’t do anything wrong.”

“Of course you’re trying to defend yourself,” Shauna grumbles. “I’m always the bad guy, aren’t I? I’m always the problem, always the villain! You think of me the same way Jackie does. You secretly hate my guts and only keep me around to torment me.”

The word ‘irrational’ almost slips out of your mouth, but you don’t dare use it. Even if it’s a perfectly accurate way to describe Shauna’s behavior currently.

“Am I pushing you away?” Shauna questions, softer than before. “Are you gonna leave?”

“I’m not going anywhere Shauna,” you reassure your insecure buddy. “Trust me. You’re just…letting whatever Jackie said get into your head. You need to shake all those shitty thoughts out. They’re not worth it.”

“There’s no guarantee that you’ll stay.”

“There’s no guarantee I’ll leave either, Shipman.”

Shauna lowers her head. She glances over at you before firmly pressing her hand on top of yours.

“I don’t wanna go home yet,” Shauna states. “Wanna stay with you.”

“We don’t have to go home yet,” you respond. “Thankfully, my parents aren’t feeling that strict tonight. So, I think they’ll be okay with me staying out a little longer.”

“Yeah,” Shauna murmurs and looks out the window.

She daydreams. She dreams of a world where she doesn’t live in Jackie’s shadow. She dreams of a world where she feels confident enough about her appearance to pursue people. She dreams of a time where she’ll feel genuinely wanted. She imagines a world where she’s the only friend you’ll ever need.

But Shauna’s not sure if her ideal world could ever exist. It remains a fantasy, but if only she could obtain at least some parts of it. She’s not expecting a genie to grant her all three wishes. But one good thing happening to her shouldn’t be so out of reach, right? She still had you. And Shauna’s not aware of how close you think you are with her. But for her own sake, she hopes she’s the person you’d cut off an arm and a leg for.

The drive home is mostly silent. Shauna occasionally leans on your shoulder and you allow her to. It’s the least you could do after she had such a rough night. But during the trip, you can’t shake away this pain in your gut, gnawing at you like it’s trying to send a message. Shauna seemed to have calmed down from her earlier explosion. But, something told you that this wouldn’t be the last time she blew up on you, precisely over Jackie.

The next day, Jackie unexpectedly walks up to you during lunch. She takes a seat by you and whispers.

“Hey, do you know when that essay for Mr. Snyder’s class is due by? Someone told me it’s due tomorrow and I’m kinda freaking out.”

“It is,” you answer Jackie’s question. “But we were given like a week to complete it.”

“A week isn’t enough!” Jackie groans. “Ugh, he always grades so harshly too. I heard the highest grade he’s ever given in his class was an 89.”

Okay, that didn’t seem far fetched. You could only score 80s in Mr. Snyder’s class yourself.

“I haven’t even been paying attention for most of the reading,” Jackie admits. “But it’s not my fault the book is so boring. He doesn’t even try to make it exciting. He reads it in the most monotone voice ever!”

“Did you at least start your outline?” You ask.

“We were supposed to do an outline!?” Jackie gasps. “Shit! Oh, I’m so screwed. I’m so screwed. This asshole is gonna kill me.”

“He’s not gonna kill you.” You roll your eyes. “Just cram through it. Stay up all night if you have to. I know it’s not ideal, but I guess it’ll help you learn your lesson.”

What you don’t realize is that Shauna is eyeing the both of you from the corner of the cafeteria. She looks like an angry dog ready to defend its owner from outsiders. Her eye twitches and her nails dig into her palms.

Shauna instantly gathers that her suspicions were correct. After the conversation last night, she didn’t expect you to speak with Jackie less frequently. She expected you to avoid Jackie altogether. Everyone was turning against her. She was losing the people she so desperately clung onto. Nobody was going to want Shauna’s attention. Everyone was gonna leave her. She was gonna be worse off than Misty fucking Quigley.

How could you do this to her? Did your friendship mean nothing? Was Shauna just a placeholder until someone better came along? Was she worthless to you? All of the worst possible thoughts raced through her head. Shuana immediately jumped to the worst case scenario, as per usual.

But she chooses not to confront either of you. She lets you two have your conversation while she watches from afar. Shauna doesn’t know what the conversation is about and she doesn’t want to know. All she senses is betrayal, attachment to another besides her. And that wouldn’t fly. No, she had to do something to ensure you remembered your place. You were hers, and either Jackie was trying to steal you away from her. Or, you were planning on abandoning Shauna.

When lunchtime ends, Shauna ignores Jackie when she passes her. Jackie calls out Shauna’s name, but Shauna pays her no mind. She storms into class, only you on her mind. She’s got no time for frivolous lessons or pop quizzes or difficult homework assignments. Her main problem right now should only be you.

Class couldn’t go by fast enough. Shauna wishes she had this class with you, but unfortunately she only shares this class with Lottie. Shauna just needs this class and the next one to pass. Then, she can corner you alone. She just needs this class to not go by a snail’s pace.

For Shauna’s last period, the teacher keeps her class behind for a few extra minutes. The woman won’t stop yapping and cared more about getting every note from her lesson out than the kids getting home on time. Finally, the teacher allowed the students to leave and Shauna exited class, finding you waiting for her outside of her classroom.

“Hey,” you say. “Why’d you get out so late?”

“Doesn’t matter.” Shauna adjusts her backpack straps.

“Okay. Well, I figured I’d wait for you.”

“Thanks,” Shauna says in a monotone voice.

She still doesn’t believe you value her enough. You waiting for her outside of class didn’t suffice enough as proof. Shauna was right about you. She was always right. Her stubbornness would be her downfall, just as your helpful attitude towards Jackie would be yours.

“Can we talk?” Shauna asks the dreaded question again.

“You know we can always talk,” you respond. “Um, where do you wanna go? Just talk outside here or….”

“We’ll go where I say we should go.” Shauna’s driving the bus. She’s taking the reins. Shauna practically drags you towards the girls bathroom, already struggling to keep her fury bottled up. She knows once that lid pops off, you’re in for some of the worst wrath of your life.

Shauna shuts the door behind you guys once she’s got you inside. She presses you up against the sink’s counter, her hands digging into your waist.

“I fucking knew it,” Shauna snarls. “I fucking knew it all along. You tried to play me for a fucking fool, but I know better.”

“What are you talking about?” You gasp out, trying to swat Shauna’s hands away. “Have you lost it again?”

“Of course you think I’m just some demented bitch,” Shauna hisses. “You’re trying to make me look stupid. Again. I fucking knew you were thinking of replacing me. I should’ve known.”

“Shauna, where is all this coming from?”

“You were fucking talking to Jackie! Don’t you dare try to deny it. I saw you two. Probably gossiping about me, huh? Probably making me look like a fool?”

“S-Shauna,” you stutter. “I-It’s not what it looks like. She was just asking me about an essay that was due tomorrow. That’s all.”

“Bullshit.” Even though you’re being honest as you can be, Shauna still suggests that you’re lying through your teeth. She can’t trust you. She’s too afraid of losing you to trust your motives.

“Why bullshit? Jackie can’t ask me for homework help?” You state defensively.

“Jackie would’ve asked me!” Shauna declares. “I’m the one with straight As, not you. If Jackie was so panicked over a dumb essay, she would’ve came to me. Why the fuck would she ask you about it?”

“M-Maybe cause she thought you were mad at her. I dunno, Shauna. B-But, I’m telling the truth. I swear.”

Shauna shakes you against the bathroom counter. Talking to her is like trying to get through to a brick wall. This whole conversation was fruitless.

“You think you’re better off without me?” Shauna interrogates. “You think Jackie can be a better friend than me?”

“N-No, I…”

“What about that time you stayed over at that classmate’s house because you wanted to hook up with them? And I lied to your parents, saying that you were with me? Remember when I covered for you then? All so you could go fuck somebody like some sort of whore?”

“D-Don’t call me that,” you whimper, Shauna’s face dangerously close to your neck.

“You don’t want me to call you that? When you’ve been whoring yourself out for attention? Jackie’s probably your next victim, isn’t she?”

You’re too stunned to speak. You know Shauna’s had a jealous edge to her. But, this went far beyond any ordinary envy. She wouldn’t let you talk with anyone. You were literally her property and she’d punish you if you didn’t respect that.

“Please leave me alone Shauna,” you beg. “P-Please, can we talk about this later? I-I…I don’t want to do this right now.”

“No.” Shauna says firmly. “Since you want to whore yourself out to people, I’m gonna teach you a lesson. It’s what you deserve for not realizing how good you have it.”

Without warning, Shauna stuffs her hand into your pants. She swirls her fingers around until she finds your cunt and runs her digits along your pussy lips.

“Shauna, what are you doing? Are you nuts? What the fuck?”

“You don’t know how long I’ve been wanting to do this,” she husks. “Since you wanna act like a whore, I’ll let you be one.”

Shauna bites down on your neck like a vampire drunk on the thought of your blood. As she nibbles, her fingers trail over your clit, brushing the nub with the lightness of a feather. It’s still enough to make you jump, though.

“But you will only be a whore for me. Nobody else. Just me.”

“Nobody else,” you repeat timidly. “F-Fuck…”

“Are you already enjoying this?” Shauna smirks. “I knew a whore like you would. You may be a whore, but you’re such a good one for letting me play with you like this.”

Shauna uses her other hand to harshly grasp your chin. She sucks and licks over the bruise she created on your neck, admiring the purple spot as evidence of your claiming.

“You’re not even asking me to leave you alone. It’s cause you like this, isn’t it? It’s only natural for a whore like you to enjoy being touched inappropriately. Bet you were wishing Jackie fucked you with her fingers.”

You shake your head. Shauna’s hand shifts downward and squeezes your throat. With her other hand, she inserts two fingers into your dripping pussy, eager and ready for penetration.

“I expect an answer,” Shauna growls. “You might be a slut, but I want you to be a competent one. So answer me. Now.”

“Y-Yes Shauna,” you answer. Though, you’re not entirely telling the truth. “I-I wish she did.”

“Good girl,” Shauna praises, stretching your hole out and scissoring you with her digits. “Loosen up for me, baby. C’mon.”

“Fuck, trying. Trying. I-I’m trying.”

There was a slight soreness at your core, pain mixed with a hint of pleasure. But, Shauna couldn’t care less about your potential suffering. She’s proving a point and you will be her obedient student, whether she has to use force or not.

“There we go,” Shauna encourages, able to pump her fingers faster as you adjust to the intrusion. You exhale, your heart beating rapidly. You felt your mind slowly melting, your head getting fuzzy with all sorts of lewd thoughts.

You make the mistake of letting out a moan too loud. To combat this, Shauna silences you with a fierce kiss to the lips. She bites down on your bottom lip until it’s close to drawing blood and shoves her tongue deep inside of your mouth.

Her fingers curl inside of you and you hump Shauna’s digits for more friction, most of the pain subsiding. Gasp after gasp erupts from your throat, your eyes almost rolling back from how deep Shauna’s thrusts were hitting you. You grab onto her for support, leaning against the bathroom counter as you let her absolutely use you.

“You like this?” Shauna spits. “Tell me how much you like it, my pretty little whore. Tell me how much you enjoy being used like a sex toy for me.”

“L-Love it,” you pant when she pulls away from your mouth. “Fuck, it’s so intense. Can’t take it. Can barely take it.”

“You will take it though,” Shauna demands. “Because that’s what good sluts do. They take what I give them.”

“Yes Shauna,” you whine, feeling your cunt wrap tightly around her fingers. Your pussy was throbbing as squelching sounds filled the bathroom. Your entire body wobbled and you felt your vision blurring.

“You’re already getting close?” Shauna chuckles. “My god, you’re fucking pathetic. It’s perfect. I want you dumb and pathetic just for me, okay? Not Jackie. Not Jeff. Not any of the other girls on my soccer team.”

“Just you,” you reply obediently. “J-Just you. Fuck, fuck. Shauna, I’m gonna…I’m gonna…”

“What the fuck are you waiting for, you pretty slut?” Shauna barks. “Cum on my fingers, you filthy girl. Show me how good it feels to give up your innocence for me. Show me that I’m the only one you deserve, the only one you’ll ever need.”

“Fuck!” You cry out, probably loud enough for people outside of the restroom to hear. You coat Shauna’s fingers with your juices as her fingers milk you dry. You don’t even bother biting back your moans or chewing on her shoulder to suppress her noises of desire. You’re lost, in a whole other world where only you and Shauna exist.

Once you’ve ridden out your high, Shauna withdraws her fingers and presses them to your lips. You know exactly what to do. With an opening of your mouth and a flick of the tongue, you clean off Shauna’s digits and embrace the taste of your own fluids.

“You’ll never get rid of me,” Shauna promises, leaning in close to press a kiss to your forehead. It’s a sign of tenderness after the storm, the restoration of tranquility after you’ve been marked as her own pet. She doesn’t need to go hard on you anymore, at least for right now.

“Didn’t plan on it,” you say meekly, still processing your friend’s deeds.

“I know.” Shauna smiles confidently. “There’ll never be another girl like me out there for you.”

Ain’t that the truth.

[amourane]

hate the way you smile

pairing: theodore nott x fem!reader

genre: fluff, angst, comedy, e2l + childhood enemies??

w/c: 4.7k

summary: from the second you met theodore nott you knew that your life would be torturous and that the boy would never leave you alone but maybe forever isn't so bad with theodore nott.

warnings: none just a lot of bickering

a/n: omg this one is a bit long but i finished it!

From the moment that you met Theodore Nott at the bright age of five you knew you would hate him forever. Maybe it was the way he would sneer at you with distaste or the way he would mock you for being a big crybaby whenever he took your toys. All you knew was that you simply loathed his presence.

Your families had been friends and they had initially thought that you and Theo would get along since you were both the same age. What they didn’t expect was the young boy to rip the heads of your dolls and proceed to mock you for crying your heart out. Yet even with all of your constant bickering your families still met up every holiday, bringing the demon child with them to torment your life.

Since that day your childhood was filled with cruel laughter and the mischievous eyes that would watch wherever you went.  At age seven, Theodore Nott found it appropriate to fill your bathtub with toads causing you to shriek out in terror when you opened the bathroom door, and him, to run away with glee at your horrified face. At age nine, he thought it would’ve been funny to surprise you by dumping a bucket load of pumpkin juice all over you and he cackled at your expected screams of anger. What he didn’t expect was for you to retaliate by smashing a tray of cauldron cakes into his face. 

Needless to say the war between you two started way back then and it had continued, the only difference being that now you both were more mature and civilised and there was no room for childish pranks.

“Suck my cock you mangled prat, I hope you trip and fall to your death you insignificant shit goblin!” 

At least so you thought.

You made a move and lunged for Theodore Nott’s throat as anger flared in your eyes. No one paid mind to the scene that was unfolding before them afterall it was a common occurrence for the last six years. 

“You enchanted my hair green!” You shrieked as you shook the brunette violently. “Are you out of your mind Nott? I thought we agreed we wouldn’t mess with each other’s appearances, what happened to that?” 

Theodore simply smirked and you felt your fury bubble inside you. He tilted his head to the right and acted as if he was actually pondering your question. If you could you would have been breathing flames as you felt yourself grow more livid as every second went by. 

“Hmm…I like your hair L/n, really suits the whole vibe you’re going for, don't you think bella?” Theo flashed you a wicked grin as he reached out to twirl a lock of your hair between his fingers. You slapped his hand away.

“And what vibe am I going for Nott? Please enlighten me since you apparently are the one making decisions for me.”

You should’ve just walked away. You really should’ve just cursed him out and gone to Madam Pomfrey for some sort of remedy instead of staying and entertaining whatever shit-faced idea he had come up with. The moment you saw the smug smirk that spread across his face and the dangerous twinkle in his eyes you knew he was going to spew some absolute bullshit. And you were right.

“Well obviously it’s a statement declaring that you’re mine, why else would you dye your hair to match my house?” The Slythering feigned disbelief, clutching his hands to his chest innocently. “But Salazar, I didn’t know you would be so bold about your feelings towards me bella.”

