#finally got to the part where he dies. rip

[fitzyames]

I WOULD HAVE DONE TONS OF COCAINE WITH YOU AND KEPT YOU ALIVE FOREVER

[bonefall]

Is there beef with the Holstein cows and you or what was that joke lol

It's kind of wild It's just never come up on this blog before, but I HATE holsteins. Bottom 10 cow breeds for me. I hate how they're so common they account for the majority of milk produced. I hate that they're the "default" cow to the point where some don't even know cattle HAVE other colors. I hate their tiny horns (IF THEY EVEN HAVE THAT. LOSER ASS HORNLESS COW) and their painfully massive udders.

Legit I'm trying so hard to not launch into a No Mouth Must Scream style AM speech-- shoot my hand slipped.

(AM speech about why i dont like holsteins below the cut)

For starters, I have to give a brief lesson on what these terms mean; the "Holstein" is the American strain of the "Frisian" breed. Frisians are an ancient breed from Frisia, in the north of what we now consider the Netherlands. Crosses between the breeds are "Holstein-Frisians."

(There’s even more to this but im keeping it as simple as possible. Also one of my friends is Frisian and she is probably going to kill me for describing it like that.)

Historically, livestock was adapted to the environment they lived in. Frisians were bred by the Frisii people for hundreds of years in extremely grass-rich, lush, flat environments. The "polders" of the northern parts of the Netherlands. They're huge and eat a LOT of food.

Traditional Frisians were developed to produce as much meat and milk from a single individual as possible, without compromising the health of the cattle with constant inbreeding to get quick gains. We are talking about a breed that is over 2000 years old. They had the perfect environment to make The Ultimate Food Cow and by god they did it. I can respect that.

So, take that, drag it across an ocean to a place that does NOT have polders, and add the rapid enshittification of capitalism to it. BAM you've got a fucking holstein.

There is ONE goal for "improving" the holstein. Make More Milk. As long as the black and white milkbag leaks enough, nothing else matters. Health? Fertility? Feed ratio? Ability to not die of infection? WHO CARES. MILK LINE GO UP.

Over 90% of holsteins are inbred to start with, because Milk Line Go Up. To the tune of having an average COI of 8%-- where extreme negative effects (think Hapsburgs) start to crop up around 10%

Holstein bulls are aggressive bastards (many dairy bulls are), so no one wants to keep intact males in their herds, meaning most cows are artificially inseminated

Not being limited by the natural lifespan of a living bull means that the same stud can keep having direct offspring for decades after his death

Toystory the bull had 500,000 calves before he died, and hit over 1 million offspring in 2015. That's ONE animal and to put this in perspective, there are 9 million holsteins in the US.

DON'T WORRY IT GETS WORSE

Not only can 99% of holsteins be traced back to just two bulls-- 99% of male holsteins share one of two exact Y chromosomes with those two bulls.

The gene pool is so small that it's equivalent to about 60 individuals. Warrior Cat allegiances are larger than that. That's barely bigger than modern ThunderClan.

"Massive lack of genetic diversity" does not begin to capture the existential dread of this situation. Mark my words, WATCH, when the Bird Flu finally mutates a strain that rips through a mammalian population, it's gonna be in the USA and it's going to be through our dairy cattle.

This is not prophecy or me laying a curse on the land, this is the natural consequence of basing the stability of US milk production on the equivalent of 9 million clones of two classrooms worth of individuals, and then packing them in close quarters

And we don't have to wait for doomsday for the impacts to be apparent on the cattle themelves

Holstein fertility has also dropped by half since the 1960s when the intensive inbreeding really kicked into high gear

Because their whole body is dedicating all of their resources to milk production, they have a notoriously "bony" frame.

Show judges, however, like this because they think that's a very "feminine" look for a 1600 pound ruminant. Very normal thing to think.

Like. I don't know if i can communicate this to people who don't look at cows a lot (it's not quite as obviously dramatic as a pug skull) but here is a comparison of an "ideal" show holstein and an "unselected" holstein from a herd that's been established as a sort of "control group" for what they looked like back in the 1960s;

The way that the artery on the "modern" cow's belly runs to the udder like a big pink worm freaks me out the most ngl

The udder also bulges out from between the back legs

The show cow is so thin

And then compare these both to a Holstein-Frisian cross who leans more on the Frisian side;

Proper weight, developed legs. Its biggest "problem" is actually just the udder shape-- deep udders, which "hang" low like that, aren't optimal for milk-focused breeds because the higher away from the ground the less chance there is of infection. In that department, the "unselected" holstein clearly outclasses the holstein-frisian.

But it probably won't be surprising to hear that the "show holstein," with its massive, swollen udder, is SUPER prone to infections such as mastitis.

But it is also just more prone to getting sick generally

And, to keep up with these insane demands, holsteins need a TON of food. You aren't going to just turn these things out into a pasture and be done with it. Even its ancestor the Frisian needed premium Dutch polder grass to be such a good cow-- crank that up to 11 with these Monuments to Humanity's Hubrice

The Texas Longhorn developed in semi-feral conditions and can eat a bush to become the best thing in a 10 mile radius. The Scottish Highland was iron-forged in upland moors with a steady diet of turf and rain.

Meanwhile if a Holstein has less than 5 homemade meals a day without poland spring bottled water it will die to death.

And the WORST part? You have to use these if you want to make money in dairy farming. It's WAAY too expensive to just run a suboptimal farm. Their milk isn't great, but they sure do make a lot of it.

...so Holsteins and Holstein-Frisians (and other "super efficient" breeds) have absolutely decimated heritage cattle. The American Milking Devon is a deep reddish brown with gorgeous horns and low maintenance; rare. Randall Linebacks are painted with lines of white speckles down the back and can be used for any purpose; critically endangered. The Niata was a pug-faced cow who could fight jaguars; extinct.

And THAT'S what makes me hate them most of all. I LOVE cows, but whenever I see a reference to one, it's a holstein. It's always boring black and white splotches with big pink udders. They're practically synonymous with "cow" when their homogeniety is actually hiding much cooler breeds from you.

Did you know cows can be tiger-striped?

And that England has its own type of longhorn?

Or that cow horns can twist upwards like an antelope?

And that they can have REALLY LONG ears?

And that they can be blue?

And that's not even getting into some of the cows that have gotten a small crumb of attention lately, such as Highlands, Ankole-Watusi, and Texas Longhorns. There's so many cool cows out there! And they're all really different from holsteins! MOST of them are also a lot healthier and produce tastier milk and meat!

TL;DR yeah i don't like holsteins and I like sniping at them. For reasons both legit and petty.

[digitaldaydreamm]

we need more rafe and bsf reader content pls☹️☹️

unspoken claim

rafe x childhood friend!reader

| summary | you just got dropped off from a totally casual hangout with a guy, but you didn’t tell rafe—because, well, he’s not your boyfriend… right?

warnings: possessive, overprotective, “he’s not even your boyfriend but acts like it” energy

a/n: i'm baaaaack, did you miss me? 🤭

part 2 | masterlist | taglist

⋆｡𖦹 °.🐚⋆❀˖°

You barely notice the tension in the air until the car slows to a stop in your driveway.

“So, this is you?” the guy—Noah or Nathan or whatever—asks from the driver’s seat, drumming his fingers nervously against the wheel.

You nod, giving a polite smile as you unbuckle your seatbelt. “Yeah… thanks for driving.”

“It was fun,” he says, then hesitates. “So… who’s that?”

Your stomach dips the second you follow his gaze. There, sitting on your porch steps with his elbows on his knees, brows furrowed, is Rafe. His truck’s parked all jacked up in the driveway like he’d swung it in with no care for lines or curbs.

He’s not even looking at you. Just staring dead ahead, jaw tight, tongue pushing against his cheek like he’s trying real hard not to lose it already.

“Oh, uh,” you say quickly, fumbling with the door handle, “that’s just Rafe. He’s my—he’s basically my best friend.”

The words feel stupid as soon as they leave your mouth.

The guy raises his brows. “He looks… pissed.”

You force a laugh and open the door. “He always looks like that. I’ll talk to you later, okay?”

You don’t wait for a reply.

The second your shoes hit the driveway, it’s like the energy shifts—hard. Rafe’s eyes finally meet yours, sharp and cold and unreadable. He stands up slow, all six feet and something of him, broad and angry and radiating that you’re in trouble silence.

You swallow. “Hey…”

He doesn’t respond. Just nods toward the car still idling behind you. “That him?”

You glance back, awkward. “Rafe—”

“S'that him?” he repeats, firmer now, like he’s two seconds away from walking up and yanking the guy out through the window.