You felt heat rise and settle on your cheeks as you tried to come up with a colourful comeback to wipe the stupid smirk off his face but the words die in your throat. It was against your will but you could feel your face growing hotter as he continued to stare at you with that flirty glint in his eyes. Your brain spluttered to a stop and you scrambled desperately for something to say.

“Fuck you Nott.” You seethed before storming away with your hands balled into fists. You could hear the whispers of students and you could feel their stares as you stomped to the infirmary, determined to find some way to get your hair back to normal. 

Theodore Nott was the biggest pain in the arse you knew and he had never stopped being one. You still remembered when you had received your letter to Hogwarts and he had scoffed at the sight asking why Hogwarts would want a half-wit like you. Needless to say your parents weren’t surprised at the cries that erupted a second later from both you and him.

Throughout your years the two of you had become known for the obvious tension and pure hatred you harboured for each other though it did seem to lean on your side a bit more than it did to his. It had been the same for the first three years, bickering, pranks and whatnot. Then fourth year came and the scrawny boy you once knew had magically grown much taller and his face had lost a lot of the baby fat it once had. All at once Theodore Nott became one of the most sought after boys in Hogwarts and it only made you loathe him more. It made his ego triple in size and it made him much more flirty towards everyone but you seemed to be his number one target. All you wanted to do was to take your wand and puncture that bloated head of his.

Though his appearance changed he still was the boy you knew since you were a child and whenever he smiled you could see the same boyish grin he had way back when he was five. He had always been the same but now he just had a much more pretty face to disguise the fact he was a blithering idiot.

Theo watched as you stormed off, his smile never once leaving his face. He loved to mess with you purely to see the visceral anger that radiated off you every single time. The way you would try to stare him down but the action proved useless as he was much taller allowing him to simply look down smugly. It amused him to see how your reactions never changed. 

Ever since you were five you held the same expressions: whenever you were mildly irritated by him you would chew on your bottom lip, whenever you were pissed your eyes would double in size and you’d look like a fire-breathing dragon, and whenever he made you upset you would stare blankly without a word. He’d only ever made you truly upset once and when seeing your face he knew he would never do it again because even if the two of you bickered and fought he would never hurt you.

“Sometimes I think you’re secretly dating because you should see the way you’re daydreaming hopelessly while staring at L/n’s retreating figure Nott, you look like a bloody imbecile.” Draco slapped Theo’s back startling him out of his own thoughts. He scoffed after realising what his friend was implying.

“Oh Salazar’s balls I think I’m going to regurgitate my breakfast. You’ve gone insane if you even think for a second there’s a chance I fancy that creature.”

Laughter erupted from his friends and they continued to mock and tease him obviously not being mature enough to handle the situation with grace.

“I would rather shag the giant squid than date L/n and I’m sure the feeling is mutual.”

Mattheo hummed to himself and smirked. He placed his arm on Theo’s shoulder. “Well then can I ask her out? She’s real hot and I think she’d be interested.”

“L/n might be stupid Riddle but she wouldn’t ever go out with you or even give you the time of day. So don’t even think about doing it.” And with that he left and his friends exchanged knowing glances before bursting into another fit of laughter at their friend’s own obliviousness.

//

This was so not your day. 

Never in your life had you forgotten to hand in homework yet one silly slip up had cost you to spend your free afternoon in detention. It wasn’t your fault you had mixed up the dates on when the transfiguration homework was due. 

You begrudgingly opened the classroom doors, finding a seat to sit down for the next hour. At least you were able to catch up on some other classes while you were in detention otherwise you thought you would’ve gone mad. You looked around the classroom save for Professor McGonagall who had already greeted you when you walked in there was no one else there. 

It hadn’t even been a minute when the doors burst open to reveal a very tall and very smug Slytherin.

“Mr Nott, glad for you to join us, find a seat please.”

Theo's grin faltered as his eyes locked onto yours, a flicker of confusion dancing across his features before it was swiftly replaced by his trademark smirk. He made his way toward you, closing the distance until there were mere centimetres separating you from him.

“Now L/n, Nott, I have important business to tend to so I assume the both of you are mature enough to sit through this detention. I hope that I don’t hear about any incidents when I am gone.”

It was as if your nightmare had all of a sudden come to life as you watched McGonagall leave the classroom. You tried to protest but it fell upon deaf ears as the professor had already left the room, leaving you stuck with your nemesis.

You whipped your head to face the brunette, irritation flashing in your eyes. Why had he chosen to sit next to you when there were plenty of other seats available? The classroom was far from crowded, yet here he was, invading your personal space with his mere presence

“Why are you sitting next to me Nott?”

“Why can’t I? Do you happen to own every seat in this classroom?” He teased. “I didn’t think you did, so I’m going to sit where I want.”

You grumbled under your breath at his stubbornness, getting up to pack your things. “Fine, but then I’m moving.”

Before you could make your move, Theo reached out and grabbed your arm. “Hey slow down, I have a perfect seat right here.” Your irritation flared at his audacity, and you shot him a scathing glare as he gestured to his lap with a smug smirk. “Why don’t you-”

“Nott, if you seriously propose that I sit in your lap I will hex you to oblivion.”

“Okay!” Theo held his hands up in mock surrender, his expression feigning innocence as he cocked his head to the side, the smirk never once leaving his face. “Stay here, I won’t bother you, I swear.”

You eyed him cautiously, your scepticism evident. You weighed the options before you reluctantly sat back down. “Fine.”

A quiet hush befell the classroom and all that could be heard was the scratching of quills on parchment. That is until you were interrupted by a persistent poking sensation that disrupted your concentration, each jab of the quill more annoying than the last. You clenched your jaw as you tried to ignore Theo but you knew he wouldn’t stop until you gave him attention and there was no way you were giving him the satisfaction of reacting. So he continued to poke and poke and poke. 

His incessant poking finally pushed you over the edge, prompting a sharp hiss of irritation from your lips. "What?" You snapped, unable to contain your frustration any longer.

“What are you doing here?” 

If there was a competition for incompetence Theodore Nott would sure have won first place.

“Detention obviously.”

“Oh you know what I meant, why are you in detention? Did you do something stupid? Wait, you do that all the time I forgot.” You rolled your eyes, resisting the urge to roll them right out of your skull. "Tell me, bella," He continued, his voice laced with faux innocence. "I don't bite."

“Forgot my homework.” You reluctantly mumbled under your breath, feeling all too claustrophobic at how close he was to you. “Not that big of a deal.”

“Oh but it is.”

“What does that even mean, Nott?” Your eyes narrowed. Theo’s face twisted into a playful smirk and he was so close that you could practically hear his heart beating.

He chuckled, undeterred by your hostility. "But it's not like you to forget your homework," He teased, leaning in closer. "There must be something distracting you. Perhaps... thoughts of me?"

As if on instinct your hands reached out to push the unbearable boy away from you and you immediately got up at his incredulous words. You saw the way laughter bubbled and slipped from his lips, mocking you which only added more fuel to the evergrowing fire.

"In your dreams, Nott," You retorted, your voice laced with venom as you rose from your seat, your movements quick and determined. "I would sooner volunteer for a Dementor's kiss than waste a single thought on you."

Theo’s smirk only widened and his eyes gleamed with mischief. "Oh, believe me, the feeling is mutual," He quipped, his voice dripping with amusement as he rested his chin on his palms, his gaze never wavering from yours.

You huffed out an angry breath before picking your stuff up and stalking to the opposite end of the classroom. Luckily, he didn’t follow and you were left in peace for the rest of the detention.

//

It had been a week and a half since your detention yet Theodore Nott hadn’t approached you once since. In fact, you hadn’t seen him around school a lot, not that you were paying attention of course. It was just weird. Usually his face would pop up in front of you multiple times a day yet he was nowhere to be found. You had even lingered around the Slytherin table at lunch to see if he would show up but he never did. 

There was this sick feeling in the pit of your stomach. Even though you did despise Theo you had known him since he was a kid and he never was one to skip lessons much less disappear for over a week. Even his Slytherin friends didn’t know where he went.

That is until today. The moment you had walked into the dungeons ready for your Potions lesson you spotted him. There was a part of you that hoped you would see him today, after all he was your Potions partner. But there was something wrong. His face looked gaunt, pale, sapped of life and his eyes were merely blank as he sat unmoving. His usual demeanour was replaced with one of hollow emptiness.

“Where have you been Nott?” No response. You frowned as you looked at him, he seemed to not even hear you. “Nott? Have you suddenly become deaf?”

“It’s none of your business.” He snapped voice obviously laced with malice as the words cut through the air. The sharpness of his tone caught you off guard, a twinge of hurt gnawing at the edges of your consciousness despite the fact you both had said worse to each other.

You chose to ignore the fact that Theo was obviously in a sour mood and sat down beside him, unpacking your things. There was nothing special about the lesson, nothing that you needed to particularly pay attention to. Not that you did since you were too focused on trying to figure out what was wrong with your partner. Theo didn’t look okay, not in the slightest. He seemed exhausted and his sluggish movements proved you correct as he diced the various ingredients. 

You were in the middle of stirring the cauldron when Theo dropped a dandelion root in the mixture causing it to bubble and spit. The concoction spilled onto your hand and you shrieked at the sudden burning sensation that seemed to consume your hand in flames. The sensation is unbearable, a sharp, burning agony that seems to penetrate deep into your very bones. By now the whole class had stopped to look at you not fully registering what had happened. You turned to Theo, tears threatening to fall from your eyes at the pain but he stood there frozen, an expression you couldn’t decipher on his face.

“Theo-”

"Fucking hell, L/n." He spat, his voice dripping with disdain. "Would it kill you to not be such a clumsy moron? You could've hurt me as well. How can you even call yourself a witch?"

His words were sharp and spiteful. Through the many years of knowing Theodore Nott he had never blamed you for something he did. He might have been an incorrigible prick but he would still apologise if he had ever hurt you genuinely. But as you looked at him you couldn’t recognise the cold harsh look he gave you and you bit back your tears. You wouldn’t cry in front of him. 

Despite the fact your hand was in pain you felt something tighten around your chest and it made the air around you feel thick as if you couldn’t breathe. You stood up angrily, opening your mouth to snap back but your vision starts to fade, black spots invade your senses and that was the last thing you remember before you tumbled to the floor.

You woke up a few hours later as you felt the sun shine on your face. You blinked, disorientated, as you tried to get used to your surroundings. The familiar walls of the infirmary materialised and you felt some ease at knowing where you were. Confusion still gnawed at your mind as you struggled to piece together what had happened. How had you ended up in the infirmary? And why did everything feel so hazy, as if viewed through a foggy lens? 

Your gaze drifted to your hand, the source of the searing pain. And there, wrapped in a pristine white bandage, lay the answer to at least one of your questions. The memory flooded back in fragments, disjointed and incomplete.

Theo's careless mistake, the scalding mixture splattering across your skin, the sharp cry of pain that had torn through the air, all of it came rushing back with startling clarity.

“Miss L/n you’re awake!” Madam Pomfrey’s voice cut through your thoughts and you saw the woman make her way towards you hurriedly. “That was a terrible burn you had, lucky I had some burn-healing paste on me otherwise you would have had an ugly scar.”

You were still a bit dazed, trying to piece together how you even managed to make your way here. You distinctively remembered collapsing to the floor but that was where your memory stopped and it refused to give you any more.

“Sorry Madam Pomfrey but do you know how I got here? I really can’t seem to remember.”

“Oh dear.” The nurse frowned at your condition. “Mr Nott brought you here. He’s been here the whole afternoon. He's only just popped to dinner. I'm sure he’ll be back. Merlin, the boy did look worried.”

You resisted the urge to scoff at her words. Theodore Nott, worried. Not a chance. He probably only brought you here because Slughorn insisted, and he couldn't risk getting on the professor's bad side. No, you highly doubted he cared about what had happened to you.

The memory of his harsh words repeated in your head like an echo that refused to go away, a reminder of his indifference to your situation. And yet, despite your efforts to brush it off, a bitter laugh escaped your lips. Why were you even upset? After all, the two of you were experts at hurling mean insults at each other. It was practically a pastime. 

Rather you should have been mad at the fact he was the one who caused you to get this injury anyway. If it wasn’t for his stupid mistake you wouldn’t be in this predicament. Then again, you remembered his movements, how his usual nimble fingers were fumbling the ingredients, how he stared at the pages of his book as though they were in a foreign language. Something wasn’t right.

“You’re awake.”

The words startled you and you spotted the Slytherin boy approaching your bed as his face held the same blank expression as before. He sat down beside you and your eyes narrowed. You shuffled away, not wanting to be near him.

“I’m sorry.” He murmured quietly and the words caught you off guard. “These past few days just haven’t been the best and-”

“That’s your excuse?” You bristled at his pathetic apology, hoping that you had misheard what he had said. “You mess up our potion resulting in me getting hurt and then hurl insults my way trying to blame me for what happened. And you think simply saying ‘I’m sorry’ is enough? Using the excuse of having a few bad days as your way out?”

He stayed silent allowing you to continue.

“Theodore Nott, you always were an idiot.” You spat, the words tinged with disappointment. “But I never expected you to be such a heartless prick.”

As the final syllable fell from your lips, a heavy silence settled over the room, punctuated only by the shallow rise and fall of your breath. You held Theo’s gaze and as you studied him you noticed something you had failed to notice before. The dark circles that marred the skin beneath his eyes, the redness that rimmed their edges. The weariness that had been etched into his features. 

“I went home.” He finally said, breaking the silence with his words. “Father sent a letter saying it was urgent, that I needed to return home at once.”

You felt yourself deflate and your gaze softened. Theo and his father had never been on the best terms and ever since his mother died they drifted apart even more. Suddenly his attitude made sense and you felt the guilt seep into your senses.

“Turns out his urgent matter was that he found himself another potential wife. Some poor woman to endure his torture and he wanted to happily announce it to his son. He burnt all of my mother’s belongings and if I hadn’t stopped him he would’ve gotten rid of her grave as well.” Theo scoffed bitterly and you saw the way he was trying to stop the tears from falling. “That bastard calls himself my father but not once in his life has he ever cared about me.”

A heavy silence enveloped the both of you as you sat not uttering a word. You knew that he had always struggled with the strained relationship with his family. The death of his mother had resulted in Theo being distraught for weeks as he relived the nightmare whenever he closed his eyes. 

“I’m not going back there. I’m never setting foot in that house ever again.”

You placed your hand on his shoulder as you tried to offer some sort of comfort. His eyes locked with yours and you saw how his tears glistened as they fell silently. You felt ropes tighten around your heart and you squeezed his shoulder gently. It had been a long time since you saw Theodore Nott cry. It was a rare sight but that was what made it that much more painful.

“I’m so sorry, I didn’t know.” You whispered. “I honestly…I’m so sorry Theo. He really doesn’t deserve a son like you. You’re incredible, you know that? You might be irritating and loud and downright infuriating at times but he doesn’t deserve you because you’re amazing Theodore Nott. And, Merlin, if I’m saying that then it must mean a lot because we both know my word is golden.”

You offered him a small smile and your heart warms when you see one tug at his lips too. He looked away for a second and you saw his eyes land on your bandaged hand and he winced.

“I really am sorry for messing up our potion. I didn’t mean what I said, you’re a brilliant witch Y/n, you always have been. I was just being a prat, I’m really sorry.”

“It’s fine, it’s honestly nothing bad. My hand will probably already be back to normal, I heal quickly you know.” You paused as your smile faltered and you chose your next words carefully. “If…if you don’t want to return to your house, you can always go to someone else's.”

Theo chuckled as he shook his head. “No one is going to accept me into their house without turning me into my father.”

“I will.” 

Silence. Theo looked at you, confusion clear on his face but your gaze was strong and he could tell you had meant what you had said. You felt yourself flush at his stare and you realised your hand was still on his shoulder and you quickly removed it.

“Accept you into my house I mean. My parents love you and you know they haven’t been on good terms with your father ever since what happened. We would be more than willing to take you in.” You watched as his face contorted into expressions that you couldn’t formulate. “That is if you promise not to fill my bathtub with toads again.”