“Yes,” you snap, suddenly annoyed. “Not that it’s your business.”

He scoffs, stepping closer until you’re practically backed into your own front door. “Not my business?” he laughs bitterly, eyes flicking down to your outfit—casual but cute, the kind of thing you only wear when you’re trying. “You went out with some random asshole, didn’t tell me where you were going, didn’t answer your phone—nah, you’re right, not my business at all.”

You roll your eyes. “Oh my god, Rafe, it wasn’t a date.”

He gets in your face then, low and intense, voice full of venomous sarcasm. “Ohhh, right. Not a date. Just you, dressed like that, giggling in some guy’s passenger seat, letting him drop you off like he’s doing you a fucking favor. Real casual.”

“You’re overreacting.”

“And you’re outta your fuckin’ mind if you think I’m just gonna sit back and watch you get played by some dude who probably asked you out on Snapchat.”

You shove his chest lightly. “Jesus, Rafe, chill.”

He catches your wrist, holding it—not hard, but firm. “You forget who the fuck’s always been here, kid?”

Your heart skips. That damn nickname.

“You think he gives a shit about you?” Rafe sneers. “You think he knows how you take your coffee? That you can’t sleep with the closet door open? That you cry during vet commercials when the dog dies?”

You try to pull your hand back, but he doesn’t let go.

“He doesn’t know shit about you,” he growls. “But I do. And I always fucking have.”

Your voice is small. “So what, Rafe? You jealous?”

His jaw ticks.

And then, suddenly, he lets go of your wrist, takes a step back, and rips his phone out of his back pocket. “Nah,” he mutters, turning away and heading back down the porch steps.

He turns, takes two steps off the porch, then throws a look over his shoulder with that unhinged kind of calm.

“Is that the little fucker you’ve been giggling on your phone with?” he spits. “That the reason you’ve been ignoring me like some bratty fuckin’ teenager?”

You blink. “I haven’t—”

“Save it,” he snaps. “You think I don’t notice when you switch tabs the second I walk in? When your phone’s flipped face-down every time I show up? You think I’m fucking stupid?”

“Rafe—”

“Don’t,” he cuts in sharply, marching to his truck, fury practically vibrating off him. “Next time he drops you off, tell him to stop halfway up the block—unless he wants me waiting at the curb.”

You cross your arms. “You’re insane.”

“And you’re lucky I didn’t pull him outta the car,” he says, climbing into his truck like he didn’t just full-on stalk your casual hangout and threaten a guy with only eye contact and attitude. “Next time you’re bored, call me. Don’t go playing games with little boys who don’t know what the fuck to do with you.”

You stare at him.

Then he slams the door, starts the engine with a roar, and peels out like he’s doing it for dramatic effect—like the growl of the tires is part of the statement.

You’re left in the silence, heart hammering.

Not his girlfriend. Not his problem. And yet...

(you still haven’t blocked your location on Find My Friends.) (and he still shows up.)

[bluukive]

Psychic Lover

summary - Toji was already a difficult man to live with. Now you gotta deal with his thoughts as well as yours after a horror story gone wrong.

content - MDNI, explicit content, Toji x fem!reader, reader and Toji form a mind link (they share the same physical and emotional behaviours), impulsive behaviour, self-injury (to test out the mind-link theory), brief grinding, masturbation, oral (f receiving), fingering, Toji embracing that he likes butt stuff, amateurish writing

wc - 3.4k

an - my little fic I wrote for 4k followers !! I'm still not comfortable with writing penetration T_T buuut hopefully I compensated lolol. Anyway, tysm again to everyone who interacts with my blog, or even just lurks and reads silently. I appreciate every single one of you :>

“I’m serious, Toji! The landlord said that the previous owners died mid-doggy,” you whispered, eyes widening for dramatic effect, “this place is haunted by the couple who are most definitely bound for eternity. And we’re sitting right here, on their couch, living in their apartment…”

But Toji wasn’t having it. It was warm, humid, and you had stupidly shoved a blanket over both of your heads so that you could ‘set the mood’ for a good horror story. Tonight out of all nights as well, where the wind blew hot air right back onto your face and sweat settled comfortably into every pore.

Toji shifted on the couch where you were sitting cross-legged, a damp palm curling into the blanket so that he could rip the blanket off of both of your heads with a scowl. The couch creaked loudly when your housemate got up, a likely reminder that you needed to replace it. “That’s fuckin’ ridiculous. I would have heard about it if it was true.”

“Well, maybe the landlord just wanted to make a quick buck!” you argued back, adjusting the strap of your black tank top which clung to you like a second skin. A large part of you ignored the way Toji’s eyes flickered down briefly, choosing instead to focus on how your body moved almost violently to the side once a pillow struck your temple. You groaned— hands scrambling to find a surface to steady yourself on. But alas, you fell onto the fuzzy rug with a muffled oof. 

You laid in a sad, sad pile on the floor, hips raised with your duck-printed pyjama shorts digging into the seam of your pert ass. It definitely wasn’t on purpose, note the sarcasm. You’ve been trying to get into this sleazy, hunk of a man's pants forever. But he just. Wouldn’t. Budge. 

“Get up and go to bed,” was all the older man said in a gruff manner before shuffling off to his bedroom. The tell-tale noise of the door clicking and a rather unflattering groan told you that the sound of his heinous snoring would soon disrupt the silence that had settled over your shared apartment. 

As the fan in the corner continued spinning uselessly, you rolled onto your back on the floor and grunted in fatigue. One hand dragged across your forehead in an attempt to wipe it, but somehow, your skin only got wetter. 

Fuck this heat, you mumbled, peeling yourself off of the rug. Fuck your stupid duck shorts too. Most importantly, fuck that thick-skinned jerk with no sense of humour. 

Your body appeared to move on autopilot, body hunched as you switched off the fan and dragged yourself to your own room. It was cooler there by only a fraction, but a fraction nonetheless. The heavy duvet was tossed onto the floor since there wasn’t any part of you wanting to spend a single moment under it.

You finally flopped onto the mattress, one arm settling behind your head and one leg bent at the knee. 

One of your hands slid down, settling on your hip. You didn’t do that intentionally— not at first. But your hand did shift to your lower belly, moving down until your fingers were able to slip under the waistband of your panties. Across the hallway, Toji had rolled over onto his stomach. His hips rolled down agonisingly slow. A low grunt rumbled in his chest. A weird rush of arousal hit you both. 

Neither of you knew why you were doing this. 

But both of you thought it was your own idea to do so.

═══════

A pained howl left your lips the following morning, right when you stubbed your big toe of your left foot against the doorframe. A loud clatter resonated throughout the kitchen when your phone landed on the titles. The screen was definitely cracked, but you couldn’t bring yourself to care as you hopped around with a hiss. 

Throb after throb, Toji came out of his room with a pained expression marring his angular face. It was rather comical seeing the oversized man limping out of his room and down the corridor, where he was met with the sight of you curled up onto the cold tiles. You were clutching your foot, face scrunched up with a knee to your chest. 

“WHY are you always on the floor? Get up before I step on you,” Toji hissed, nudging your shin with his good foot, “then again, you’re probably into that.” Rude.

His eyes landed on your foot, toe clearly hurting. Toji flexed his own foot, brows furrowing. Weird. The pain was real, and apparently shared. 

Toji's brow furrowed deeply as he leaned down to examine the limb, his own toe throbbing in sync. "This is fuckin' weird," he muttered, his voice a low rumble. "Why the hell can I feel your pain too?" He looked up at you, his eyes reflecting a mix of confusion and exasperation. "Did you do something to me?"

He was right to suspect foul play on your end. After all, you’ve got a ouija board hiding under your bed— which he’s caught you using before to ask the supposed ghosts around you if you were destined to be single your entire life (the ghosts said yes. Rude). 

But this time? You weren’t entirely at fault. 

Only mostly.

How were you meant to know that making Toji aware of the fate of the previous owners— and their mid-doggy death— would actually tether you to him, dooming you to the same intimate bond that they shared?

…

That wasn’t in the rental agreement. 

“Woah, wait. I didn’t do anything actually— YEOWCH-” You screamed, abruptly sitting upright with a new searing pain across your tender palm. A noise of muted discomfort from behind you followed. 

You could always count on Toji to act without thinking, and what did he just do? He had turned on the cooker to test whether or not there was a supernatural force toying with you both. 

You whip around, cradling your trembling hand with a face full of barely-restrained fury. “Did you seriously just burn yourself to test out some shitty ghost theory?!” 

Your housemate simply shrugged in response, waving around his hand casually as if he wasn’t the cause of shared second-degree trauma. “Worked, no? I don’t see why you’re bitchin’ when we clearly have other shit to worry about.”

“Like what, exactly? I feel like my hand’s about to melt off, you prick.”

“The fact that, I don’t know, I’m tied to your annoying ass?” He leans against the counter, scorched palm against the cool marble. Toji stared you down as you winced at the phantom sensation, head cocked in amusement. He felt bad for you. Almost. But that didn’t stop him from straightening up and flexing his thick fingers. It stung, and you let out another pained hiss when the sensation bloomed across your entire palm like there was literal fire intertwined with your nerves. 

“I didn’t ask for this to happen, y’know,” you muttered, standing up and thanking the stars that your foot felt marginally better than before. 

A scornful glance was shot Toji’s way, prompting him to flare his nostrils and look to the side. “Don’t look at me like that. Not like I wanted this either.”

You both stood there in silence for a minute.

“...you think it works both ways?”

“I swear to God—”

And then you tugged at your own ear, one eye crinkling shut as the other watched Toji’s head swerve to the right. He tutted and flicked at his own forehead, making you gasp. 

A slap on the thigh.

A mean pull of the hair.

This prompted you to tweak your own nipple through your t-shirt. All you could do was watch in mild fascination when the man before you turned a deep shade of pink embarrassingly quick and covered his broad chest with a scowl. 

Well, this was interesting. “Guess you can feel everything, huh? Not just pain,” you mused out loud, tapping a finger on your lip. But then you froze, realisation dawning upon you both like a bucket of ice cold water.

“Is that why I felt like my ass was being fingered last night?”

“I felt like I had carpet burn on my pussy. What the hell were you doing?” You shot back, rubbing your face in your hands in utter shame. Had you known Toji could feel it all— the way you were pleasuring yourself last night— you wouldn’t have dared inch your hand that close to your cunt. 

“Let's agree not to touch ourselves for the time being. Please.”

“Deal.”

═══════

It was never as easy as you thought it would be.

The first week was simple enough— if you ignore how Toji overexerted himself during his workout sessions just to piss you off. You could only retaliate by eating the few extra scoops of ice cream or scoffing down an entire jar of peanut butter in one sitting, throwing off the man's diet plan completely. 

Toji was fed up. And so were you. 

Another problem slowly became more prevalent the longer time went by. The aches and pains were easy to ignore. The arousal wasn’t. Not being able to get yourselves off was starting to wear both of you down. Toji became more easily frustrated, getting hard whenever he could sense the slow, slick heat curling up in your gut. It became a common occurrence for you to lay in bed at night, attempting to alleviate some of the ache you felt in your pussy by clenching your thighs together. 

But every single time without fail, the same voice rang in your ears.

“Don’t.”

His voice came out from across the hallway, gravelly and thick with need.

You froze.

“I can feel it. I can feel you,” Toji warned. “And if you keep going… I swear to fuckin’ God, so will I.”

═══════

Week two must have been even worse. 

One night, you dreamt about your housemate. Toji was everywhere. His voice was rough as he brought his lips to your ear, hands settling on your waist from behind. 

“Been waitin’ for this cute cunt for ages,” Dream Toji seemed to whisper, thumbs rubbing treacherously over your perked nipples once he had firmly grasped both full breasts into his hefty palms. He squeezed once, twice, a jaded eye twinkling as he watched you shake your head bashfully. 

“You… uh, y-you knew, then? Been holding up on me, Toji.” Your words were punctuated with your rear bumping eagerly against Toji’s sizable erection, the length vividly throbbing against you. 

You were both so terribly breathless, unconscious and disorientated until you were both panting in sync.

Then you both woke up. 

Oh, you were so fucked. Truly fucked if you were dreaming about each other like this.

Your subconscious was betraying you that very moment, revealing all of your hidden desires. 

You sat up groggily, pushing the blanket that was sagged around your legs onto the wooden floorboards below your bed. Surely Toji was bluffing with his past comments about taking matters into his own hands if you got yourself off? Though, maybe you wanted him to…

You bit your lower lip, eyes lit up once the idea of testing his patience became more appealing. Your hand didn’t move— not right away, but the delicious ache down below pulsed hard and mean. 

Just a little touch. That’s all.

Your hips lifted up, allowing you to slip your pyjama shorts and panties off in one fell swoop. You melted with a purr once your hand met your soaked pussy, body slouching comfortably against the headboard of the bed with one tingling leg kicking out weakly. Two fingers skirted around your clit, the digits skimming over with a feather-light touch, all whilst your hole clenched and dripped dewy slick onto the mattress below your bare lower half. You couldn’t stop the soft gasps leaving your parted lips when you dipped the tips of two of your fingers just barely inside. 

And then—

SLAM. 

The wooden door of your bedroom flew open, practically splintering and creating a deep indent onto the side of your poorly painted wall. An unflattering yelp left your lips, heart lurching as you quickly grabbed your blanket so that you weren’t as exposed to your fiendish housemate. But the damage was already done.

A very shirtless Toji stood at the doorway, hair a sweaty mess and chest heaving. His eyes were wild, and his jaw was clenched tightly shut. As if he’d been holding himself back for far too long. 

“You think I’m playin’?” Toji’s voice was incredibly strained. Ragged. 

Unable to answer, you simply gawked at Toji, who was now stalking further into your bedroom. Ever so perceptive, you see the way he’s limping, the way his black boxers are tented in a manner so vulgar. But the limp was what had your attention. 

You had a hunch as to why that happened. One finger went back down, sinking deep into your pussy with a lewd squelch and curling juuuust right. With a full-body shudder, you fought the urge to shut your eyes, keeping them on the man in front of you as he flinched and reached around to grab his ass with both hands. His asshole clenched tight, as if he was the one to have a finger slide into the foreign orifice. 

Toji shouldn’t have wanted this. But every single time your pussy clenched, his entire body felt it.

Your housemate regained his wits, clearly unamused with the way he was staring you down. Intimidation didn’t work on you… most of the time. You sheepishly slipped out the drenched finger, noting how pitiful of a shield your blanket made. It shook in one of your fists when Toji came closer, towering over you as his boxers strained even further. The blanket was tossed to the side yet again. Perhaps there was no use in it. Not anymore. 

“You’re fixing this shit, by the way.” His voice dropped dangerously low as he held eye contact with you. A simple silver chain dangled in your face, the dim light of your lamp causing it to glint back at you. “You’re gonna let me fuck the ache out of us both, right?”

Toji’s callused palm slid up your thigh, hot and heavy. Your breath caught, and so did his. He can feel how sensitive you are down there, and his eyes darkened just a fraction. 

“Can you see that? How I can feel everything your slutty body is giving me?”

You nodded, swallowing as Toji lugged his hulking body onto your bed. It took him no effort to spread your legs wide with practised ease. His padded thumb reached low, brushing languidly across the slick seam of your folds. His own hips jerked in response.

“Hahhh, shiiit. This is going to be so, so messy. You filthy girl.”

Fucking finally, you thought, causing Toji to slap your thigh with a shake of his head. Oh, right. He could still sense the impatience radiating off of you. But it’s not like he’s any better. His fattened cock was pulsing eagerly in his boxers, the sensation only heightened when he stroked your quivering slit with two fingers. Your hips jerked involuntarily, causing the man to groan lowly. 

Toji was incredibly conflicted, and you could tell. On one hand, he was finally satiating that need for desire he had been feeling for weeks now. But on the other hand, he was venturing into uncharted territory. Every touch to your pussy led to his own hole winking open and shut repeatedly. It was completely humiliating, the sensation completely foreign to him. However, you could both sense the growing part of him that enjoyed whatever he was feeling down below. 

“Lose the grin,” Toji choked out once he dropped his body down low enough. He was eye to eye with your weeping cunt, eyes greedy as he inhaled the raw scent you were emitting. Your nose crinkled, hand shooting out to grab him by the scalp as you took in the pussydrunk expression on his flushed face. Toji hadn’t even done anything yet, and he was already this far gone. 

A hot, thick tongue drags slowly over your throbbing clit, the cluster of nerves vibrating once he moans into your pussy. The pleasure loops back onto Toji, causing a broken gasp to rip out of his throat— like he’s being touched too. “Sh-shit. Not a fuckin’ word about this, you hear me?”

You couldn’t reply. Not when your very manly housemate shucked off his dampened boxers and allowed his back to settle into a nasty arch. Honestly? It put yours to shame. 