Laughter fell from his lips, cascading like a melody. He lifted his hands to wipe away his tears that had been streaking down his face. His eyes no longer held the blank emotionless look but rather a certain warmth that you had missed seeing. Your grin widened upon hearing the sound and you found yourself joining in.

“At least you look pretty-”

Your words were cut off abruptly as Theo leaned in, his lips capturing yours in a sudden and unexpected kiss. You froze, unable to comprehend what exactly was happening as disbelief rippled through your body. His hands found their way at the back of your neck and you feel his thumb caress your cheek tenderly. You were still in shock when he pulled away and the last few words of the sentence you were about to say tumbled out of your mouth.

“-when you cry…”

You blinked as your mind tried to grapple at what had just happened. Theodore Nott had just kissed you. Theodore Nott, the boy you had despised since you were five, had just kissed you. He kissed you. Kissed…you. Immediately, your body erupted into flames and you felt your face flush hot at how close the both of you were.

“Your body temperature has risen extremely quickly.” Theo teased and you felt yourself grow even hotter.

“Shut it.”

“Like you’re actually a human radiator.” He continued undeterred by your glare.

“Nott if you don’t want to lose your head I would advise you to shut up.”

Theo grinned and you felt your heart stutter at the sight. “Oh so now I’m back to being Nott? What happened to Theo?” He said his name in a high pitched croon in an attempt to mock your voice and you smacked the backside of his head which only encouraged his laughter.

“You’re actually going to be the death of me.” You groaned as you slumped back down the bed, pulling the covers over your face as a feeble attempt to hide yourself from the pretty Slytherin.

Theo poked your arm and you peeked out to find him staring at you with a bright grin on his face. 

"Don't worry." He reassured you, his voice light and teasing. "I'll make sure to stay by your side forever and ever, like a blood-sucking parasite."

“How romantic.” You drawled as you rolled your eyes, trying to maintain a facade of annoyance as you retreated under the covers once more.

“Aren’t I just?” 

You ignored Theo’s playful whines for you to let him see your face. Your heart threatened to break out of your chest as you tried to calm yourself down. But even so, you were unable to stop the grin that spread across your face. Maybe, just maybe, forever wouldn't be so bad with Theodore Nott by your side.

[vampstarkey]

provocative mini skirt ୨୧ ⊹ ˚₊‧♡

Masterlist

warnings: pussy slapping, semi-public sex, hair pulling, dick sucking, ass slapping & degradation.

Note: English is not my native language, so sorry for any mistakes in advance.

You and Rafe had been together for a few months, but the relationship seemed like a tightrope about to snap, full of possessiveness and arguments that seemed to have no end. He hated your sassy behavior sometimes, but at the same time, the idea of ​​having to punish you later seemed exciting, and he made sure to make that clear at every opportunity.

The loud music from Topper's party echoed in the background, muffled by the walls of the house, but that didn't stop Rafe's cutting words from reverberating in your mind. You watched him from across the room, leaning against the doorframe, trying to process the weight of the look he was giving you, intense, but at the same time filled with fury, it made you wet.

Rafe paced back and forth, his fingers tightening his glass of whiskey as if he wanted to crush it. The reason for the fight was another of the usual absurdities: the short skirt you were wearing at the party.

— Next time, I'll rip that shit off you and make you change. — He growled, his blue eyes shining with an anger that seemed ready to explode. The sound of glass hitting the table accompanied him as he approached, his breathing heavy and the smell of alcohol already present.

— This is stupid. It's just a skirt, it's not like I'm walking around naked. — You replied a little frustrated, but deep down you found all that jealousy funny.

— You think it's fun to make me go through this, huh? Everyone was staring at your ass, damn it. — Rafe stopped, clenching his jaw.

The blond could feel his blood boiling with your air of indifference. It didn't take long for him to approach you. Rafe cornered you against the wall, not leaving you the slightest space.

— Honestly, I do find it fun. — Your eyes fixed on the lips of the boy in front of you, you were challenging him, after all you knew where this would lead.

— Oh, really? I want to see you find it funny when I fuck this little pussy right here without making you scream.

He ran his fingers up your thigh, massaging the area while he slowly moved his hands up. Your pussy could already throb just imagining all the things he would be able to do to you there in the room that was only occupied by the two of you at that party.

— What are you waiting for? — Your voice came out almost like a plea, he found it comical, the way you always seemed like a desperate whore for his cock, in fact it wasn't a lie. You loved the way your boyfriend fucked you so well, the environment only made you hornier, it was tempting.

Rafe quickly pulled up your skirt, playing with the elastic of your red lace panties. He pulled the thin fabric to the side, placing his fingers on your clit while rubbing it feeling your wetness.

— I didn't even have to try very hard, you're begging for me right here. — He slapped your pussy a few times and then laughed with satisfaction. Rafe could feel his cock almost exploding inside his pants. You were so ready, so wet for him. His fingers slid so easily inside you. It was killing you. It was torturous.

— I need your dick. — You bit your lip hard, then leaned against a small table.

— I'm going to play with you a little bit more. — Rafe quickly slid two fingers inside your soaked slit while his other hand was still caressing your swollen clit. His fingers went in and out inside you so deliciously that it made you hold back your moans, even though you wanted to make the scene he loved. One of your hands went to his wrist, squeezing it as you tilted your head back.

— My little slut is so desperate. — His hands went to your thigh once more, but this time giving it a hard slap on the outside. — Turn your back to me and lean on the table

Without thinking twice, you did exactly what he asked, like the good, obedient slut that you were. Then you turned around, placing both hands on the table while your ass was completely raised for him. Rafe slid your panties down your legs while he analyzed your body from behind, then slapped your ass. He loved doing that.

— You made me really angry today. Don't you understand that I'm the only one who can see this delicious body? — Another slap was given to your ass, this time harder than the last time.

— Fuck, Rafe… — With the tension in the air, your body was completely at his mercy. After the slap, a scream came from your lips.

— Shh, be quiet. — Your ass was turning all red thanks to him. The boy slapped you several times without caring about the pain he caused you. After all, he knew you wouldn't complain. You were a real slut to him. — I'm going to fuck you so good, baby..

Still with your back to him, he moved his hands up to your breasts, squeezing them over your bra and playing with them.

— Be a good girl now and suck your man. — That came out more like an order than a request, and of course you didn't refuse, so you turned to Rafe and got on your knees.

Your hands went to the older man's pants, unbuttoning them skillfully. He helped you unbuckle his belt without much patience. You looked at the large bulge formed in his black boxers as soon as his pants fell to the floor. You salivated just imagining sucking that damn delicious cock.

— Yes sir. — Your said as he touched his erection, groping his thick cock. Without delay, your hands pulled down Rafe's underwear, making his pink cock jump out. Your lips slowly went to his thickness, touching the sensitive head of his hard member.

— Oh, you damn slut, stop beating around the bush and put that cock in your mouth at once. — He grabbed your hair tightly, wrapping it in a tight ponytail.

You soon took Rafe in your mouth, putting every inch of him in your mouth. He was so big, but so tasty that whenever you gave him a blowjob, it seemed like a challenge, but exciting at the same time.

— That's it, good girl. Swallow that cock. — He pulled your hair and tilted your head back, feeling your tongue massage the entire length of his hardness. Rafe moved his hips back and forth, seeking more contact with his hot mouth. — Stick your tongue out.

— W-what? — You asked, a little confused, as you looked at him on his knees.

— Don't ask anything, just obey me. — He said, as he waited for you to do what he told you to do, and so it was done.

Your tongue was now out as you looked at your boyfriend. Rafe quickly put his cock in your mouth again, but this time fucking you. He fucked your mouth with everything he had, with anger and a mixture of lust. The sight of having you kneeling for him was surreal. He just wanted to put you on that table and fuck you until you couldn't walk. Well, since he took your virginity, you've become a thousand times hotter and there was no time or place to want to fuck. You coughed with the thickness that invaded your throat.

— Daddy's girl is so greedy, do a good job and I'll eat all that pussy that's begging for me. — Rafe pushed his hips harder into your mouth once more, your eyes started to water. Your eyes rolled back with each thrust into your throat, your hands were resting on his knees, your pussy was burning, you felt like you could cum just by sucking that dick, your face was all smeared with pre-cum.

— Do you like that? — You asked provocatively as you caressed his balls. Your hand masturbated the rest of Rafe's cock that didn't fit in your mouth as soon as he stopped moving his hips.

— You know I do. — Rafe laughed with that damned rogue smile full of evil. He let out small hoarse moans trying not to lose control completely. — But I need you to stop, I don't want to cum in your mouth.

You just nodded. Rafe pulled you up in a sudden movement, catching you by surprise, and placed you on the table, still facing him, spreading your legs.

— Rafe… — A murmur left your lips as you waited for any action.

Rafe pulled your skirt and fit between your legs, rubbing his hard member against your wet pussy.

— Damn bitch, I know you were crazy for this. — He rubbed his cock against your slit, making your skin shiver all over.

— Yes, yes, please. — Your legs wrapped around the boy’s hips. He soon held your legs tightly, letting himself be enveloped by you.

— I love it when you beg, it just shows what a real whore you are. — Rafe attacked your lips in a burning kiss as he rubbed against you, containing the naughty moans that came out of your mouth.

His tongue swirled around yours, losing each other. Without warning, Rafe thrust his cock inside you, which made you gasp in the middle of the kiss. Your fingers went to his back, scratching.

— Fuuuck — You cursed as you pressed him against you. Rafe broke the kiss as he moved skillfully. He had no mercy when it came to fucking you.

— What a hot pussy, fuck, I’ll never get tired of feeling how delicious you are. — Rafe groaned, looking at your expression of pleasure. He found you so hot, you were a temptation for him.

— Yes, yes, yes, just like that. — You said, feeling every inch of him touch your pussy, he went so deep that it left you in ecstasy.

— You like it like that, huh? You like it when daddy goes deep inside that greedy little pussy? — He slapped your clit as he thrust inside you.

Your body vibrated in small spasms, you could only nod as he fucked you faster and faster on top of that table. The fact that anyone could show up there made both of you even hornier. A loud moan left your lips, hard to hold back.

— Moan softly, you’ll get everyone’s attention outside moaning so deliciously like that. — Rafe pushed your body even further onto the table, making you lie completely on it while he grabbed your legs and fucked you like a dirty little bitch.

— I can't, you're fucking me so good. — The table creaked as it hit the wall, you grabbed onto the cold wood trying to find support. Your moans were muffled by the music echoing from the party outside.

Rafe covered your mouth with his hand as he thrust deeper and deeper into you, increasing the speed of his movements.

— Noisy slut. — A growl came out of his mouth. — This is to teach you not to be a very badly behaved little slut. — Deep down you like it, yeah?

You nodded, completely unable to say anything since his hand covered your lips. He slapped your clit again, making you twitch on his cock. Rafe pounded you deep, making your body writhe.

— Daddy wants to cum good inside you. — Rafe took his hand off your mouth, letting you moan freely now. — Tell me that's what you want, little slut.

— Yes, daddy, I want to feel your cum dripping inside my pussy. — You whimpered. The mascara from your eyes ran down your cheeks, edging the makeup on your face.

— Look at that, so mine, so delicious. — He hit you so deep now that a high-pitched scream left your lips. Rafe grabbed your neck, squeezing it with desire as he thrust his cock in a clumsy way, looking at your face, now not caring at all if anyone could hear your delicious moans. — You're close, aren't you?

— Yes, I need to cum so bad. — Your legs opened wider and wider for him, it was hard to control yourself.

— Then cum for me, you little bitch, cum really good on your man's dick. — He said as he played with your clit, still thrusting his cock inside you.

Your legs began to tremble, Rafe also felt that he was getting closer and closer to orgasm. He rolled his eyes back, moaning hoarsely, holding your soft thighs tightly.

— Fuck, I think I'm going to… — You couldn't finish the sentence, a great orgasm hit you, leaving you totally sensitive.

— That's it, like that, just like that. — Rafe kept pushing his cock into you, wanting to reach his peak. Your body was very soft and full of spasms, the feeling was delicious, you loved it.

Rafe pulled his cock out of you, rubbing it on your clit.

— It's delicious to cum like this, you know? — He kept rubbing his cock on your pussy, leaving you all goosebumps.

— Shit, Rafe, I'm so sensitive. — Your voice broke, but he didn't care, he had fucked you so well.

A hot jet of cum came out of Rafe's cock, smearing your slit. He grunted as he pressed you against him.

— Fuck, you're hot, girl. — He said right after, wiping the sweat from his face. He had finished you.

— You left me dead, Rafe. — You complained.

— It's not like you don't like it. — He laughed, lifting his boxers and pants again. — Let's go to the bathroom, you need to clean yourself.

You got up from the table, putting your clothes back on.

— Okay, I can't deny it. — You bit your lip mischievously.

— Don't think it's over, when we get home I'm going to make you cum again. — Rafe gave your ass a little slap and winked before going upstairs to the bathroom to clean himself.

[hoodielord]

Green eyes in the fear fog.

For half a second, Steph thought today would be a decent day. But no, not in Gotham.

Steph's current events professor, who was also the head of student affairs, had offered extra credit to help give college tours. Look, she had to take the extra credit she had to, even if it meant that she had to be a tour guide. It wasn't hard, just annoying.

The group was small, only five people, but two of them stuck out. A brother and sister. The brother was the definition of adoption bait blue eyes, black hair, vigilante tendencies withholding. The sister was at least as tall as Jason. She had orange hair just like Babs, you'd think they were related.

Anyways, Steph's new mission was to make sure the kid and Dick never met. The kid would not stop making puns. Some of them earned him a laugh but some earned him a smack from his sister.

"Aw, come on, Jazz, it was funny."

"You can do better." she shrugged.

" Sounds like a challenge." A wicked smirk appeared on his face.

" Danny, please don't."

"Challenge accepted."

Yep, I'm definitely keeping him away from Dick.

But something was off about them other than looking at the crime capital's university. They could probably be metahumans. Their eyes seemed to slightly glow blue. They carried themselves as they had already expected danger. I mean, it pays to be prepared, especially in Gotham, but they aren't from here.

If the siblings weren't already on a list B has they should be now. Jazz had been almost ecstatic when we were moving through the psychology department. Danny was practically bouncing off the walls when it was time to go through the engineering and physics departments. Definitely should keep an eye on them.

It was reaching the end of the tour in the cafeteria. Another weird thing about the siblings was their reaction to food. They seemed to have this sort of optimistic curiosity like they were happy to have food to eat, but at the same time, they were poking to make sure it wouldn't attack or something.

Talking with the siblings was interesting too. Danny was buzzing about the engineering department. He went into a great rant about a project that Wayne Enterprises was working on in the aerospace engineering division. Maybe she should keep him away from Tim, too.

The conversation died quickly when a shriek rang out from down the hall. Steph turned quickly to see green fear toxin fill the cafeteria. Swarms of people ran for the exits knocking each over. She quickly dug through her bag and pulled out her gas masks, one for her and her backup.

"Jazz? Jazz, where did you go?" Danny called. They must have gotten separated.

Damn, she needed another one for the siblings. She shoved her spare into Danny's hands.

" Put the mask on and head for the exit."

"But I need to find Jazz."

"I'll find her. Put the mask on and go." Steph yelled as she went further into the fog. Quickly, she sent an alert to Oracle. Signal is on patrol right now, but more bats might show up.

It was dense she could barely see in front of her. There was some noise up ahead. Someone was screaming. The yelling grew louder as she rounded the corner.

"Stop! Get away!"

It was Jazz. She was practically growling. Her fist slammed into the concrete wall, leaving a deep impact. She was clearly affected by the Fear gas. A meta affected with fear gas, not good.

"Stop! Don't hurt him. He's not a monster! He's my little brother!" Jazz had gone from fury to sadness as she practically begged for her hallucination to stop haunting her.

If it wasn’t the meta thing it was whatever she was hallucinating that caught Steph’s attention. Definitely on B's list now.

"Isn't it interesting what fear does to the mind?"

Steph saw Scarecrow emerge from the fog.

"I saw you in the psychology department. Your eyes lit up like a fire. But now they are clouded with fear."