A measured suck to your clit brought you out of your envious thoughts. Toji’s lips were sealed tightly around you, like he’s trying to get himself off through you. A squeal left you once the abundance of sensations hit you all at once, causing your legs to lock around his broad shoulders. A wickedly erotic thrill shot through you both when his hips grinded deeply into the mattress under you both— cock dripping helplessly with precum whilst his back remained arched.

“Fuck, fuck— she’s clenchin’ around me,” he pants out, nose pressed hard against your mound. And he was right— you were clenching down onto his face since his mouth refused to give you any mercy. Toji’s own rim twitches, causing him to fist the sheets into his hand as he uses his entire mouth to eat you out. The sensations ricochet between you both, and a heady taste fills your mouth. 

You cry out, hips fucking up onto your housemates face like you were in heat.

“Toji… Toji, I can— I can taste myself.” Your voice came out all high and garbled, saliva pooling in your mouth. You swallow greedily, the taboo nature of the act causing you to grow even wetter. You could positively feel how good he thought you tasted as well. 

“So, s-so sweet…!”

He spits onto your cunt, feral eyes watching the way it slid down to your own puckered hole. Before it could disappear, Toji glides his tongue from your asshole to your pussy, slurping up the mess before sucking your clit into his mouth once more. His cheeks hollow whilst you watch with increasingly bleary eyes, little oh’s of delight leaving you once he’s able to tongue-fuck you in slow, desperate strokes. You shuddered in harmony, climaxes inevitably drawing closer, like there was a taut rope connecting you both that was just ready to snap.

Your moans were downright pornographic now— raw, hungry, and increasing in pitch as the desperation grew to a point that neither of you had ever felt before. 

“No, w-wait—”

Your voice broke, cracked in a way that made you sound inhuman. Your entire body seized, and that was all it took for Toji to spurt thick ropes of warm cum from his cock. It was as if you had been electrocuted, the way your thighs had him in a tight chokehold whilst your cunt spasmed uncontrollably around his tongue. You orgasmed, your fluids gushing down Toji’s chin freely and soaking the sharp curve of your jaw. 

Toji’s back arched hard once the force of both of your orgasms hit you both. His cock convulsed, untouched and marred with full veins as you felt each twitch like it was yours too. You swore you blacked out, unsure as to where your orgasm ended and his began. Feverish moans blended into gruff grunts, two distinct voices melding into one singular sigh of ecstasy. 

Through it all, you both kept feeling each other. A set of comforting hands kneaded your hips as Toji reluctantly detached himself from your pussy. A low whine left you at the loss of contact, cool air mixing with the fluids etched into your skin. But the sight of how wrecked Toji looked made up for it.

His pointed chin was glazed with a sheen of slick, parted lips swollen and eyes unfocused. Droplets of sweat coated his body, plastering his jet-black hair onto his forehead. A wobbly hand of his laid flat on the heaving muscles of his chest, wiping the residual moisture away to no avail. You watched as he sat back on his heels, cock still jerking where it laid thick and leaking against the muscle of one of his bulky thighs. 

A half-laugh left you, a delirious look in your eyes as you nestled against the damp pillow behind you. Your entire body trembled as you shut your eyes, trying to stop your head from spinning too much.

“You think we should try actually fucking, ‘ji?”

“And feel my asshole get impaled? No thanks."

[bats-and-the-birds]

I am thinking about the batkids and their rooms at the manor.

When Dick was first brought to the manor, Alfred put wooden letters that spelled out his name on the outside of the door to his room. He wanted the boy to feel like he belonged, and denoting the room as his seemed like the best way. At first, they spelled out "Richard", and were painted in red, green, and yellow -- the colors that his parents had worn for their circus act, that didn't have any other meaning yet. Dick pried them off the door and threw them away. He didn't want to accept that this was permanent yet. There were new letters on the door a few days later, blue this time, and spelling out "Dick" instead. Those letters got pried off much the same and shoved in a drawer, and they didn't get put back until a year later. He was too short to put them in the same place, so they ended up crooked, and Alfred found it too endearing to fix.

When he left the manor years later, he considered ripping the letters off the door and throwing them in the foyer on his way out. But he left them, and there they remained, crooked as ever.

Jason got his own letters when it became clear he wasn't going anywhere. He helped Alfred put them up on his bedroom door, standing on a step stool to make sure they got in the right place. His were evenly spaced and neatly aligned, and he refused to tell anyone that he cried over them that night. He'd spent months wondering if he'd ever live up to his predecessor, not just as Robin, but in the family as well. And now he had his own letters, just like Dick's, and they weren't going anywhere.

And they didn't. Even after he died. Bruce and Alfred both considered taking the name down to make walking past that empty room less painful, but in the end, they didn't dare touch the letters, just like they didn't touch anything else in the room. Years later, Jason would sneak into the manor through his old bedroom window and find his school uniforms still hanging in the closet, his textbooks on his desk, an open novel on his nightstand, and, of course, the letters still on the door, more of an epitaph than the one on his actual tombstone.

Tim fought for his name on a bedroom door. It took a while, but he trained, and he learned, and he forced himself into the role that he knew he could fill. Part of him thought that no matter how good and useful he made himself as Robin, he'd never really fill the role that the two before him did. He thought there might not be room for him after Jason's death, but he did it. He was older than the other two when Alfred finally put the letters up on his door, but he did it.

Later, when he left in search of Bruce, he didn't think for a second of taking his name down off his door. He'd earned it.

Damian's name got put up practically as soon as he got to the manor. He didn't think much of having his name on a door. If anything, it irked him a bit, being lumped in with the others, but it would have annoyed him more if he didn't get his own name. For a while, his name on the door, marking it as his from the hallway, was the only reason you could tell it wasn't the guest room that it had previously been. He had no photographs, had arrived with no personal affects.

That changed, eventually. As he gained friends, he also gained photos of them. He put up sketches and watercolor paintings of his animals. A dog bed got put on the floor for Titus. But the letters had been there from the beginning, and he grew to appreciate them eventually. His room, with the name on the door, was safe, and he liked it there.

Cass's letters showed up without much fanfare. They were simply there when she exited her room one day. "Cassandra" in black wooden letters that matched all of her new siblings'. She ran her fingers over them with reverence. She'd never been allowed to leave a mark before. Her life was predicated on being a shadow, but there was her name, in big letters, somewhere where other people could see it.

Steph had a room. She didn't want to admit it, but when she crashed at the manor, it was always in the same room. Her name was put up, and she took it down, and it was put up again, and she took it down again until it became something of a game between her and Alfred. If Steph was staying at the manor and Alfred didn't find a wooden S in a random cupboard, then have to search the house for the rest of her name, then he knew she was in a bad mood, and he usually made her favorite cookies and left them outside of the door with her name still firmly in place.

Duke's letters were waiting for him when he moved in. His name in bright yellow letters that matched his suit already in place. Of course it was, it's tradition at this point, and he's part of the family now. He had bounced around for a while now, and the letters on his door made him feel...calmer. It was a sense of permanence, and one he could learn to enjoy.

Barbara didn't need a room. She had her own room, in her own house, but Alfred still offered to mark out a space for her. She declined. When she did stay over, it was either in the cave or Dick's room, she didn't need her own. Still, that didn't mean her mark wasn't left somewhere. There was a study downstairs with a desk that she sometimes did her homework on as a child if she was staying over for the night. Now, the desk held a computer that was wired into the Batcomputer's network, a photo of her and her father, and, of course, tiny wooden letters affixed to the side that spelled out 'Barbara'.

[kysstar]

[ 11:28 AM ] | CHOI SAN

pairing : : choi san x fem!reader

synopsis : : after a brutal breakup leaves you shattered in the rain, you call the one person who’s never let you down, san

genre : : angst, hurt comfort, fluff

warnings : : none

word count : : 1.5k

—The rain hadn’t let up for hours.

It was the kind that didn’t gently fall—it crashed down, each droplet slicing through the night like glass. The hem of your dress clung to your legs, soaked through, transparent now. Your hair stuck to your cheeks, your neck, plastered by the downpour. You didn't even remember taking off your heels. One had snapped when you were halfway down the street, and you'd just kicked them off, numb and blind with disbelief.

The pavement was slick and cold beneath your bare feet. Every step had stung. You didn’t know how far you’d walked. It didn’t matter. Nothing did.

Your mascara had long melted, stinging your eyes, leaving streaks that made your face feel foreign. Like a costume had been ripped off. You didn’t recognize this version of yourself—this broken, hollow, shaking silhouette.