A chill went up Steph's spine. She quickly checked her mask for leaks but didn't have any. Turning her attention back to Jazz and Scarecrow, she saw something. Green eyes shifted inside the fog. They looked like a predator hunting its prey. For a second, they look like Jason's.

From behind Scarecrow, the eyes stopped, and a figure emerged. A baseball bat slammed into Scarecrow's face, knocking him to the floor. The figure came into full view now. It was Danny his eyes were glowing green.

He knelt down to Scarecrow.

"You really don't have any brains. Do you Scarecrow? If you did, you wouldn't have hurt my sister." His voice was downright, frigid.

He turned and rushed over to Jazz who was still trying to convince her hallucinations to stop.

"Jazz, it's okay. Come on, I'm fine. It's okay." His voice was soft and gentle as he helped her up. Jazz mumbled a little as she stumbled down the hall.

Steph quickly caught up to the siblings slinging Jazz's arm over her shoulder.

"Sorry, I couldn't help earlier," Steph spoke quietly.

"It's fine. Not everybody can be a hero."

Steph wanted to laugh at the irony of that statement, but she just nodded.

"Sorry about the tour too."

"It wasn't all bad."

" Oh, the rouge attack and poisoning wasn’t bad?" Steph asked sarcastically.

" Our hometown is haunted and our community college is funded by my godfather. And he is a rich fruit loop.”

‘Ghosts?’

“You know Gotham University is funded by Wayne Enterprises right?”

“Annoying crazy fruit loop or weird himbo? Hmmm. Yeah, I’m going to have to go with the himbo on this one.”

Steph laughed at that one. Bruce is going to want to hear about this but she’ll keep him away from these siblings for a little while.

[bugfail]

This has been on my mind recently I oughta say it. Shipping culture is soooo annoying sometimes. Sometimes pairings can be damn funny, right? But most of the time it's obnoxious!! Instead of exploring any interesting dynamic people decide to turn two characters into the same cookie cutter cis-het (even with gay shit they give it cis-het feel I GUESS) runs a coffee shop together bullshit. Not fully but it has that vibe?? After a fandom ship machine is turned on the characters go from like. Neon to beige. If that makes any fucking sense. And maybe they fuck. Whatever. Fine. But it's all sooooo annoying to me. "durrrr I don't care about the beauty of nuance and complexity of human relationships I want them to have 5 kids and a dog and a white picketed fence!" I'm going to lift you up from the ankles and shake you til your lunch money falls out. YOU'RE LAMMMEEEE!!!!! NOT EVERYTHING IS A ROMANTIC RELATIONSHIP OR DIE ALONE CIRCUMSTANCE YOU ARE LAME AND BEIGE!!!!!!!

[sparklystarrrr]

Madhatter!reader x riddle?👀

just imagine riddle yelling at a heartslabyul student for breaking a rule and mad hatter! reader just walk in the room rambling and showing off all the hats they made OR just saying saying random things,and riddle just standing there looking lovesick at them,making the heartslabyul student just standing there confused like:🧍

In a nutshell:

Random heartslabyul student:what do you see in that guy?

Riddle: they makes me laugh

Mad hatter!reader: I ate a glow stick today ! My love! ( ᐛ )/

I think that will be funny to write about

THAT'S ADORABLEEEE I had a good giggle while writing this, tehehe~

Hats Galore

Synopsis: There is one cure and one cure only to Riddle's monstrous temper, that being his lovely partner of course!

Contains: Riddle R. x Gn! Mad Hatter! Reader, slightly possessive/protective Riddle

The evening was a bright and sunny one, and quite calm! Almost... too calm.

Coming from the Heartslabyul living quarters, a quarrel had erupted. two boys inside the dorm had decided that they'd had enough of each other. There were objects flying everywhere, shattered glass askew on the checkered floor, furniture shoved out of position and two slightly bloody and bruised boys in the middle of a concerned circle.

The sound of heavy clicking heels shut down the screaming in the room. The circle of boys created a horse shoe shape, letting their furious and bright red faced Housewarden into the circle to assess the situation. The boys caught sight of Housewarden Riddle and instantly took their hands off of one another. They looked down in shame while Riddle stared in fury. "Excuse me. Have the rules pertaining to the Queen of Hearts rule book not made it exceedingly clear that there is absolutely NO FIGHTING IN THIS DORM."

The boys glanced at each other then flinched at Riddle's booming voice,"Rule No. 546, No fighting inside living quarters. Since you have so ruthlessly broken this rule, I have no choice but to punish you." A growling yell wrung through the once peaceful dorm. "OFF WITH YOUR HE--!!!" Riddle screamed, just about to finish his sentence before a giggly voice flew through the tense air,"Oh Riddle~ Would you like to see one of my new hats? Come come I made a new hat, yes I did!~"

It seemed like Riddle's demeanor had changed in the span of a millisecond. It was concerning to onlookers who saw his once piercing eyes softened into a fluffy marshmallow frosting on the sweetest cake when laying his eyes on the ditzy (y/n) before him."See see? This hat right here is made from only thee finest fabrics of a wild Bandersnatch I caught with my own two hands, I did!"

Riddle's face softened and melted into a warm smile while he giggled at his partner's antics,"Ah, (y/n) dear, the hat looks just as well crafted as ever. Such a talented partner I have." Watching (y/n) pop out of their room on occasion to reveal their newest hat design was Riddle's favorite parts of his day. Although for the rest of the dorm members, they found it quite odd... Not just how (y/n) acted, but... how Riddle was so deeply in love with the hatter?

They all started and glanced around with confused expressions, some stifling a giggle behind their hand. One brave soul dared to interrupt Riddle and (y/n)'s sweet moment by getting close and whispering in his ear trying to be discreet,"Uh, Housewarden Rosehearts, that's really your partner?" Riddle simply smiles, though there was an undertone of 'I'm going to kill you if you ever say that again' hiding behind his glittering grey eyes "They make me laugh, and their passion for hats is truly admirable."

"Oh Riddle, you do cause an action of my diaphragm to force air from my lungs and vibrate my vocal cords as well, haha!(that just means a laugh...)" (y/n) snorted while plopping their new hat on their head. "Come come now Riddle boy! I must make a hat for you, I plucked feathers off a dodo bird I believe you'd especially like the color of. Let us be off, yes we should!!"

(y/n) happily grabbed his gloved hand and dragged him to their room to keep him there for most likely a few days on end while they created a specially made hat just for him! Of course, the red haired boy had no complaints of the dragging and practically being held captive in his partners room. If this wasn't a sign of the hatter's devotion to him, what else could be?

[slutoru1207]

Invincible!Mark x reader x Variants!Mark part 7

Warnings: AFAB Reader, Heavy Pregnancy, Psychological Distress, Possessive Behavior, Multiversal Variants, Angst, Horror Elements, Slight Yandere Themes, Escalating Tension, Action, Desperate Escape Attempt, Early Labor

A cold wind howled through the ruined cityscape where the Variants had gathered, each one wearing a different expression—rage, grief, obsession. The battle had not yet begun, but tensions ran high, each of them standing in quiet contemplation, reflecting on the one thing they had all lost: her.

Sinister Mark was the first to speak, his voice low, almost amused. “Funny, isn’t it? Some of us had her right in our hands… and still, she slipped away.”

A more battle-worn Variant, scars littering his arms, glared at him. “You think this is funny?” His voice cracked with something raw, something broken. “I held our child. I held her hand while she screamed in pain, while she bled out. I couldn’t save her.” His fists clenched. “None of us could.”

A younger Variant, his face barely weathered by battle, looked away, jaw tight. “She never even got that far in my world. She was gone before we could have anything.” His voice faltered. “I wanted a family with her. We talked about it. We planned. But then… nothing. Just blood. Just—” He stopped himself, eyes narrowing. “I won’t let that happen again.”

One of the darker Variants, one who had given himself entirely to Viltrum, scoffed. “You’re all so sentimental. This isn’t about love. It’s about claiming what’s mine.” His gaze flickered toward the distant horizon, toward where the real Mark held you close, fighting to keep you away from them. “The moment she carries my child, she belongs to me. It’s that simple.”

Another scoffed, this one from a Mark who looked like he had long since abandoned the idea of softness. “And what? You think a baby makes her yours? That’s not how this works.” He exhaled sharply, eyes distant. “I lost her too. She died before I could even tell her how much she meant to me. And now? Now I just want her back.”

Sinister Mark tilted his head, an eerie smile stretching across his lips. “It’s fascinating, isn’t it? The way she binds us together. The way she makes us feel like we’re human when we should be above such things.” His gaze darkened. “But in the end, it doesn’t matter what we feel. It matters what we take.”

The scarred Variant stepped forward, voice like thunder. “We aren’t here to debate. We’re here to get her back.” His eyes burned with fury. “I won’t watch her die again. I won’t lose another child.”

A heavy silence settled over them.

Then, the first steps toward war were taken.

They moved as one, their purpose unified, their desires fractured but converging on a single goal.

You.

And inside the facility, your contractions came closer together, the storm approaching faster than anyone had anticipated.

[brokenspider-lilies]

Mortals behave in such funny ways around Gods. They tend to bend themselves over simply for the slight acknowledgment from the heavenly beings. Mydei never understood the pleasure of watching someone make a fool of themselves for the amusement of the Gods. Even when he became one, his temple did not receive the usual worship. If there was one place in Amphoreus that remained gloomy and devoid of all attention, it was his domain.

Yet, his life of godhood was peaceful. All he had known was wrath, war, and blood. For once, after all he had encountered, Mydei could finally go to sleep without the screams and pleas resonating inside his bones. He had put to rest the fury of his people, and he could now focus on his growth, peace, and eternal solitude.

As walls grew around his heart and temple, so did the rumors.

"Mydei does not care for worshipers. Mydei is too difficult. Mydei required more offerings than any other Gods. Mydei will unleash his wrath upon you."

The whisper of the wind would bring these rumors to his own ears. And oh, how much he rejoyced upon them. No work had to be done when it came to driving worshipers away. The talks around the planet were doing the job quite easily. And thus, the mighty and great Mydei was left with no worshipers.

And how much of a blessing that was. If only it had lasted for more than a hundred years.

Unaware of the changes and turmoils his life had yet to undergo, Mydei sat atop his throne of blood and fear, his sight averted from those around him. Aglaea and Tribbie, the first Gods to welcome him on his new path, had yet to receive a sign from him. All anyone knew was that the great God of Strife was passing his immortal days confined to his throne.

That is why historians suppose Mydei was unaware of the arrival of a follower. Busy with his solitude, he had not contacted you until it was too late. Your garments were already adorning his colors, your prayers had reshapped around his name, and your gospel was spreading to the masses.

You were known for being godless. One of the heretics, they called you. You had grown up with science as your beacon of light, the teachings of your parents being the only things you had ever believed. While your peers believed in the stories and myths of immortal beings, you knew that, past the stars in the sky, there was another world waiting for you.

And then you encountered strife. Not Mydei himself, but its action. You saw blood, bodies, and death piling on top of your own house, your own village, and your entire being. Friends, family, and peers were all lost due to the incompetence of humankind and petty fights. While the rest of the planet lived, your village came to its end. And no one batted an eyelash. Not even the Gods.

In the span of less than a week, you had changed completely. Some chalked it down to the stress and pain you had just gone through. You might have even agreed with them, if only deep down, you did not have a tormenting voice reminding you that Mydei stood where your family had perished.

Now, his colors adorned your body; his temple was your new home. He might not have known it, but you had done the impossible just for him. You had walked for days and nights with no end just to reach his door. Food had been scarce on your journey, but hunger was nothing compared to the yearning you had for him. Once you had stood in his temple, all of your worries had vanished; the pain and aching in your bones were but a mere afterthought.

You had fallen in love. You were not sure if it had happened during your journey or if you were destined from birth to live this emotion. But your place was here. Mydei's temple was now your home.

Yet, you had to wait 30 days before he addressed you. Not even aware of your presence at first, Mydei had thought you would have left by the 10th day. Yet, you kneeled and prayed and slept and worshipped him without requesting anything back. You did not ask for the souls of your beloveds to come back. You did not ask for mercy at his hands. You did not ask for money, gold, fame, or power. The only thing you had hoped for was acknowledgment.

And on the 30th day, you received it. A firm, deep voice made your ears ring. You would have chalked it to your imagination if only the voice had not asked you to leave his temple. Only one man would have such a request.

"Leave at once. There is nothing to gain here."

As harsh as the words were, they did not have the power to push you away. So you stayed. You responded, requesting an audience with Mydei. What guts you had, asking for a meeting with the God of Strife. He would have laughed in your face if he had not taken you seriously.

But he did. The look in your eyes told him that you truly wanted to see him. If only he had been stronger. If only you had not started a fire in his soul. If only he had not yearned for a companion.

Before he knew it, his physical form had materialized before you. Mydei stood before you, his first worshiper, the one he would make a sage of the Temple of Strife.

The first few months with you were now a blur in his memory. From your first encounter to the lengthy talk about your village to the apologies shared between you two, everything was but a coherent string of events in Mydei's mind. He wasn't the type to forget so easily, but the new changes in his life had taken him by surprise.

As his sage, you had many more encounters with him. Daily talks, walks around the domain, nightly rendezvous. These were but the few things you did together. As the only being around you, Mydei had become your confidant, your other half. You found comfort in his presence, even with the knowledge that he had taken your loved ones away.

And Mydei found peace with you. The pending doom in his body had subdued since you had entered his life. You were his anchor, keeping him grounded to reality. He tried to match his breathing to yours; he would listen to your heartbeat, he would do anything to keep one foot in your world, to make himself feel mortal.

"There is nothing good that will come out of this. Gods and mortals cannot co-exist."

Those were the words he would utter at times. And each time, you reminded him that between you two, there was no co-existence. You belonged together. You were meant to be together. The Fates had intertwined your lives together. It was not just mere co-existence; it was a prophecy that must have been written in the stars.

Mydei believed every word of it. As love-struck as he was, he could not possibly see that every time you reassured him, you looked away from him. And you hated the lies you were spewing.

It was only after you had betrayed him that he realized what you two had was not love. It was revenge. He had spent so many years chasing his own anger and retribution that he had missed the signs you left behind your trail.

Of course, you marched down to his temple. Of course, you had spent weeks in filth just to get his attention. Of course, you had pushed your limits to make him lower his guard.

And you attacked when he least expected it. While he sat next to you, dreaming of a world where you two could live forever, he felt the sharp object plunge into his back. And you stood there, your hands wrapped around the knife, as you saw the blood pooling under him, you dreamt of a life in your village. A life he robbed you of.

You had known his weak spot. He told you himself where it was. And you used it against him. You had one chance, and you had to make it count. You had to kill a God. And you did.

Historians always remember this story as a revenge plot, a scheme you had concocted to get back at a God for taking everything away from you.

But they never asked themselves, why did you have a funeral for your God? Why did you stay in his temple, maintaining it? Why did you still pray to him and write your gospels in books for future generations? Why did you lay in your own tomb, right next to him? Why did you die with a smile on your face, knowing you will see him?

[revelboo]

Everything is Alright pt 6

Starscream x Reader- angry

•What does it say about you that you’re starting to look forward to your daily conversations? Besides the screamingly obvious conclusion that you have a bad case of Stockholm’s, anyway. For a giant, probably evil, alien robot, Starscream isn’t exactly awful. Snarky, insecure, and narcissistic, but not awful. And honestly, those flustered, little wing fidgets or startled silences when you play along or agree with him are kind of adorable.

• You’re definitely losing it. The big mech has become a confusing tangle of emotions in your chest. He’s your captor. He’s funny and surprisingly almost kind when he wants to be. He’s dramatic. He’s… a friend? Because, yeah, maybe you are getting a bit protective of the giant alien keeping you prisoner and maybe your heart aches every time he’s surprised or thrown off kilter by a tiny bit of kindness or compassion. Like it’s something he rarely gets.

• So when the door to his quarters slides open, you stand with a genuine smile, hand lifting in greeting only to freeze. That’s not your giant alien. Breath locking in your lungs, you slowly back away to the far side of your enclosure as two robots remarkably similar except in color to your robot enter his space. Sure, you’d realized that there had to be others as terrifying as the thought was, but he kept you hidden away like a secret.