You sank down onto the sidewalk. Your knees gave out like your body had finally decided to betray you too. Your phone trembled in your hand. You weren’t crying, not yet. You were past that. Crying required breath, a voice, something left inside.

All those years. All those fucking years.

He’d said it so simply. “It’s been going on for a while... I didn’t know how to tell you.” You’d stared at him like he was speaking another language. You gave him everything. Every version of you—soft, hard, messy, bright. And he threw it away like it meant nothing. Like you meant nothing.

You looked down at your phone. You hadn’t even realized your fingers were moving, trembling as they dialed. You didn’t know who you were calling until—

“Y/N?”

“San…” Your voice broke around his name like it had been waiting to fall apart.

You could tell he’d just woken up. “What happened? Where are you?”

“Can you… can you pick me up?” Your voice was barely above a whisper, raw and trembling.

“What? It’s—wait, it’s raining? Why are you—?”

“Please.” You didn’t mean to beg, but it came out like a sob anyway.

“Send me your location. I’ll be there.”

Your hand dropped into your lap. With a few clumsy taps, you sent it.

San. Your friend since high school. The boy who always carried a second umbrella just in case. The one who remembered the exact way you liked your coffee, the one who sat with you when your dog died, who made dumb jokes just to see you smile. He had always been there.

You didn’t even hear the car pull up. Just the soft screech of tires against wet road, headlights blinding for a second.

“Y/N!”

San’s voice cracked through the rain like lightning. He was already running—didn’t even bother with an umbrella. The rain hammered his jacket, soaked it to his skin, but he didn’t care. His shoes splashed through the gutter, breath caught in his throat when he finally saw you.

Curled in on yourself, arms wrapped around your knees, trembling and soaked, your phone still clutched in your hand like it was the only thing keeping you tethered to this world.

“Shit, Y/N,” he breathed, falling to his knees in front of you. His hands hovered in the air, frantic, unsure where to touch first without breaking you more. “What happened? Are you hurt—?”

But before he could reach you, you collapsed forward right into his chest.

A sob tore from your lungs—ugly, raw, torn from the deepest part of you. Your fingers fisted the front of his soaked jacket, and you buried your face against him like you could disappear.

A sob tore from your throat, deep and shaking and jagged with the kind of grief you’d been holding back for hours.

San wrapped his arms around you like a shield, one hand cradling the back of your head, the other around your waist, pulling you into him as tight as he could without crushing you. He said nothing for a second—just held you while you cried against his shoulder.

“Hey, hey, I’ve got you. I’ve got you,” he whispered over and over again, rocking you gently on the sidewalk as the rain came down in sheets around you both.

“He… he left me,” you choked out, the words breaking apart mid-air. “San, he… he cheated on me. For months. He—he said he didn’t know how to tell me.”

You didn’t see the way his jaw clenched, the pure rage that flashed in his eyes. But you felt it—the way his heart pounded against yours like it wanted to shield you, like it wanted to fight the world for what it had done to you.

“He lied to me, San. All those years. It was all… fake.” You sobbed harder. “I gave him everything.”

“I know,” San whispered, barely able to breathe. “I know you did.”

He pulled back just enough to look at you. The moment he saw your face, something inside him cracked. Your eyes were red and swollen, lashes clumped from tears and mascara, streaks of black trailing down your cheeks. Your lips trembled uncontrollably, your entire body shaking from cold and heartbreak.

San shrugged off his jacket and draped it around your shoulders with careful hands. His fingers brushed against your bare arms, warm despite the storm. “Here. You’re freezing.”

Then gently, like you might shatter, he swept your drenched hair away from your face, tucking the strands behind your ears with trembling fingers. His eyes searched yours like he was trying to find the girl he used to know behind the hurt.

“Let’s get you home, okay?”

He helped you up, his hand gripping yours tightly the whole way. You barely had the strength to walk, but San didn’t let go once—not even when you stumbled, not even when your legs buckled again and he caught you against his side like it was nothing.

He opened the passenger door and helped you inside carefully, then jogged around to the driver’s side. As soon as the engine rumbled to life, he cranked up the heater, the warm air rushing over your frozen skin.

San noticed your hands shaking immediately. Without a word, he reached over and took your hand. His palm was warm—so warm—and he threaded his fingers through yours.

The drive was quiet except for the sound of rain on the windshield and the low hum of the engine. San’s thumb never stopped moving. You stared out the window, but your vision blurred with tears you couldn’t stop.

When he pulled into his driveway, he left the car running for a second, letting the heater blast a little longer, then shut it off and turned toward you. You were still staring ahead like you didn’t know where you were.

He opened the door first, ran around to your side again, and gently coaxed you out of the seat.

You barely noticed how soaked both of you were until you stepped into his house and your clothes clung to you like a second skin.

“Come on,” San murmured, guiding you toward the bathroom. “Let’s get you out of these clothes before you freeze.”

In the soft light of the hallway, he grabbed a towel and began drying your hair carefully, gently, like he was afraid of hurting you further. Then he handed you a fresh towel and a stack of clothes—his hoodie, an old oversized t-shirt, and, to your surprise, a pair of leggings that had once belonged to you.

“You left them here a year ago,” he said softly when he saw your expression. “I… never got rid of them.”

You changed slowly, your movements sluggish. When you came out, wrapped in the oversized hoodie, the sleeves falling past your hands, San looked up from the stove and smiled faintly.

“I made soup,” he said. “I figured you probably didn’t eat.”

You hadn’t. You hadn’t even thought about food.

You nodded, sitting down on the couch. Your fingers curled around the bowl, and the warmth felt so foreign it made your eyes sting again.

He sat beside you, watching silently as you took the first few sips. Your nose was still red, and you sniffled between mouthfuls. At one point, your hand trembled too much to hold the spoon steady — and without a word, San reached over, took it from you, and gently fed you himself.

You tried to protest, cheeks burning. “San, I— I can—”

“Let me,” he said. His voice was calm, like a blanket around you. “You’ve done enough for tonight.”

So you let him. Spoon after spoon. You didn’t realize how starved you were until halfway through the bowl.

When the bowl was empty, he set it aside and brushed a strand of hair from your face. His hand lingered on your cheek, thumb softly wiping away the tear you didn’t even notice had fallen.

“C’mere,” he said.

You curled into him like you’d been waiting for years. His hoodie was still damp from the rain, but his body was warm. One arm wrapped around your shoulders, the other across your back, hand resting gently against your ribs. His chin dropped to the top of your head.

Your body still trembled now and then, like your heart hadn’t realized it could calm down yet. Every time it did, San would hold you tighter. Rub slow circles between your shoulder blades. Whisper, “You’re okay now."

You clung to him like the world might fall apart again if you let go

© kysstar

[lady-ashfade]

Matching flames

Percy Jackson x Soulmate!Reader

-£ Ask: Percy x reader who's his soul mate and he only finds out when she almost dies (could be trying to save him or just because life as a demigod is hard) @poemfreak306

-£ words: 2k

-£ Warnings: Reader being injured, soulmate au, blood & cuts, reader almost dying, angsty, comfort at the end, cursing?? (You can also imagine any Percy you want in this)

Could you count all the stars in the sky?

It was almost peaceful looking up at the stars, mind going blank and your body numb. they looked so beautiful and you realize you’ve never quite looked closely at them. burning rocks floating in space that somehow was the cause of so many poems and love stories. if only you had noticed it sooner.

Blood leaked out of your side and the hand you placed over it started to give up trying to put pressure on the wound. The monster who chased you for miles had finally got to you after being so close to camp, to being safe and sound, when it’s claws finally got ahold of you. Its sharp nails dragged into your skin ripping your clothes and stained them with the blood immediately pouring out. thankfully you had one stroke of luck when your dagger pierced its heart and it was quick to fall.

Not much time has passed since then, however it was enough time for you to loss too much blood.

Had the stars always been that pretty? Just a thought as your eyes blur and the only thing left to feel was the thoughts in your head. The sweet smile of your moral parent’s smile, how it felt to laugh with friends and how some part of you still felt on fire. The shore of the camp’s lake appeared in your mind, and sand beneath your feet as you look at someone’s figure. The smile on their face was so familiar…Maybe it was death being nice to you.

you tried to keep your eyes open but they were just too heavy. maybe you could just rest for a few minutes. there was a sense of warmth that took over your body once more as your eyes fade closed.

“He’s coming, not long little one.”

the campfire wasn’t his focus at the moment but he found himself staring into it as his thoughts ran wild. he had just back to camp but this year was so much different. there was so much on his mind that he just couldn’t focus on one thing. about his mother, his father and how he still couldn’t believe he was a Demi god. even after a long time it just wasn’t normal to him.

then a hiss leaves his lips as he clings to his side in pain. it was stinging and felt on fire. he knew how being wounded felt like all to well but nothing happened, he was just sitting. then his finger felt funny like pins and needles stabbed him all at once. from his left annabeth looks at him worried and looking of his confused face.

“What’s wrong?” But the boy just stared at himself as the pain faded away but his hand became numb and weird. He spun it around a few times to look over it, checking for anything causing it but found nothing. not even a bug.

it was your smile that popped in his head. the warm shoulder he always laid on, he could hear the laugh you had ringing in his ears. why? his name was called from your soft lips but it wasn’t like normal, he saw your lips with blood from the corner. reaching out to him like he was your only hope.

“Y/n.” He stood up immediately at the image in his head. looking around for you in the crowd of campers he didn’t find you with your siblings or around your friends. annebeth looked at him worried and stood up with him, “what is it?”

he knew those trees. he’s seen then a million times. percy knew the grass, but this was different from actually knowing where you were. something was tugging his body and he didn’t need ask where you were. he knew.

his feet moved on their own and he practically ran where they took him and only thought of you. Annebeth stayed behind and told Mr.d that something might be wrong. Percy felt off and not the normal kind he always did. his body felt weaker like it was losing its life. his chest felt off and his heart filled with sorrow.

so when he found you laying in a pool of your own blood he was quick to fall next to you. “y/n” he called out. he checked for a pulse but couldn’t do it right so he leaned next to your nose and listened for your breathing and thankfully he felt some. his heart was pounding when he saw the cuts on your body making his mind wonder to what could have done it. the camp was just a few feet away and you could have been safe.

“Don’t die,” he begged and places his arm under your head, “this isn’t how it’s supposed to be.” his words didn’t make sense to him when he spoke. how was it supposed to be? what was he talking about.

the new light in the sky made him look up to a shooting star shoot cross the sky. it was truly beautiful. something around his finger pulled again and he felt the small feeling of string so when he looked down it was red and tied around him. following the line he found it connected to you. The string of fate.

his string was tied to yours. you were his soulmate.

“no, no” he wrapped another arm under your legs and left you up slightly. he was staring at your face with tears pooling themselves in his eyes. for the first time he was finally seeing you as what you were. his. but how could the gods be so cruel to take you way from him. Percy wouldn’t let that happen. he’d fight hades himself for you back.

“just stay with me.” there he was carrying you passed the camp line to get you to the infirmary. even in the near death you looked stunning as you away did. he was just to stupid to see it before. 

when they took you away from him he was quiet and stood outside the door and refused to leave. percy even refused to leave the room at first but was yelled at and pushed out, so he had no choice but to leave your side. how could he just stay outside when he could lose the one person that was supposedly to stay with him, to love him, and who was supposed to be with him always? how could he just sit still when he was going to lose it all?

his friends came to sit with him and offered him some kind words and reassurance but not much helped. he just sat down on a chair with his legs bouncing and hands fiddling with themselves as all he could think is about you. about the cuts on your skin and all the blood.

luckily they had gotten you somewhat healed, making you stable and fine. just had to wait for your body to heal.

“Percy,” annabeth poked his shoulder as he stared at the floor. they had left and he could go in now but he didn’t notice. “you can go in now.” Percy turn quickly to her and then at the door wide open now. so he sprinted up and inside to find you laying on the bed peacefully sleeping. annabeth didn’t follow him in because he needed a moment alone. she’d let him have his moment

Percy sat beside your bed the whole time you slept. he’d fed you. he’d brushed your hair out of your face and watched you closely as if someone was out to get you. his hand was always ready to pull out riptide in case but nothing dangerous ever came. his hand stayed in yours while he whispered for you to wake up and how much he was sorry.

“Should have realized it before,” he whispered as he leaned near you. “gosh, I’m such a idiot.” he sighed to himself and ran his eyes over you.

His hands rubbed your own, “Just wake up and I’ll make up for it. For all the time we lost, just let me love you.” His lips pressed to your head as you continued to sleep unknowing to his words but your body healing by having him close.

two days of not getting much sleep himself you’d waken up. his head resting next to your leg as he sat in a chair with his hand on yours, his hair messy. you didn’t remember coming to the infirmary or how you got here. and not percy holding your hand. but you couldn’t let go off it because it was to comfortable like it was made to fit in yours.

when you moved your body since it felt so stiff from probably not moving in days you’d accidentally woke him up. you felt bad as he shot up quickly and looked around panicked with his hand going to his side, probably reaching for riptide. once his eyes found yours it made your heart sink into your lower stomach. under his eyes were black circles and his eyes looked so painful that it broke you, like he’d been crying. he was paler then normal.

A sad smile broke onto his face, he was relieved to see you awake. He let out a small chuckle as his eyes almost filled with tears when he jumped forward you take your head into his chest as a small hug. “Welcome back,” you froze at his hug but let him have his moment. of course you smiled and wrapped your arms around him too. It was nice.

“Percy, how long was I out…How did I get here?” Pulling himself back with a red tint in his chest he sat back down.

“I found you outside the barrier. Y/n, I thought you were dead, you were barely breathing.” his voice broke. “but I got you here and now you’re awake. not dead,” there was that damn smiling again that pained you, like he was convincing his demons something.

humming and nodding your head along you look at your side to see it healed, lifting up your shirt just a little and saw a scar on your skin. it made you frown knowing how big it would be. “If it means anything, I think you’d look badass.” you put your shirt back down and look at him.

he was trying to make you feel better. “Percy when I was- When I closed my eyes I heard something and my body, well it felt different. Do you know anything about that?” his heart skipped a beat and his eyes slightly going wide.

was it obvious how fluster he was? was his skin as red as a tomato, did he look like a fool? “I have to tell you something.” Percy played with his own hands again and looked away for a second. you swing your legs to the side of the bed to stretch.

“Go ahead.”

You watched him closely and you could see he was working himself up to speak. how his body bounced and twitched, he was turning redder by the second. he was cute. and you yourself found your own cheeks turning hot when you looked at him.

“I saw you at the campfire in my mind. I could feel the pain you felt, or somewhat, like I was dying. my body was pulling me to you and I knew exactly where to find you without having to look.” As he explained you listened carefully and tilted your head to the side.

“then I saw it. The red string of fate tied to my finger. I saw a shooting star, then I saw your string tied to my. And for the first time I saw you for the first time, as my soulmate.”

“Oh.” Damnit. That was bad.

Percy nodded and now started to shut down as he watched you, your brain moving to figure out what to say. he just ruined everything. you wished to not be his soulmate, that was it. he didn’t blame you. Percy brought danger whereever he went.

But that wasn’t it. you had been thinking something else. everything made sense to you now. why you looked at him when no one else was looking. why he made you feel high in the clouds when he was near. and how he just fit so well in your life without trying. “Percy,” you call out to him again and move closer and scoot to the end of the bed with your feet hitting the floor.

you should have known from his eyes. as they look at you now it just hit you like bricks, how they were so powerful. as you take his cheek in your hands his breath hitches and holds in his chest. “i’m glad you’re my soulmate.”

he pulled you close to him and held you so tight in how arms as you giggled at how happy he seemed. his laugh made your stomach fill with butterflies. “I’ll make you happy.” And that you had no doubt about. you pulled back from his grasp and looked at his lips. you needed to kiss him. and Percy knew what you were thinking and wanted the same.

his face moved forward as his kiss captured yours in a soft but passive kiss, his hands moving to wrap themselves around your body as yours wrapped around his neck. it was nice but didn’t end short. after all you both waited for a long time to feel the love of a soulmate and you didn’t know that you craved it this badly.

The stars never lied when it comes to love. And now you knew that he was the burning fire within you.

[cxvii666]

“SOME GIRL”

feat. a pre-relationship hanta s.

“searching for compatibility, looking for the one that's right for me”

starting track...

↻ ◁ || ▷ ↺

.....

you’re late.

not fashionably. not even ironically. just... late-late. the kind where your friends have stopped texting where r u and have simply accepted your existence as a myth for the night.

you blame the eyeliner. and your hair. and the way your original top betrayed you at the last minute, sitting wrong across your chest and clinging in all the wrong places. you’d swapped it out with something safer, easier—black and slinky, a clean neckline, the kind of dress that lets you exist without tugging at seams. it hugs your waist in the right way, the kind that makes you feel good when you catch your reflection in windows you pass. your makeup’s holding up surprisingly well, save for the one side of your lip liner that always refuses to cooperate.

it’s warm tonight. the kind of summer warmth that clings to your skin and makes everything feel a little too loud, a little too alive. you can hear the party before you even reach the door—bass-heavy music, the low buzz of overlapping voices, laughter that spills out into the street.

mina’s place looks like it’s glowing from the inside out. big windows lit up, bodies silhouetted behind gauzy curtains. someone’s perched on the porch steps in platform boots and a sequined bralette, puffing something that smells vaguely like artificial watermelon.

you duck past them with a nod, regretting your heels the moment your foot hits the hardwood.