• “We shouldn’t be in here,” the blue one grumbles, optics scanning the room with what sounded like trepidation. Or guilt. “He’s been weird lately. Keeping to himself.” The purple and black one starts opening drawers to root through the contents while you pray that they don’t turn, because your stupid, clear cage is right at their eye level.

• You’re still backing away when you step on the edge of your blanket, the material sliding under your heel as you yelp and fall. No, no, no. Don’t look. Don’t- crap. Both of them turn at the same time and stare right at you.

• “Is that… a human?” Blue alien is frowning as the purple one shoulders past him to stare at you as you do an undignified crab walk to scoot away to the other side of your prison until your back hits the wall. The purple one is grinning now as he reaches to hook a servo over the top edge of your box and tilt it. You go sliding to thump against the hard surface, heart racing as he tilts the cube further until you’re looking almost straight down at the floor below. Does he realize a fall from the height will kill you? Does he care?

• You’ve seen that cruel, amused glint in Skywarp’s optics before. If he’d been human, he’d have been one of those boys merrily hunting down ants to incinerate with a magnifying glass. And now you’re the ant. “Cut it out, Skywarp,” the blue one growls, but he doesn’t move to intervene.

• Instead of stopping, Skywarp reaches his free hand in and you fling yourself back to try and avoid being snatched. That only makes him flatten you against the far wall hard enough your head smacks the surface, stunning you. And then he’s grabbing you in a much too tight grip, lifting your limp, unresisting body free.

• You wonder if he’ll crush you or drop you. Ribs screaming at how tight his grip is, you can’t get a clean breath. Maybe he is going to just crush you slowly. Behind him, the door opens and you catch a glimpse of red armor, relief nearly making you sob. Starscream.

• Freezing just inside his quarters, Starscream’s optics narrow on his trine before alarm jangles through him. Skywarp has the human, its face ruddy as it weakly struggles against his grip. Anger spills through him in a dark tide as he bares his denta. “You dare?”

• “What?” Skywarp demands, voice all cruel amusement as he tosses the human up to catch in his hand. You scream, the sharp sound choking off suddenly. “Why do you even care? It’s only human.”

• You’ve seen Starscream angry before. At least, you thought you had, but this? As he charges at Skywarp, his face twisted in savage fury, you don’t recognize him. He drives Skywarp back, one of his hands seizing the other mech’s wrist and squeezing until he yelps. His other hand prying you free from Skywarp’s grip. It’s not gentle when he snatches you and there’s going to be bruises, but you’re too shocked as he snacks the muzzle of the weapon on his forearm into Skywarp’s face in a very obvious threat.

• Then the other one is there, trying to calm them both down as Starscream presses you to his chassis. You can hear him venting, the rough sound ending on soft growls. You feel like you’re in a fog, aware of the three arguing, but unable to focus on the words. How hard had you hit your head when Skywarp had pinned you? Exhausted, you lay your cheek against Starscream, soaking in the warmth and trying to shut everything else out.

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[clownprincesshq]

Chapter 6 Part 2: A Father's Return and a Tiny Arrival

"All we'll ever need is each other. Absolutely, that's true. But if you'd stop being so cynical for one second and take this chance with me...we might finally find ourselves a place where we belong."

Main!Mark Grayson x Psychic! Reader

warnings: more smut </3, nolan is his own warning, mentions of death,

w/c: 11.7k

a/n: just a reminder—this isn’t canon-compliant :) thank you for reading <3

Mark stands in the center of the room with his hands crossed and his emotions trapped somewhere between fury and relief.

Nolan simply breathes.

You don't say anything.

Because there’s nothing to say.

Not while the wounds are still this fresh.

Debbie hasn’t come back out. Oliver’s soft cooing filtered briefly through the hall. She didn’t slam the door. She didn’t scream. That silence was worse.

You linger near the kitchen for a moment, but when Mark glances at you and jerks his chin toward the back of the house, you get it. This isn’t a conversation meant for witnesses.

You nod once, give Nolan a last look, then step outside.

And when the screen door clicks shut behind you, Mark turns.

He doesn’t say anything at first.

Nolan’s still seated, his arms resting on his knees, trying not to look like he’s leaning on his injuries, like he isn’t actively bleeding through his shirt onto his pants, into the worn fabric of the armchair. Trying to maintain that brittle Viltrumite pride even when his skin looks paper-thin and exhausted.

Mark stares at him.

Not his wounds. Not the bruises.

Just him.

And you can almost feel the temperature shift in the room.

“You should’ve stayed gone.”

Nolan exhales slowly. “I considered it.”

“Then why didn’t you?”

Mark’s voice is sharp. Clipped. Barely restrained.

Nolan looks up. “Because of Oliver. Because of you.”

Mark laughs. Not because anything is funny, but because it’s all too much.

“You’ve got some messed up way of showing love.”

“I know,” Nolan says, steady. “I’m not asking you to pretend any of this is okay.”

Mark paces a little, fingers dragging through his hair. “Then what are you asking, huh? For us to just house your kid while you play space fugitive? For me to cover for you while Mom gets stuck raising the son you had with someone else?”

“I didn’t come here to ask for anything,” Nolan says. “I came here because Earth is still vulnerable. And I’m not the only one who knows it.”

That stops Mark in his tracks.

He turns, slowly.

“What do you mean?”

Nolan hesitates. “I mean the Viltrumites are reorganizing. Quietly. And quickly. They’re preparing for something. I don’t know what yet, but it’s not just planetary conquest anymore. It’s something larger. Coordinated.”

Mark frowns. “You said you lost them.”

“I did. But I also know how they work. I know what it looks like when the Empire starts to move. And they’re moving.”

Mark stares at him. “You’ve been gone for months. You don’t get to walk in here bleeding and cryptic and expect me to take your word for it. What the hell are you actually trying to say?”

Nolan’s voice softens, not with weakness, but something else. Something like urgency.

“I’m saying that I need to speak to the Coalition of Planets. Soon.”

Mark blinks. “The—what?”

“The Coalition. It’s a confederation of systems that are trying to resist Viltrumite control,” Nolan says, voice lower now, more focused. “You’ve probably heard of them from Allen.”

“The alien?”

Nolan nods once. “Allen. He’s part of them. High-ranking now, I think. They’ve been trying to keep the Viltrumite threat in check, but they’re losing ground. And if something big is coming, and I believe it is, they need to know.”

Mark just stares at him.

There’s a hundred questions on his tongue, but only one escapes.

“So now you’re a hero again? Is that what this is?”

Nolan flinches, just barely. “No. I’m trying to keep you alive.”

“I was alive,” Mark snaps, stepping closer now, fists clenching at his sides. “I was surviving. I was healing. And now you’ve dragged all of this back to our front door like it was never your fault to begin with.”

“I know it was my fault.”

“Then act like it!” Mark’s voice cracks. He swallows hard. “Stop talking around everything like you’re trying to protect me with riddles. If something’s coming, if there’s some massive threat you’re too scared to name, say it.”

Nolan meets his eyes, steady.

But he doesn’t speak.

He doesn’t elaborate. Doesn’t explain what’s coming. Just lets the silence hang between them like a loaded gun.

Mark’s lip curls. “Right. That’s what I thought.”

“I’m not being cryptic for my sake,” Nolan says finally. “I’m doing it for yours. The less you know, the less of a target you become.”

“Oh, that’s bullshit,” Mark says, voice dripping with disbelief. “That’s the same excuse you used before. To justify lying to me. To justify everything. I don’t need your protection, I never did. I needed a dad. And I got a killer in a cape who thinks secrecy is love.”

Nolan’s jaw tightens.

“You’re right,” he says after a long beat. “I failed you. Over and over again.”

Mark’s voice lowers, but it’s still trembling with fury. “So don’t do it again. If something’s coming, say it. If this is bigger than Earth, include me. Because I’m not a kid anymore. You don’t get to protect me from your mistakes by hiding them.”

Nolan looks down, chest rising and falling slowly.

“I’m scared, Mark.”

Mark freezes.

Those three words hit like a sledgehammer.

“I’ve seen things,” Nolan says. “What the Viltrumites are planning, it’s not just about expansion anymore. It’s about annihilation. And if I’m right… if what I’ve heard is even half-true…”

He trails off, eyes distant.

Mark doesn’t press. Doesn’t demand answers this time.

Instead, he exhales. Long. Shaky.

“You should’ve come sooner.”

Nolan nods, slow and tired. “I know.”

“I’m still angry,” Mark says. “I don’t know if I’ll ever stop being angry.”

“You have every right to be.”

Mark turns, walking toward the door.

He hesitates with his hand on the frame.

“You’re not staying here.”

Nolan doesn’t argue.

“I’ll rest. Then I’ll go.”

Mark nods once, eyes still fixed ahead. “I’ll call Allen. Get you to the Coalition.”

He pauses again. Then adds.

“But this doesn’t make us family again.”

And then he walks out, leaving Nolan alone with his wounds and his ghosts.

And the silence follows, as always.

Mark doesn’t slam the door.

He shuts it gently behind him, like the act of being loud would shatter whatever fragile thing is still holding this night together. The hallway is dim. Only the light from the kitchen bleeds into the space, golden and too warm for how cold he feels inside.

He sees the flicker of his mom’s robe first, just barely visible in the doorway to the guest room. She’s standing there in the half-light, arms folded, head bowed.

She doesn’t look up right away.

She doesn’t need to.

“You done yelling at him?” she asks softly, not turning around.

Mark exhales through his nose. “For now.”

Debbie nods. “Good.”

There’s a long pause.

Mark leans against the wall, hands stuffed in his pockets like a teenager again. Like it’s easier to pretend he didn’t just relive the worst parts of his past ten feet away from her.

“Is he okay?” she asks.

Mark doesn’t answer right away. “Physically? Barely. Emotionally? I don’t know. Honestly, I don’t think he even knows.”

Debbie sighs, her fingers tightening on her sleeves. She finally steps back into the hallway, gently pulling the guest room door shut behind her. You hear the faintest whimper from Oliver, a soft baby sound that makes something ache in Mark’s chest, but Debbie doesn’t flinch. Just pulls the door until it clicks.

Then she turns and looks at him.

It’s the first time she really sees him tonight.

And the expression on her face…God. It’s so tired. So raw. Not angry, not anymore. Just bruised.

“I didn’t think I’d ever see him again,” she whispers.

Mark doesn’t look away. “Me neither.”

“He was supposed to be dead,” she adds, not blinking. “Or gone. Forever. And now he’s just… in my house. Like a nightmare I never finished having.”

Mark swallows hard. “I know.”

They stand there for a second, neither of them sure what to do with their hands, or their grief.

Then Debbie moves first.

She steps forward and cups his face in both hands. Her touch is soft but firm, the way it always was when he was younger and upset and trying too hard not to cry. Her thumbs brush over his cheekbones like she’s checking for damage, like she’s memorizing that he’s still here.

“You okay?” she asks, voice cracking.

He hesitates, long enough for her to know the answer.

Then he nods. “I will be.”

She nods back, and her hands drop to his shoulders.

Mark doesn’t let go of the tension in his body until she pulls him into a hug. Not one of those awkward, one-arm, sideways things. No, this is tight. This is a mother holding her son because they’ve both been through hell and haven’t had a second to just breathe.

He squeezes her back, burying his face in her shoulder for just a moment.

“I didn’t want this,” he says quietly. “I didn’t want him back. I didn’t want to look at him and feel anything. But I saw that kid, and… I couldn’t walk away.”

Debbie doesn’t pull back. “You did the right thing.”

“I’m still so angry,” he admits. “At him. At everything. I want to punch holes in the walls. But I also don’t want to be like him.”

“You’re not like him,” she says immediately, fierce. “You’ve never been like him.”

“I have his powers.”

“You have my heart,” she snaps, pressing her hand against his chest. “That’s what matters. That’s what saved this planet.”

Mark’s breath catches. “You think it was worth it? Everything we went through?”

Debbie doesn’t answer right away.

But she cups his face again and smiles, soft and tired and a little sad.

“I look at you,” she says, “and yeah. It was worth it. Even with the broken pieces.”

Mark nods, eyes glassy now.

He leans into her hand for a second before stepping back and rubbing at his face.

“I’m sorry I brought this here. I didn’t know what else to do.”

She shakes her head. “Don’t apologize for trying to do the right thing. That’s what he never learned.”

They both look down the hallway toward the guest room.

“Poor kid,” Debbie murmurs. “He didn’t ask for any of this.”

“Neither did we,” Mark says.

Debbie gives a small, humorless laugh. “Yeah. Guess that makes us family now.”

Mark chuckles dryly. “A really messed-up one.”

She leans her head against his shoulder. “The best kind.”

They stand there for a while, not saying anything else.

And for the first time since Nolan crashed back into their lives, since everything, they let themselves rest. Just a little.

Long enough to remember they’re still standing. Still fighting.

Together.

The morning air is still cold as you go out onto the porch. 

The light is soft, thin clouds veiling the sun as it rises over the tranquil neighborhood. It’s early, not even six yet.The peaceful type of early where the street is empty, the birds are just beginning to sing, and even the breeze feels reluctant to stir. You’ve always enjoyed mornings like these, ones that hold a peculiar feeling of peace before the world wakes up and everything gets noisy again. Nolan’s sitting on the steps, slumped forward, elbows resting on his knees, hands knotted together. His bruises had become deeper overnight, the purpling of healing layered over still-red gashes. He seems worse in the light, less strong, more… mortal. His face is pale behind the scratchy stubble, hair still moist from the shower you think he had to take in the middle of the night. 

You expected he’d leave before anyone else got up. 

You walk out regardless. 

He doesn’t glance over, but his shoulders stiffen like he’s already braced for whatever this is. You sit down alongside him cautiously, not too near, allowing him room. 

Neither of you talks at first.

There’s no need for niceties. 

Not after yesterday night. 

Not after everything. 

Finally, he breaks the silence.

“I didn’t expect to make it this far.” 

You glance over.

. 

He’s still looking ahead at nothing. His eyes are harsh, distant, the type of haunted that doesn’t fade with sleep. Like part of him never left Thraxa. Or that battleground. Or her. 

“Andressa,” you whisper gently. “Oliver’s mother?” 

He nods once. 

“She was brave,” he says. “Not in the way Viltrumites measure it. Not in combat. Not in blood. But in living. In choosing peace. In choosing to love someone like me when she had every reason not to.” 

There’s something harsh beneath the edge of his voice. Not regret. Not exactly.

Guilt. 

“She died when they came,” he continues after a pause, jaw clenching. “She tried to protect him. Gave me time to leave with him.” 

You gaze down at his hands. They’re still strung together, still firm despite the slight tremor in his voice. 

“I’m sorry,” you say. 

He nods, but doesn’t answer. Not right away. 

Instead, he looks over at you for the first time, saying your name with a questioning tone.

You nod slowly. “Yeah.” 

“I’ve read reports on you.” 

That makes you blink. “Oh?” 

“From the GDA. From Cecil.” His eyes narrow slightly. “You were supposed to be their failsafe. A psychic raised in isolation. Born with enough raw mental energy to level cities. Someone too dangerous to let live freely, but too valuable to waste.”

You don’t respond.

You’ve heard this before. That cold language. That weaponization of your existence. It slides off now like water off old stone. 

“And yet,” he says, nodding toward the house, “you’re the one who held my son. Who comforted him. Protected him.”

You tilt your head. “What, you surprised I’m more than what they trained me to be?” 

“No,” he says. “Surprised you didn’t turn into someone like me.” 

That stops you. 

You observe him for a minute. Really look at him. 

He’s a man born of war, groomed for power, trained to perceive empathy as weakness. But behind all of that—because of all of that—you recognize something familiar. 

Loneliness. 

He’s been carrying it like a second skin. So long as he doesn’t even feel the weight of it anymore.  

“I had a choice,” you reply calmly. “Eventually. Someone handed it to me.” 

His eyes flicker. “Mark.” 

You nod. 

“He makes people better,” you add. “Even when he doesn’t try to.” 

Nolan breathes in carefully, then lets it out. “He’s… everything I was supposed to be. And all I couldn’t.” 