"well, well," someone calls from your left, voice sharp with amusement. “look who finally showed up.”

you don’t have to look. you already know it’s hanta.

“yo, there she is—woman of the hour. thought you ghosted us, or, like, died.”

he’s got that shit-eating grin on. tall and easy in his stance, propped against the kitchen counter like that's what he was designed for. he’s wearing a beat-up band tee and ripped black jeans, the sleeves rolled up just enough so he can show off the small bit of nk on his forearm that looks decently ok before he let denki fuck up the rest on a dare. his hair’s pulled back tonight, tied low with a thin black tie, a few loose strands curling near his jaw, showing off the small studs in both ears, one of them sparkling slightly as he tilts his head at you, grin wide and just a little too pleased.

you glance at him, barely.

“hold this,” you mutter, shoving your phone into his free hand without breaking stride.

he blinks, confused. “huh?”

“flip the camera. selfie mode. c’mon, i need a mirror.”

his hand twitches. and he fumbles. literally fumbles. his fingers do a weird little twitch before he taps the screen

you lean in toward it, focusing. it’s hard to see clearly. the lighting in mina's kitchen sucks—yellow and low, like the bulbs are drunk, too soft to really help—but you make do, leaning in, biting your lip, elbow resting on the counter, then your mouth parts slightly as you drag the liner back into place.

you don’t notice the way hanta’s gone quiet. not until a beat passes. then another.

you blink, side-eyeing the screen he’s holding out for you, and glance over—just a flick of your eyes to the reflection—and catch the look on his face. the screen still frames the two of you—your practiced focus, and behind you, hanta, holding the phone. frozen. like someone’s unplugged him mid-sentence.

his mouth’s slightly open. eyes wide. there's a very faint flush creeping up from his collar, bleeding across his cheeks, painting him soft and shy in a way you don’t see very often.

“dude,” you frown, and squint as his eyes meet yours in the reflection. “what's up with you, hmm? you were superrr chatty a second ago.”

he blinks. swallows. “me? nothing. i’m good. i’m totally good.”

you take your phone back, lock the screen with a tap, “you’re acting weird.”

“i’m not—i mean, i am. maybe. whatever,” he says quickly, rubbing the back of his neck. “you, uh. you look really good tonight.”

you raise a brow, halfway into tucking your lipliner back into your bag.

“yeah?”

he shrugs, playing it off, but his smile’s softer now. not smirky. not cocky. just real.

“yeah.”

you grin without meaning to. soft, quiet, and totally unaware that you’ve just made his entire week.

"thanks, hanta," you say, already turning to scan the crowd, calling for mina, already two steps ahead.

he watches you go, head tilted, that stupid little smile still tugging at the corner of his mouth.

↻ ◁ || ▷ ↺

the night keeps dripping by. slower now. time syrupy, stuck between moments.

you and hanta are still curled up on the couch. the party’s faded into background noise. half the house is already passed out or gone. someone’s playing something chill through a phone speaker—maybe lo-fi, maybe an old r&b b-side you don’t quite recognize. the lights are low. everything feels soft at the edges.

you’ve tucked your legs up, knees pulled to your chest. hanta’s next to you, shoulder brushing yours, one arm slung behind you on the back of the couch. not touching you exactly, but close enough to feel the heat of him radiating through your shirt.

he smells like leftover cologne and weed smoke and something sweeter underneath. like boy warmth. like him.

"okay," he says, voice gravelly with tired, "but you have to admit—denki trying to show off with the lighter trick and lighting his fucking hoodie string on fire? top five dumbest things he’s done this semester alone."

you snort into your cup. "that shit was actually so dumb. and then he tried to stomp it out while still wearing the hoodie."

"he almost kicked me in the shin doing it," hanta mutters, faux bitter.

you giggle, letting your head fall back against the couch.

"he’s lucky he’s cute," you say, still laughing.

hanta hums. “lucky we let him live.”

the both of you dissolve into tired giggles. the kind that make your stomach clench and your face ache. but it fades quickly—everything's slower now, smoothed out by the hour.

and when it’s quiet again, you shift a little, stretching your legs out. hanta follows your lead, flopping deeper into the cushions with a groan.

he tilts his head toward you.

“your body’s warm,” he murmurs, like it’s a secret.

you glance down at him. “uh. thanks?”

he grins a little, sleepy. “no, like... good warm. you’re like. cozy.”

you roll your eyes but you're smiling too. “maybe you’re just drunk.”

“nah,” he breathes, and then, more quiet, “just tired.”

and he lays his head on your thigh.

just like that. soft. unthinking. natural.

your breath catches a little, but you don’t stop him.

you just blink down at him—hanta sero, ridiculous and sharp-tongued and always a little too loud—and now he’s quiet, and folded into your side, and resting the weight of his cheek on your thigh like you’re something safe.

he blinks up at you once. and then slowly, his eyes flutter shut.

your hand drifts into his hair without really thinking. it’s soft. just a little tangled. you comb your fingers through it gently, nails scratching against his scalp.

he exhales hard, like he’s been holding in all his tension until now.

“mmf,” he murmurs, voice fading, “that’s not fair…”

“what’s not?”

“you… doing that. i’m gonna fall asleep.”

you smile, real slow. your other hand reaches for your half-finished drink, careful not to jostle him.

“go to sleep, dummy.”

he mumbles something into your leg you don’t quite catch.

and then he’s quiet.

a minute passes. maybe three. your drink goes untouched in your lap. you keep playing with his hair, watching the rise and fall of his chest as he slips into something deeper.

the house hums quietly around you. someone’s left the balcony door open, and the breeze slips through, cool on your neck. you shiver. but hanta’s still warm, curled against your thigh like a cat, like something gentle, and it anchors you.

.... end playback

↻ ◁ || ▷ ↺

prev track ▷ LOVE

next track ▷ MY GIRL

[cinderellaarchives]

IVNORE ME IF HOUR REQUESTS ARENT OPEN BUT I THINK THEY ARE ?

UM. MAYHAPS CONTINUE THE DOM! Riddle … 👉👈

IT WAS SO YUMMY OH MY SEVENS LIKE…

um. maybe, ahem, the punishment part ? 🤧 particularly the one where S/O gets tied up and has to watch(im such a virgin so it’s hard for me to say these things I am so sorry)? LIKE THAT WOULD KILL ME. I’d like to request a fem reader but GN is also fine ! Tyvm! And if your requests aren’t open— just thank you for writing that one piece because AAUAUAHAHAHAHHHHFHHHHHHH

Dom!Riddle Headcanons Pt.2

Read Pt.1 Here!

CW: Female!Reader, Male cross dressing, Dollification, Cum denial, Food play, Female Chastity Cages, Riding Crop, and Leather all mentioned

A/N: I’m so sorry this took so long, I had originally planned on pairing this with a one shot but finals have been a pain in the ass so I’ll post that later (and @ you if you want!) please enjoy ^^”!

︶︶⊹︶︶ ୨♡୧ ︶︶⊹ ︶︶

~ He had you a specially made chair for punishments;

~ It’s mahogany and decorated and carved nicely with gold and black hearts, soft and comfortable velvet padding on the seat, leather straps on the legs and arms of the chair (and a small button that buzzes within fingers reach in case you need to safe-word) He calls it “The King’s Throne”.

~ Sometimes, depending on what you did to deserve punishment, you’ll find a vibrator or dildo on the throne waiting for you!

~ But of course he’ll never allow you to cum as long as you’re in the throne.

~ Sometimes you won’t have your hands strapped, but instead will have a chasity cage on with a notebook in your lap and pencil in hand

~ He’ll either make you take physical notes on everything he does to himself on the bed that he likes, and if you take good enough notes you might get a reward. Maybe.

~ That or he’ll make you focus on the paper and write pages on what you did was wrong and you won’t do it again, if you look up or get distracted he’ll punish you further

~ Now let’s talk about rewards!

~ We all know Riddle isn’t the most masculine man- so I imagine as a kid he wanted to play with dolls, but was never allowed to. Good thing you’re here to make up for that!