You shift, arms resting freely on your knees. 

“He still hates you,” you remark, not unkindly. “You know that, right?” 

“Yes,” Nolan responds simply.   “I hate me too.” 

It’s not dramatic. It’s not self-pity. It’s just fact. Raw and bare. 

You nod again, not showing compassion. He’s not asking for it. 

“You’re not staying?” you inquire. 

“No. Mark made it obvious. Debbie too.” 

“Do you want to stay?” 

Nolan hesitates. 

And that pause, that slight split in his expression, is louder than any explanation he could provide. 

“It wouldn’t help,” he admits ultimately. “Every second I’m here, I make things worse.” 

You don’t agree. But you don’t argue either. 

Instead, you ask, “Where will you go?” 

“I need to get in contact with the Coalition,” he answers. “I don’t know what’s coming yet, but I can feel it. Something about the manner the Viltrumite Empire is moving, more strategic. Less dispersed. I have to know why.” 

“And you’re sure they’ll trust you?” 

“I’m not,” Nolan acknowledges. “But I have to try. For Oliver. For Mark. For Earth.” 

You nod slowly. Then pause. 

“Will we see you again?”

 Another lengthy silence. 

“I hope not,” he responds honestly. “But if you do… it means something worse is coming.” 

You both sit in that notion for a minute, letting it settle between you like a shadow neither of you invited.

Then Nolan stands, moaning softly as his ribs twist. 

You stand too.

He appears older today. Not because of the wounds or the blood, but because of the weight in his stance. Like a soldier who’s outlived his fight but doesn’t know how to walk in peace. 

He turns back toward you, eyes piercing again. 

“Take care of them.” 

You meet his eyes. 

“I already am.” 

He nods once. 

Then without another word, Nolan flies off the porch. And leaves into the calm dawn, leaving the house, and the fractured past inside it, behind. 

When you enter back into the home, it’s warm with the delicate aroma of coffee and something sweet. Debbie must’ve made toast or brought something out of the freezer, but she hasn’t touched anything.   The sound of the TV is on low, some local news anchor muttering about the city council vote that no one’s actually listening to. It’s the type of commonplace that feels exotic after the previous twenty-four hours. Your heels are silent on the floor as you move down the hall, past the door where Nolan had been, now open and vacant. No sign of him remained, only rumpled bedding and the faint aroma of antiseptic from the bandages you’d discovered in the bathroom cupboard. 

He’s actually gone. 

You find them in the living room. 

Mark is on the couch, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, appearing like he hasn’t slept even though you know he did, briefly.

It didn’t help. His hair’s still damp from a fast shower, his hair untamed, and his eyes have the same guarded tiredness you observed last night. 

Debbie is cuddled in the armchair with a throw blanket over her legs and Oliver in her lap. The baby’s tucked against her bosom, blinking slowly, with the type of serenity you don’t typically get from babies, like he’s still too fresh to know if he trusts the world, so he’s choosing to just… observe. 

But then he sees you. 

And something changes. 

His eyes light up, and a little, squeaky sound exits his mouth, not exactly a laugh, but not far from one either. He spreads his small arms, plump purple fingers curving in your direction. 

Debbie stares down at him, astonished, then across at you. “Well. That’s new.” 

You blink, gazing between them. “He remembers me?” 

“He’s been fussing on and off since Nolan left,” she whispers gently. “But he quieted the second he saw you.” 

You approach carefully, cautious, not wanting to assume anything, but as you crouch near the chair, Oliver’s small hand shoots out, clutching onto the fabric of your clothes like he’s terrified you’ll disappear again. 

And you feel it. 

A lovely, flowering warmth in your chest. Gentle, grounding. 

You didn’t anticipate this. 

Not from him.

Not from anybody. 

“I guess I made an impression,” you mumble. 

Mark moves on the couch, watching. He doesn’t grin, precisely, but there’s something in his expression, something exhausted yet compassionate. 

“You did,” he replies quietly. 

Debbie raises Oliver, passing him over with accustomed ease. Her actions are confident, yet she hesitates for a second longer than she has to, her hand lingering on his back before letting go. 

You place the baby into your arms, and he relaxes like you’re already known. 

Like you’re his. 

His small head dips against your shoulder, a gentle coo leaving him as he tucks his cheek into your neck. 

Debbie watches with a confused look on her face, somewhere between relief, worry, and something more.

Something maternal. 

“Don’t take this the wrong way,” she adds finally, “but I didn’t expect him to like you this much.” 

You glance up. “Because I’m not his family?” 

“Because he doesn’t like anyone,” she responds, scratching her temples. “He’s been cranky and clingy all morning since he left. But you come in and it’s like flipping a switch.” 

“I think he remembers me from last night,” you mumble. “He calmed down when I held him then too.” 

Mark sits back, one arm stretched over the back of the couch, eyes on Oliver now. “Or maybe he’s just smarter than the rest of us.” 

Debbie lifts an eyebrow. “You calling yourself dumb, or me?” 

Mark lifts both hands. “Equal opportunity.” 

Debbie snorts, but her attention swings back to you and the baby. “He looks good with you.” 

The words hang there for a minute too long. 

You gaze down at Oliver again, who’s now chewing peacefully on his fist, saliva dripping on your shoulder. His little legs are nestled against your side, soft and warm and heartbreakingly little. 

“I didn’t think I’d be holding a baby this week,” you say honestly.

“Me neither,” Debbie answers, and this time her voice breaks. 

She clamps a palm over her lips and looks away, blinking rapidly. 

Mark sits up, laying a soothing touch on her knee. “You okay?” 

Debbie shakes her head, eyes blurry. “No. But I’m trying.” 

You reach out and grasp her hand, anchoring her with a slight squeeze. 

Oliver gurgles faintly, as if to agree. 

Mark leans back again, stroking a weary palm across his face. “So now what?” 

“I don’t know,” Debbie whispers. “I guess we figure it out as we go. Like always.” 

You nod slowly. “I can help.” 

Mark’s eyes meet yours.

You don’t say I want to. Or I’m offering. Just I can. Because you don’t need to make it bigger than it is. It’s not about spectacular gestures or heroic sacrifices. 

It’s all about showing up. 

“Thank you,” Debbie responds quietly. 

Oliver squirms a bit, eyelids drooping, and you cuddle him closer, rocking him gently. His small breaths warm on your neck. 

Mark watches all of it. The way you hold Oliver. The way his mother watches you. The way you’re not running. 

He leans forward again, forearms braced on his knees, and says quietly, “You know, he might not be mine… but I think he’s going to need all three of us.” 

You gaze at him, astonished by the tenderness in his tone. 

But Debbie only nods, slow and sure. 

“Then he’s got us,” she adds. 

You all sit there in the calm, bathed in the unsure tranquility of a new day. 

And for now, that’s enough.

It’s early afternoon when you and Mark finally get Oliver wrapped up, concealing most of his purple skin, and out of the house. The day is warm for spring, the type of warmth that seeps slowly into your garments instead of pounding down on your flesh. Sunlight flickers through the trees, flashing across the pavement as Mark pushes the stroller like he’s worried he’ll smash it. You’d taunted him about it in the kitchen, how the most powerful person on Earth was scared of a folding plastic frame, and he’d cracked a smile, exhausted but true. 

Debbie had nearly forced the baby bag into your arms before fleeing to the couch, saying something about wine and 10 minutes of peace that “didn’t involve someone screaming or someone bleeding.” You couldn’t argue. She needed this. Maybe more than any of you. 

So now here you are, going down the peaceful sidewalk of their neighborhood, bordered by trees and the occasional barking dog, with Oliver cooing sweetly in his stroller and Mark still looking like he’s waiting for something to break. 

You peek over at him. “You look like you’re preparing for battle.” 

He huffs. “I just… don’t want to screw this up.” 

You smirk lightly. “You’re pushing a stroller. Not diffusing a bomb.” 

“With my luck, they’re the same thing.” 

You reach across and brush your shoulder on his. “You’re doing fine.” 

Mark lets out a deep breath and, for the first time since stepping out of the home, his grip on the handle loosens. He even manages a tiny smile. 

The park comes into view after a few more minutes, small, but pleasant. It’s the type of space you only ever notice when you need it. A playground lies in the middle, half-empty but still alive with the laughter of a few kids chasing each other between the swings and monkey bars. There’s a duck pond off to the right, seats beneath the shade of old trees, and a few parents lounging around with coffees and strollers of their own. 

You and Mark stay along the outside walkway at first, letting Oliver soak in the view. His eyes are wide, gazing at the trees above him like they’re revealing secrets he hasn’t learned how to interpret yet. Every so often, he gurgles gently or kicks one foot, like the breeze is something he wants to follow. 

“He’s really quiet,” Mark replies, a bit shocked. “I thought babies were supposed to, like… scream.”

You chuckle. “Maybe he’s just got a good vibe going.” 

“Or he’s lulling us into a false sense of security.” 

“Well, he is half Viltrumite.” 

Mark gives you a look, and you both laugh, and for the first time in what feels like days, it doesn’t feel heavy. It simply seems normal. 

You locate a bench beneath a tree and sit there, while Mark unbuckles Oliver and carefully pulls him out. He’s careful, almost too careful, but Oliver doesn’t grumble. Just stretches in his arms with a quiet, delighted gurgle, tugging for Mark’s sweatshirt with his small fists. 

“Hey, buddy,” Mark says, bouncing him gently. “You like the sunshine?” 

Oliver emits something like a squeal in return, one of his hands catching a clutch of Mark’s hair before letting go again. 

You laugh. “He’s got a good grip. Future superhero?” 

Mark sits down alongside you, clutching Oliver in one arm as the other rubs at his eyes. “Future something. I don’t know.” 

You observe him for a second, the strain still remaining in the curve of his shoulders. There’s something about seeing him like this, not Invincible, not fighting, just here. Holding a baby who shouldn’t be his duty, yet nevertheless is. 

“You okay?” you ask. 

He doesn’t answer right away. 

“Yeah,” he says finally. “I mean… no.   But this helps.” 

You nod. 

“I keep thinking about what it means,” he replies gently. “That he’s here. That my dad brought him. That there’s a kid in our life today that didn’t exist last week.” 

“You thinking about what it means for you, or for him?” 

“Both.” 

Oliver squirms and gives out a slight hiccup, and Mark moves him gently, like he’s done this a hundred times instead of only twice. 

“I didn’t get a choice when I found out what I was,” Mark murmurs. “Didn’t get a chance to decide what kind of life I wanted. My dad showed up with this mission I was born for, and the second I didn’t fall in line, he tried to kill me.”

Your chest tightens, but you keep silent. 

“I don’t want that for Oliver,” he continues, voice softer now. “I don’t want him growing up wondering if he’s a weapon or a person.” 

“He’s a person,” you reply firmly. “And we’re going to make sure he knows that.” 

Mark glances at you. “You say that like it’s simple.” 

“It’s not. But we have an opportunity to make it honest. And that’s more than Nolan ever offered any of you.” 

He swallows hard, nodding slowly. 

You rest your head on his shoulder. “We’ll teach him about Earth. About people. About ice cream and bedtime stories and the difference between choice and duty. You don’t have to do it alone.” 

He leans against you, just a bit, and Oliver’s head wobbles between you both, resting against your collarbone. 

“I know,” Mark responds. “I’m glad it’s you here.”

 You don’t say anything back. 

 You don’t have to. 

The wind rustles through the trees, and Oliver lets out a giggle, light and wobbly, but brilliant enough to pull grins from both of you. 

You sit there a little longer, the three of you. A patchwork family, bound together by loss and blood and second chances. 

And for the first time, you allowed yourself to imagine that maybe, not all at once, not without a fight, but maybe this could be the beginning of something better. 

It’s later now. The sun’s sunk lower in the sky, painting the clouds with a kind of golden warmth that makes the world feel calmer, softer around the edges. There’s a breeze whistling through the trees in leisurely waves, and the laughing from the opposite side of the park has started to diminish as parents corral sleepy kids and pack up drinks. 

Mark went to fetch something from a food truck across the street, pretzels, he muttered, like it was a task that required completion. You let him go. He needed a minute. You did too. 

Oliver’s in your arms again, cuddled against your chest like he’s always belonged there. One of his fists is balled into Mark’s hoodie you stole, while the other plays with your hair, pulling and releasing it in a sleepy rhythm. His eyes are wide and glassy, still soaking in the world like it’s a brand-new dream he hasn’t worked out how to navigate yet. 

You rock him softly on the bench, unhurried, side to side, your palm caressing his silky black hair. 

“You’re weirdly calm, you know that?” you mumble, partially to yourself. 

His lips split in a gummy half-smile, and he lets out a little gurgle. 

You look around once, make sure no one’s within watching range, and then let your mind reach forward, just a bit. 

It’s not intrusive. Not a deep dig. Just a touch of thought, feather-light, brushing up against the soft, fresh brightness of his mind. 

Hey, little star, you think gently, projecting the warmth you feel into the space between you. You in there?

A blossom of color. Yellow. Blue. A swirl of warmth, like blankets and pulse and the fragrance of flesh. 

You smile.

“You are in there,” you whisper, surprised. 

And it’s like he hears you, not with ears, but with something older, something softer. He crushes his face into your chest and lets out a sound that’s more than satisfaction. It’s recognition. 

You close your eyes for a time, let the connection settle. 

It’s okay, you assure him, silent but strong. You’re safe. No one’s going to hurt you. 

The answer is mild. Unformed. But it sweeps back against your mind like a sigh. Like sunshine through water. 

Safe.

It’s not quite a word. Not from him. But it’s understood. 

You open your eyes, swallowing the knot in your throat. 

No one had called you safe growing up. 

Not the GDA. Not Cecil. Not the scientists who analyzed your brain like it was an active bomb. 

But somehow, this baby, this half-alien miracle who had no reason to trust anyone, had looked at you and felt peaceful. 

It undoes something in you. 

Completely.

You put a kiss on the top of his head. 

“You’re something else, kid.” 

He hums, low and gentle, and you feel his thoughts fade again, drifting like feathers on a river. Already sliding into sleep. 

But you stay linked, just enough to watch that faint spark in his head. You’re not prying. Just present. 

You whisper to him again, not with your voice, but with your mind. 

You’re going to be okay, Oliver. I don’t know how yet. But I promise. I’ll be here. 

It’s not a promise you make lightly. 

You’ve never promised much to anybody. Not even Mark, not until lately. 

But this? 

Holding this little, innocent infant in your arms?

Feeling his ideas flourish like wildflowers in your mind? 

You mean it. 

You sit like that for a while, silent and still, rocking him gently with your mind partly elsewhere, attached only to him. 

Mark comes back eventually, carrying two paper bags and a plastic cup of lemonade between his arms like he’s defusing a bomb. He pauses when he sees you, and something in his expression softens immediately. 

“He asleep?” 

“Almost.” 

He lays the bags on the bench, stooping in front of you to glance at Oliver. “You’ve got some kind of baby magic, I swear.” 

You shrug, attempting to play it off. “He’s got good taste.” 

Mark smiles, then looks at you for a long moment. 

“What?” you ask. 

He shakes his head, silent. “Just… never seen you like this before.” 

“Like what?” 

“Like you’re not holding back.” 

You blink, caught off guard. 

“I’m not,” you say.  And it’s true. 

Mark’s attention falls to Oliver again. “He likes you. Like, really likes you.” 

You smirk. “You jealous?” 

“No,” he answers softly. “I’m… grateful.” 

He stands and settles near you on the bench again. Close enough that your arms touch. 

“I was so scared,” he says quietly, watching Oliver’s slow, even breathing. “When my dad showed up. When I saw Oliver. I didn’t know if I could do it.”

“You’re doing it now.” 

“Because you’re here.” 

You peek at him, heart thudding a bit harder. 

“You think I’d walk away from this?” 

“I wouldn’t blame you if you did.” 

You gaze down at the infant again. The small fingers. The regular rise and fall of his chest. 

“I can’t,” you say. “He already let me in.” 

Mark exhales like that fact is something weighty and sacred at once. 

The breeze picks up again, brushing leaves across the sidewalk. A few kids laugh distantly near the swing set.

And in your arms, the boy from the stars sleeps.

Wrapped in your warmth.

Connected to your thoughts.

The sky is tinged lavender by the time you get home.

The walk back from the park had been slow, sleepy. Mark pushing the stroller with one hand, the other resting lightly on your lower back. Oliver had dozed off on the way, his head tilted at a soft angle, tiny fingers still clutching the blanket Debbie had tucked around him like it was his last line of defense. Every few blocks, Mark would glance down, checking on him like he couldn’t quite believe he was still real.

You couldn’t either.

The house is quiet when you step in. Debbie’s passed out on the couch, an empty wine glass on the table beside her and an old book folded over her chest like she never made it past the first page. She doesn’t stir when the door closes. Just breathes deep, arms curled around herself like a woman who’d finally let herself unravel after holding it together for too long.

You cover her gently with a blanket, brushing a few strands of hair away from her face.

Then you take Oliver to the guest room.

Mark stays in the doorway as you set the baby down in the little crib Debbie had put together earlier, a makeshift nest of blankets and pillows and Mark’s old stuffed animals. He watches quietly as you adjust the blanket beneath Oliver’s cheek, brushing your hand once, twice over the tiny waves in his hair. He’s still asleep. Mouth parted slightly, breaths soft. Dreaming about something you’ll never see.

Mark exhales through his nose. “You okay if I go take a shower?”

“Go,” you whisper. “I’ve got him.”

He hesitates for a moment, then nods. “Call me if you need anything.”

You nod, and he disappears down the hall.

And suddenly, it’s just you and Oliver.

The room is dim, moonlight crawling through the slats in the blinds. You sit beside the crib, on the floor, legs crossed beneath you.

He stirs once, murmurs in his sleep. You reach in and rest a hand over his back, grounding him. And something flickers inside your chest, your heart, or maybe something deeper. Something older. Like a thread has been pulled taut, quiet and unseen until now.

You glance around the room.

At the makeshift crib. The plastic mobile that doesn’t spin. The toys that don’t make noise. The quietness that wraps around this child like a half-finished lullaby.

And it hits you.

He has nothing.

No keepsakes. No family heirlooms. No soft blankets from a grandmother, no songs passed down, no stories about where he came from that won’t hurt to hear.

He has a name and a father who left again. A mother who died trying to save him.

And you.

The air stills around you as you close your eyes and breathe deep.

You haven’t done this in a long time, not without direction. Not without tragedy or Mark.

But Oliver deserves something.

You press your hand to the hardwood floor, fingers splayed.

Just something small, you tell yourself. Just something for him to keep.

The familiar pressure begins to build, like blood rushing in reverse, like your pulse is pushing out instead of in. The room darkens slightly at the edges, the quiet deepening as your focus narrows to a single point just in front of you.

You picture it clearly.

The size. The shape. The weight of it in your palm.

A simple toy.

Something soft-edged. Safe. Easy to hold.

You feel your fingers tremble, the edges of the vision flickering. It’s still hard. Still so hard. The limits of your powers have always been more mental than physical, control is the leash, and emotion is the fire that eats the tether if you’re not careful.

But this isn't destruction. This isn’t bending reality to escape or to fight.

This is creation.

You breathe through the burn, through the headache starting behind your eyes, through the sound of your heartbeat roaring in your ears.

And then, slowly, it begins to form.

A shape, coalescing in the air like smoke curling backward into your hand. It’s not perfect, not symmetrical, not precise. But it’s real. And it’s yours.

When it settles, solid and cool in your palm, you let out a shaky breath and blink away the wetness in your eyes.

It’s a small elephant. About the size of your fist. Rough around the edges, the trunk a little lopsided, one ear slightly larger than the other. But it’s soft, made from a fabric your powers must’ve remembered from some blanket you had once, something you saw in a store window, a texture that whispered comfort.

You hold it gently, feeling it pulse faintly with the energy it cost to make it.

Then you reach into the crib and nestle it beside Oliver’s hand.

He stirs at the touch, fingers curling instinctively around the toy’s ear.

A soft sigh escapes him.

And just like that, he relaxes again.

Your breath catches.

You sit there for a long time, watching him hold on.

Watching him belong.

And for the first time, maybe ever, you realize this power you’ve feared for so long, this thing that’s always hurt, always made people turn away, can do something more.

It can give.

You lean forward and press a soft kiss to his forehead.

“That’s yours,” you think, as gently as you can, reaching out with your mind, brushing his little spark again. “Something made just for you. A piece of me. So you never feel like you don’t have one.”

He doesn’t speak.

But in the quiet of that room, surrounded by moonlight and new beginnings, he doesn’t have to.

He just holds the elephant.

And he sleeps.

The shower runs longer than Mark probably intended, but you don’t blame him. Not after the past twenty-four hours. You imagine him under the hot water with his hands pressed against the tile, eyes closed, trying to wring the grief and pressure from his muscles like they’re something you can wash off.

They’re not.

You’re still sitting beside Oliver’s crib when you hear the water cut off. Your back is stiff from the floor, and your powers left you just the tiniest bit drained, nothing dramatic, just a distant hum of fatigue under your skin. You glance down at the baby, still asleep, fingers wrapped around the elephant you made. The toy’s soft in his grip, his face slack with peace that seems unfair for someone born into this much loss. But he’s holding on to it.

And you take that as a win.

You rise slowly, checking him one last time before pulling the door shut behind you with a quiet click. Mark is already in his room when you find him, fresh from the shower, barefoot, wearing a pair of old sweatpants and one of those faded graphic tees that had probably been through high school, alien attacks, and at least one ill-advised attempt at laundry. His hair’s still damp, curled at the ends, and he’s leaning against the bed like he’s not sure if he wants to sit or collapse.

He looks up when you enter, and for a second, the expression on his face is unreadable. Not cold. Not distant. Just… stripped down.

“I figured we could crash here tonight,” he says, voice quiet. “I haven’t been in this room in a while.”

You glance around. It’s smaller than you expected. Familiar, but untouched, like time just paused here after he moved out. The Seance Dog posters on the walls are faded. The desk still holds a few old notebooks and cracked action figures. The bed’s still made the way Debbie probably did it once a week out of habit, mismatched sheets, a blanket that doesn’t quite fit the twin mattress.

It’s not glamorous.

But it’s his.

You nod. “I don’t think I’m ready to go back to the city yet.”

“Me neither.” He sits down heavily. “I told Cecil we’d check in tomorrow. I don’t even know where to start with him.”

“He’s going to lose it when he finds out Nolan’s alive.”

Mark lets out a breath that’s half-laugh, half-dread. “Yeah. I might just put the phone down and let him scream into the void for a while.”

You walk to the bed, dropping down beside him, your thigh brushing his. For a second, you both just sit in the dim light of the room, listening to the hum of the old ceiling fan above.

“He’s gone,” you say softly. “Nolan. He left right before sunrise. Quiet.”

Mark nods. “Good.”

But he doesn’t sound relieved.

Just hollow.

“I think he means it this time,” you add. “About trying to help. About the Coalition.”

“I don’t care.”

But he does.

You know he does.

It’s in the way his hands clench in his lap, the way his jaw tightens when he swallows.

You lean your head on his shoulder.

“You don’t have to talk about it. Just… don’t pretend you’re fine.”

Mark exhales again. “I’m not.”

“I know.”

“I wanted to punch him,” he says, voice tighter now. “Still do. For what he did. For showing up with another life and expecting me to just accept it. But when I saw Oliver…”

He trails off.

You lift your head, watching him.

Mark’s eyes are distant, not angry now, just tired. “He looked so small. And scared. And real. Not some mistake or side effect of my dad’s guilt. Just… a kid. And I couldn’t hate him. Not even for a second.”

“You’re not supposed to,” you say. “That’s the whole point.”

Mark finally turns to look at you.

His hand reaches for yours, tentative at first, then firmer as your fingers lock.

“You were good with him today.”

“He made it easy,” you say, trying to deflect. “He’s better company than most adults I know.”

Mark huffs a laugh. “Still. You didn’t have to be here. You didn’t have to do any of this.”

“I wanted to.”

“Why?”

You hesitate. Not because you don’t know, but because this is him. And you’ve spent so long trying to survive, trying to stay guarded, even with people you trust. Even with him.

But this isn’t the time for walls.

So you reach into your pocket.

And you pull out a small scrap of soft fabric, the same one you conjured earlier when you made Oliver’s elephant. It’s no more than a remnant, a leftover piece of the moment.

“I made something for him,” you say quietly. “Using my powers.”

Mark stares at it. “That must’ve taken a lot out of you.”

“It did. But I needed to. I needed him to have something his.

Mark’s eyes soften. His thumb brushes the fabric in your palm.

“You’re good,” he says.

You look at him. “No. But I’m trying.”

Mark leans in, forehead resting against yours. His breath is warm, grounding.

“We’ll figure this out,” he says. “Him. You. Me.”

You nod.

It’s not a promise.

But it’s enough.

You both shift on the bed, climbing under the too-thin blanket. The bed creaks, but you settle into it, curled against each other like it’s instinct. Mark’s arm drapes over your waist. Your legs tangle together like they’ve done this a hundred times before.

Outside, the world is still broken.

Cecil is waiting. Answers are scarce. The Viltrumites are out there, and Nolan’s somewhere in the stars again, chasing redemption he may never have.

But in this room, this tiny, untouched corner of a boyhood now long gone, it’s quiet.

Mark exhales against your hair.

And you close your eyes, fingers still curled around the last remnant of something you made for someone who can’t understand it yet.

But someday will.

Debbie’s house is quiet in that late-night way that makes everything feel softer, like the whole place is holding its breath. The only sound is the low hum of the fridge somewhere down the hall and the occasional sleepy sigh from baby Oliver’s room, more air than voice, just enough to remind you there’s still life here, even if the house feels like it’s treading water.

Mark’s bedroom door’s cracked just enough to let in a strip of hallway light, but otherwise the room is dim, cloaked in that pale-blue nighttime quiet. There’s a vintage Seance Dog plush on the shelf that looks like it’s been through a war, its little felt cloak flopped over one button eye.

You’re both curled up on his twin bed, limbs tangled awkwardly, Mark’s arm under your neck and your legs tucked between his. The bed’s too small. His feet hang off the edge. But neither of you has moved in almost an hour.

The blankets are thin. The mattress creaks every time one of you shifts, but it’s… nice. Cozy. Personal.

Real.

He’s quiet.

You don’t press him. You just rest your hand on his chest, right over his heartbeat. He hasn’t said much since you spoke. 

You know the silence isn’t about you. It’s the weight of today still sitting in his lungs.

And then the space between you disappears.

It starts with a kiss. Gentle. Familiar. Lips brushing lips, the warmth of your breath mixing in the small space between you. Then it deepens. Mark shifts, turning onto his side, his arm sliding around your waist to pull you closer.

Your leg slides over his, hips pressing together. The kiss slows, then builds again. Hungrier now. His tongue brushes against yours, and you can feel the little tremble in his chest as he exhales.

He mutters something against your lips.

“What?” you whisper.

“This bed is tiny.”

You laugh into his mouth. “No shit.”

He grins. “I haven’t shared this bed since I was, like, six. And back then it was with a cat.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Is that code for something?”

“No. Like, an actual cat. Mittens.”

You press your forehead to his. “So I’m basically replacing Mittens.”

“Pretty much,” he says, kissing the corner of your mouth. “Though you don’t claw my face at 2am. Yet.”

You grin, breathless. “Give me time.”

His hands are more confident now. 

They creep up beneath your shirt, tracing your sides, charting the contours of your waist, the rise of your ribs. You slide onto your back, and he follows, sliding over you gently, delicately, the mattress creaking with the shift in weight. 

His hair falls in his eyes, sweaty from heat. You push it back softly. 

“I really love you,” he confesses, breath seizing. 

You nod. “I know.   I love you too.” 

 His hand grazes the waistband of your pajama shorts. 

You direct it downward. 

The room is still dim, still warm with the shared heat of bodies pressed close. Mark’s fingers have only just stopped moving inside you, your skin still buzzing from the intensity of it. You’re breathing hard, trying not to be obvious about it, your face buried in the crook of his neck. He’s rubbing slow, soothing circles into your back like he knows you’re trying to calm yourself back down.

But neither of you attempts to draw away. 

The air between you is thicker now, charged. Your thighs are slick where they brush his, your heartbeat still racing behind your ribs. Mark’s still fully hard, pressed warm and steady against your hip, and though he hasn’t said anything, you can feel the tension humming through him, like he’s holding something back.

You kiss his jaw.

Light. 

Lingering. 

Then go near his ear, just close enough to murmur, “I want you.” 

He freezes. 

“You sure?” he murmurs, eyes meeting yours. 

You nod. “I’m sure.” 

His breath catches.

“But,” you say, putting your hand firmly to his chest, “we still have to be quiet.” 

He exhales sharply through his nose, half a grin, half a plea. “You’re going to kill me.” 

You grin. “Shut up and get your pants off.” 

He kisses you instead, mouth wet and eager, and then fumbles with his sweatpants, pushing them down just far enough, his motions frantic but still delicate, like he’s scared the bed may creak just from the idea.   You take your shorts off beneath the covers, letting them drop to the floor alongside the bed. Then you bring him back to you, thighs spreading, your legs wrapping around his waist. 

He stares down at you like you’re something he can’t believe he gets to touch. 

The illumination from the hallway drapes a gentle ring of light around his jaw. You can see the way his lips part, his eyes black and wide as he lines himself up. You reach between you to guide him in slow, steady, and your head tilts back, mouth tight as you swallow the gasp that rises in your throat. 

 He pushes in inch by inch, your body stretching to take him. 

“Jesus,” he whispers, voice hardly there.   “You feel—fuck—” 

You throw your arms over his shoulders, fingers sinking in to keep yourself anchored. Your legs tense at his sides, silently pleading for more, and he obliges, pulling back slightly, then thrusting in again, just a little deeper this time. 

The bed creaks. 

You both freeze.

You bite your lip, suppressing a laugh, and he grins against your shoulder. 

“This is the worst tactical environment,” he murmurs. 

“Shut up and fuck me.” 

 “Yes ma’am.” 

He starts to move, slow, deep thrusts, his hips rolling into you with that meticulous care he always displays, even when he’s desperate. Your hands tangle in his hair, your mouth finding his again, swallowing each other’s screams as he fucks you, slight shifts of his body sending pleasure curling hot and deep into your belly. 

You rock your hips up to meet him. His next thrust lands just right, and your breath catches loudly. 

Too loud. 

Mark draws back, eyes wide. 

“I’m sorry—I didn’t mean to—” 

You clamp a hand over your mouth, shaking your head, giggling breathlessly into your palm. 

He lowers himself again, kisses your jaw, your cheek, your temple. “You’re okay?” 

You nod swiftly. “Just—keep going.” 

So he does. 

This time you both try to be quiet, mouths muffled against one other’s skin, the creak of the mattress barely restrained beneath the cadence of his hips. But it’s difficult to keep silent when he feels this amazing. When the emotion behind it makes your whole body ache.

He grinds against you, deeper now, less calculated. His hand goes between your bodies and finds your clit again, circling it tenderly, and your back arches. 

“Mark,” you gasp—too loud again. 

Both of you freeze again. 

From down the hall… silence.

He stifles a laugh on your neck. “I swear to God, if Oliver wakes up and crawls in here—” 

“I will literally die.” 

You both start laughing—quiet, breathless, absolutely wrecked—and it takes you a second to find your rhythm again. 

When he finally thrusts into you again, it’s harder. 

More raw. 

The tension in both your bodies has nowhere else to go, and it all flows into the movement of his hips, the fire developing in your core, the way he watches you like this is the last night on Earth. 

Your nails press into his shoulders. He groans into your ear. 

“I’m close.” 

You nod frantically. “Me too.” 

He speeds up, every stroke sending another wave through you, your mouth pushed tight into his collarbone to keep from crying out. His hand doesn’t stop moving against your clit. 

You come again, your body shaking, silent scream frozen in your throat, his name caught between your teeth. He follows almost instantaneously, overflowing into you with a cry he swallows back just in time, his hips faltering as he thrusts one final time and freezes there, body locked tight to yours. 

The bed groans under you both.

Loud. 

You wince. 

Silence. 

You both hold your breath. 

Nothing. 

Mark's forehead is pushed to yours, his breath irregular, that familiar bashful grin flickering across his face even now, particularly now, when you're wrapped around him like this. 

“This is definitely not what my mom meant when she said ‘make yourself at home,’” he mutters under his breath. 

You suppress a chuckle against his shoulder. “Pretty sure your mom didn’t mean anything that involved this mattress screaming for help.” 

Mark groans quiet, but honest. “This mattress is older than I am. If it survives the night, it deserves a medal.” 

You kiss him again to shut him up. And he kisses you back like he's still amazed you're allowing him. 

It’s not rushed this time. Not frantic. 

There’s still laughing in it, still that undertone of you’re ridiculous, I adore you, but now the kisses are slower. Surer. Mark’s hands travel over your sides like he’s attempting to learn your shape all over again.   You move under him, feeling the heat develop between your bodies again, your thighs parting instinctively to accommodate the rising weight of him. 

He draws back for a second, his hair falling into his eyes, gasping. “We shouldn’t do this here.”

You nod. “We really shouldn’t.” 

 He kisses you nonetheless. 

You feel him against you again—hard, steady, and you press up just enough to grind against him once. It earns you a strangled breath in your ear. 

“Okay, this is not helping,” he breathes, gritting his teeth like he’s trying to force his body into silence. 

“Then stop hovering,” you mumble. “And be with me.” 

His eyes shift to the door, half open, cracked like an old habit, and then back to you. “We have to be quiet.” 

“You’re the one who makes all the noise.” 

“That’s objectively false.” 

“You moaned my name last time.” 

“I was in emotional distress!” 

You smile, seizing him by the back of the neck and yanking him down again. “Then distress me.” 

He does.

He kisses you harder this time, one hand sliding down your thigh, dragging your leg higher over his hip. You can feel him shiver a little, nerves or eagerness or maybe both, then he’s there, pressing against your entrance again, and even though this isn’t the first time, it seems new. 

It always does with him. The way he touches you like he’s asking. The way his eyes search yours for permission even when you’re already opening for him. 

He slips in gradually, both of you breathing hard just to remain silent. 

You bury your face in his neck.  He swears beneath his breath. 

He’s always like this. Talkative when he’s nervous. Overwhelmed. It’s not dirty talk, not really, it’s just him, spewing whatever emotion he can’t hold in. You’d laugh if you weren’t so busy holding to him, your nails cutting into his back as he starts to move. 

The bed moans instantly. 

You both go still. 

“Was that me or the bed?” you murmur. 

Mark lifts his head, eyes wide. “That was the bed. I think. I hope.” 

You pinch your lips together, trying not to crack up. Then he thrusts inside you again, a bit quicker this time, and the headboard delivers a quiet tap on the wall. 

“Okay,” he mutters, “this is gonna be a stealth mission now.” 

You nod. “No sudden movements. No unnecessary noises.”

Another thrust.

Another creak.

Another tap.

You’re both shaking with laughter now, but it fades quickly because his pace intensifies, his hands framing your hips, holding you steady as he starts to fuck you in earnest, gently but with intent, his entire body pressing into yours like he’s trying to remain as close as possible. 

And you lose yourself in it. 

You forget about the house. The creaking frame. The tiny walls. 

Because he’s inside you now, his mouth touching yours, breathing your name like it meant something sacred. Your legs wrap tighter around his waist, and your hands tangle in his hair as he reaches that wonderful, aching place within you again and over again. 

You moan, quiet, but real. 

Mark’s palm clasps softly over your mouth, and his eyes grow wide. “Baby, I love you, but you’re gonna wake up my entire family.” 

You nod helplessly, eyes clamped tight, body shaking as he slams into you again, deeper, forcing another faint moan from your mouth. 

He kisses you hard, attempting to conceal it, and his hand lowers between your bodies, thumb stroking your clit. 

You arch under him, lips widening in a gasp that never quite comes out. Your thighs shake. 

“Let go,” he murmurs. “Come for me.” 

You do, biting down onto his shoulder to keep from yelling out as your whole body clenches around him. You feel it in your teeth. In your ribs. In the tips of your fingers as they claw at his back. He sighs low against your skin, holding you tight as he follows, hips jerking, cock pumping deep inside you. 

And the bed frame smacks into the wall. 

You both freeze again.

Then, a sound down the corridor. A door creaking. 

Mark glances at you with dread. “I think that was my mom.”

 “Oh my God—get off—get off me!” 

You scramble, limbs flailing, and he smashes to the floor with a muffled oof, bringing the blanket halfway with him. You turn onto your side, panting, trying not to giggle as you hear footfall shuffle once… and then stop. 

Nothing else. 

No knock. 

No questions. 

Just silence.

After a lengthy moment, Mark says from the floor, “I am never living this down if she heard that.” 

You lean over the edge of the bed, still recovering your breath. “She definitely heard that.” 

He groans. “I can never sleep in this room again.” 

You grin, bending down to brush the hair from his face. “Guess I’ll just have to move in with you.” 

He stares at you. 

And then, slowly, he grins. 

“Yeah. Okay. Deal.” 

And when the silence falls again around you, not even the creaking mattress or the danger of being caught can destroy the warmth that rests in your chest. Because you’re still here. 

And so is he. 

Morning at Debbie’s house usually feels earlier than it actually is. 

Even with the shades pulled, sunshine seeps through the seams and rests warm on the bed in irregular patterns. You wake first, curled on your side, Mark’s chest rising and falling behind you. His arm’s still draped across your waist, hugging you like something he sought for in his dream and didn’t want to let go of. 

His room smells like both of you now, like sweat and skin and laundry detergent and whatever memory still lingers in the linens from the night before. Your thighs are hurting in the good way. Your back’s a touch tight from the too-small mattress. But all of it goes away as you feel Mark shift, sigh quietly, and bury his face in the back of your neck. 

He’s awake. 

“Mm.” His voice is gruff, still heavy with sleep. “Too early.” 

You grin into the pillow. “It’s almost nine.” 

“Still too early.” 

There’s a pause. “Wait, did we…?” His voice grows tight. “…get caught?” 

You hesitate. “…Define ‘caught.’” 

He sighs and turns fully onto his back, rubbing a palm over his face. “God. My mom.” 

You sit up, stretch, and peek toward the closed bedroom door like you’re expecting to hear her footsteps again. “She hasn’t said anything.” 

 “She doesn’t have to say anything. She’s my mom. She knows.” 

He hides his face with both hands, speech muffled. “I cannot believe we did that in this bed.” 

You grin. “Twice.” 

 “Stop. I’m going throw myself out the window.” 

You roll your eyes and climb over him, pressing a kiss on his chest. “You’re overreacting.” 

“No, I’m not.  She heard us. There is no recovery from this.” 

“She knows we’re together. We’re adults.” 

Mark extends a hand, gazing at you between his fingers. “Yeah, but it’s still my mom. You could level a mountain with your mind and I’d still prefer that than her breakfast table stare.” 

You laugh and throw on a shirt, his, large and worn soft, and open the bedroom door. 

The scent of bacon strikes you instantly. 

And then you hear her. Downstairs. Calm voice, quiet hum, the clink of a spoon in a glass bowl. 

You exchange a look with Mark. 

He mouths ‘oh no.’ 

But you’re already headed down the steps. 

Debbie’s in the kitchen. Hair tied up, robe on over pajamas, carrying Oliver on one hip while spooning mashed banana into his lips before putting him down. There’s a spread on the counter, scrambled eggs, bread, fruit, even a pitcher of orange juice, and she doesn’t glance up as you walk in. 

“Morning,” she says, calm and light. 

You blink.  “Good morning.” 

Oliver babbles something around a mouthful of banana, pounding his small palm on the tray of his high chair. 

Mark follows a minute later, looking like he wants to be anywhere else. He’s wearing sweatpants and a sweatshirt he certainly didn’t bother to zip. His hair’s a catastrophe. 

Debbie turns to him. 

And looks at him. 

Not long. 

Just a beat too long. 

Mark suddenly deflates. “I know.” 

She lifts one eyebrow.   “You want toast or eggs?” 

Mark hesitates. “Toast.” 

“Mm-hmm.” She slides another mouthful of banana into Oliver’s mouth. “You two sleep well?” 

Mark coughs. “Uh. Yeah. Fine. Totally normal sleep.” 

You look at him. “With a little back pain.” 

Mark sends you a look. Debbie just grins hard and pours two mugs of coffee. 

She lays one in front of you. 

Then one in front of Mark. 

Then stares him directly in the eye. 

“I raised you better than to rattle the headboard.” 

Mark chokes. 

You bite your lip hard enough to pain trying not to laugh. 

“I—Mom—I didn’t—we weren’t—”   He massages his face again as a flush creeps up his neck. “I’m so sorry.” 

Debbie drinks her coffee like nothing happened. “Just don’t let Oliver pick up any new words from the two of you. He’s in a learning phase.” 

Oliver bangs his spoon and laughs. 

You settle onto a seat at the counter, smirking. “He’s definitely repeating something.” 

Mark sits alongside you and puts his face in your shoulder.   “I’m going home. Immediately.” 

Debbie chuckles. It’s soft. Warm. Real. 

Then her voice changes. Just barely. “I’m glad you’re here.” 

You blink. “Me?” 

She nods, moving a strand of hair out of her face. “Yeah. Mark’s… steadier. I see it. I hear it.” 

Mark sits up a little straighter.

“I’ve had a front row seat to this kid’s heartbreak,” she says, nodding toward him. “His confusion. His anger. And all the things he keeps locked up because he thinks it makes it easier for everyone else.”

She glances at you. 

 “And then you showed up. And he started coming back. Not Invincible. Not the Viltrumite. Just... my son.” 

You’re not sure what to say. 

Mark slips your hand beneath the table, intertwining his fingers with yours. 

You squeeze it. 

“You don’t need to thank me,” you eventually say. 

“I’m not,” Debbie answers.   “I’m just telling you what I see.” 

Then she turns back to Oliver like she didn’t just tear your ribcage open and look at your heart. 

Mark comes near and murmurs, “That was so much worse than getting yelled at.” 

You giggle into your coffee. “You’ll live.” 

He bumps your shoulder with his. 

And sure. You believe it. For once, you truly do. 

It’s two days later when you and Mark finally leave Debbie’s house. 

You’d stayed longer than planned, slept in too late, eaten too much of her leftovers, taken shifts with Oliver so Debbie could have some time to herself. The house had established a weird, hesitant rhythm in the aftermath. Quiet chats over coffee. Oliver’s quiet babbling in the background. Debbie sometimes stroking her fingertips over his head with the face moms wear when they don’t know whether they’re mourning or starting over. 

But ultimately, reality comes knocking. 

You both knew it couldn’t last. 

So, early in the morning, you packed your things, what little you’d brought, and kissed Oliver on the forehead, said something too small for anyone else to hear. Debbie didn’t say anything when you left.   Just handed Mark a packed lunch and a tired expression that conveyed more than words ever could. 

Now you’re back at Guardian HQ. 

And everything feels louder here. 

Colder. 

The floorboards resound under your feet as you walk side-by-side down the long corridor toward the briefing room. The air smells like sterilized metal and burnt ozone, and the hum of fluorescent lights overhead pounds into your brain in a way you’d forgotten about until you walked back inside. 

Mark’s jaw is taut, hands crammed in his jacket pockets, stance rigid like he’s waiting for a hit that hasn’t arrived yet. 

You don’t blame him. 

Cecil’s already waiting when the door opens. He’s behind his customary reinforced desk, two displays throwing a wan glow over his old face. Donald stands off to the side, arms folded, eyebrows up in his default "I told you so" attitude. 

You and Mark go in, and the door hisses shut behind you. 

There’s a moment of quiet. 

Too still. 

Then Cecil leans forward, folds his hands on the desk, and says, “So.” 

That one phrase holds more weight than it should. 

It feels like a hammer being raised before the stroke. 

Mark doesn’t flinch.

But he doesn’t sit, either. 

“He came back,” he adds plainly. 

Cecil tilts his head. “Nolan.” 

“Yeah.” 

Cecil leans back slowly, eyes narrowing. “I assume this isn’t a hallucination or some elaborate clone plot.” 

“No. It’s him.” 

You observe Cecil’s face attentively. There’s a flicker, just a momentary tightening of the jaw, the way his shoulders square slightly. Not panic. Not even surprise. 

Just confirmation of something he already suspected. 

“He looked like hell,” Mark says. “Said he barely escaped a group of Viltrumites. That they’re… reorganizing.” 

Cecil nods once, expression unreadable. “That lines up with what Allen’s people have been whispering. Quiet chatter. Movements we couldn’t trace. We didn’t know Nolan was part of it.”

“He’s not,” you respond, stepping in. “Not anymore.” 

Mark hesitates. “He left again. Didn’t stay long. Just long enough to tell us he’s trying to contact the Coalition of Planets.” 

“Do you believe him?” Donald cuts in, voice dry. 

Mark sighs. “I don’t know. I want to say no. But…” 

You gaze at him. “But the truth didn’t sound like a lie this time.” 

Cecil hums. He doesn’t look surprised. He seldom is. But his quiet lingers out longer than usual  Like he’s waiting for something else. Like he’s giving you space to provide the details he already knows you don’t want to. 

Mark doesn’t give it to him. 

Neither do you. 

So Cecil talks. 

“Where’s the kid?” 

The words fall like a sucker punch to the ribs. 

Mark stiffens. You can feel the air change next to you, his shoulder tensing, jaw clenching. 

“What kid?” he says,playing dumb. 

Cecil doesn’t smile. Doesn’t lean in or force the point dramatically. He simply stares. 

Unblinking. 

“Mark.” 

You look at Mark. Then at Cecil. 

Then exhale. “You already know.” 

Cecil nods. “Yeah.” 

Mark’s face hardens. “How?” 

“We tracked the energy signature when Nolan entered Earth’s atmosphere. Same one left with him when he escaped two years ago. Except this time, there was a second living life form.  Small. Viltrumite hybrid. Could’ve been a prisoner. Could’ve been worse. But when we traced it to your mother’s house and discovered it stayed there? We worked it out.” 

Mark looks away. 

Cecil beats his fingers once on the desk. “You didn’t tell me.” 

“He’s a baby,” Mark snaps. “He’s not a weapon. He’s not a threat. He’s only a baby.” 

Cecil lifts a brow. “You think I don’t know that?” 

“You tracked him like he was a fugitive,” Mark lashes back. “He’s not. He’s just—he’s just my brother.” 

You step forward, voice softer. “We didn’t tell you because we know what this place does to people like him.” 

Cecil’s eyes cut to you. 

You don’t flinch. 

He leans back again, folds his hands. “I’m not trying to take him.” 

“You better not—” Mark starts. 

“I’m not,” Cecil says again, calmly but firmly. “I don’t want to raise him in a cell. I’m not interested in codelling a toddler. But I am interested in understanding what we’re dealing with. That child might be innocent, but the Empire that made him isn’t. If they come for him, it won’t matter how many lullabies you’ve sung or diapers you’ve changed.”

“We’ll protect him,” Mark adds. 

“You’ll try,” Cecil says. “But I need to know who he is. What he can be. Not to use him. To shield him.”

Mark’s silent again. 

So are you. 

Cecil studies you both for a minute more, then exhales softly. “I want regular updates. Health reports. Photos. Hell, I’ll accept finger paints if that’s what you’ve got. But if anything changes, if he displays evidence of powers, you notify me. Immediately.” 

Mark doesn’t answer. 

But he doesn’t say no. 

Cecil leans forward once more. “You’re still my asset, Mark. I’m not the villain here. But don’t make me choose between you and the planet. You won’t like how that ends.”

Mark eventually meets his eyes. “Neither will you.” 

They stare each other down. 

Until Cecil leans back again and adds, very casually, “Welcome back.” 

And you all know, whatever “back” is now, it’s changed.

Forever.