~ You’ll be your Queen’s good toy won’t you? He’d love to dress you up for a date, finally free time with just the two of you, get you dressed up in the prettiest dress and do your hair.

~ Nobody else but you two knowing about the custom ordered lace teddy and garter underneath he got for you to match

~ Lowkey, I feel like he’s the type of man to enjoy wearing women’s lingerie himself too (because to be frank men’s lingerie is SOOO ugly 😭 (imo))

~ That’s another reward he loves to give. To grace you with the image of red and black lace or leather lingerie hugging his curves nicely.

~ I don’t think he’s *super* into leather, but he does love the feeling of wearing leather gloves when he spanks you

~ He prefers using a crop on you the most though! Riddle would *never* use a riding crop on a horse, so he died of embarrassment and kept your shared toybox more well hidden after Ace found it and he found himself without an explanation that wasn’t embarrassing

~ He secretly loves food play. It makes *him* feel so naughty doing it because he knows it’s not the healthiest thing to do, and he always makes sure you’re both completely clean when the scene is over! But he loooooves to lick your pussy thighs and tits clean of syrup, jam, cream, etc.

~ But because it takes so much clean up even after he’s licked every bit of you, you’d have to be an extra good girl to get that reward.

~ Definitely a boob guy. Gets hard just seeing you in a bra. Not the biggest fan of fucking your tits, it’s more in a he loves to smoosh his face into them while he fucks your pussy

~ There are days when he wants a little bit of softer sex while still domming, days when nothing particularly bad happened but he’s still tired by the end of it all. Those are the days when laying you down on his plush bed, ripping open your button-up shirt and wrapping his lips around your nipples feel like the most rewarding thing in the world (to both of you).

~ Sucking, biting, kissing and kitten licking your tits is one of his favorite forms of foreplay.

~ Riddle is more than happy to comfort you with some warm herbal tea and one of his stuffed animals during aftercare. If it’s after a hard punishment scene, he’ll ask you “Who’s my good girl?” and make you repeat back that it’s you!! You’re the good girl!

︶︶⊹︶︶ ୨♡୧ ︶︶⊹ ︶︶

[womanofwords]

Darling Demon (Part 1)

Yandere!batfam x betrothed!neglected!male!reader x yandere!demon!spouse

You weren't like your mother. She was an image of beauty, enchanting people with a glance and singing siren songs to lure them in. You . . . were plain. You didn't even look like she did. To look at you from the outside with no prior context, one would be forgiven for thinking that your mother had adopted you. Like mother, unlike son.

You didn't get much time with her, unfortunately. Your mother had lots of people to see. Her spiritual advisors, her agents, her beauty team. It ate through her time like termites through wood. But when she did spend time with you, it felt like no time had passed.

"My lucky chip," she called you, plucking you off the floor and spinning you in her arms. "You, my dear boy, are the foundation of my success. Where would I be without you?"

"Um . . . working?" you hesitantly replied, and your mother would just laugh at how silly you were.

The time you would have had with her was cut short one horrible day. That monster attacked your mother when you were only eight, ripping her away from you and then ripping you away from everything you'd ever known.

The monster was a jealous rival of your mother's, incensed at her for beating them out for a role in an upcoming movie. Well, now your mother would never be in a movie ever again. The monster got what they wanted, at your expense.

You were shuffled into the system without delay. Your mother had no family (they'd all 'mysteriously died' before you were born), so they'd have to find your biological father. Step 1 of that plan? Finding out who the hell he was.

Your DNA led them to Bruce Wayne, the billionaire. The revelation was . . . a shock, to say the least.

"You're my bi-o-log-i-cal father?" you said, staring up at Bruce Wayne.

"Apparently, yes," Bruce Wayne said. "DNA doesn't lie."

"Does this mean I'll finally have a dad?"

"Yes, you will have a father."

"Oh, OK." There was a pause to allow you to process. "So, will you visit me while I live at home or something?"

Lots of explaining had to happen that day. No, you will not live alone in your home. You will live with Bruce. Yes, you can take your things with you. No, you cannot come back when you're eighteen. The house will have been sold to someone else by then, but if it's unoccupied, you can buy it.

Your tiny bag was packed and you went to live with billionaire Bruce Wayne. The only act of consideration your father ever showed you was to let you pick out your room from the hoard of rooms his home boasted. You picked out a room with a large east-facing window, and snuggled into your new bed. It was big, but you'd grow into it.

And you'd grow into this family, too.

Taglist: @tinybrie, @bunniotomia.

Next

[yandere-wishes]

｡ ₊°༺Meet me at our spot༻°₊ ｡

｡ ₊°༺Meet Me At Our Spot By The Anxiety༻°₊ ｡

જ⁀➴ Lost the ask for this but hopefully the Anon sees this and knows it's for them: excitedly chewing on legos OMG NO cause this is so juicy, like let me just rip out Jason's heart for a sec. Let me fill him with rage and break his heart a little.

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚ When Jason dies, he leaves a hole in your heart. One that you're certain the Red Hood can mend.

ᗢ=♡=ᗢ=♡=ᗢ=♡=ᗢ=♡=ᗢ=♡=ᗢ=♡=♡=ᗢ=♡

Your sister doesn't appreciate the little bird that follows her like a shadow.

She says his presence is like an eclipse, an eerie, tiring thing.

Some day she'll miss the repartee, the attention, the "friend" she made along the way, someday when the boy lays in a coffin six feet deep, as little birds tend to do. She'll realize that he took a part of her with him. Buried beneath the earth, left to rot and waste.

Of course, she only grows more frustrated when you say such things.

When you remind her how fleeting and fragile this life is.

He was the happiest of them all. Cheerful little bird following his father through the shadows, chirping in joy as he skipped to echolocation. Playing with a naive kitty who never fully understood that they were meant to be enemies.

It's funny looking back, realizing how fickle children truly are. How you used to joke so earnestly about eating him whole and plucking his feathers from between your teeth. As you both sat on a skyscraper's edge sharing a juice box. Jason would laugh, would throw his head back, and kick his legs.

"That'll just mean we'd be together forever. I can haunt you from the inside."

You do truly wish it had been you that had killed him. That you had gotten the chance to peel the meat from his bones and savor their flavor upon your tongue. You would have enjoyed the crunch and pop of the cobalt between your teeth. Enjoyed finally, finally being able to crack open his skull and unburden him of his terrors.

But in the end, the kitty cat never reached the robin.

No, it was in fact the clown that gobbled him whole.

There's a part of depression that's relatively saccharine. The isolation and the silver of worry you feel, sweating off people when they note the vibrations of melancholy you emit. You see your mother's concern and your sister's vexation. You like how it makes you feel powerful. Like a divine decree to burn and kill. But you never do go after the clown. Your mother had forbidden such fruitless endeavors.

"I don't need you in a coffin as well".

Still, you long to wring the Joker's neck between your claws.

You had met him in the dark of an alley almost three months ago.

Requiem is held here often, in the shadow of your skyscraper. The armistice sanctuary where the two of you had spent the final quarter of your nights. No war, no fighting, just two kids in masks lying in the moon's gentle rays.

Your bag of jewels slumps over your shoulder. It feels like the weight of the world.

In the dark, a red thing moves. The ground shakes under his steps as the gloom slips off his body. He is rejected by the dark and unwanted by the light. "What you got in the bag Kitty Cat?" his voice is distorted, like an echo escaping a pit.

You jump, clawing for his arm upon descent, but the fabric he wears is too thick, the attack never reaches his skin. He uses your confusion to land a kick between your ribs. You slid over the concrete street, friction slivering the side of your uniform and the flesh beneath. When you look up again, he's seized the jewels and is halfway through scaling a nearby building. He turns to you, the white eyes of his mask sink into the crevasses of your soul. His fingers touch the side of his masked head in a mock salute.

"Haven't lost your touch sweetheart"

You spend most of the day sleeping in the sun, the only bearable thing left to do. You dream in shades of sugar plums and lilies. Sweet things that keep the bitter nightmares away.

It's gotten so hard to wake up lately.

So hard to stay awake.

Batman once told you that time heals all wounds. Maybe when you're older you'll forget the frantic patter of your heart when Jason smiled at you.  

A shadow blocks the sun, making you stir. Red menace that bears death like a perfume. When you look at him, your body chills. You choke on foreign nostalgia. Deja vu pricks at your bones trying to engrave itself upon the marrow. Why does the Red Hood feel like a forgotten memory? Like a lullaby, your mother used to sing.

He doesn't leave, he just stares. Unblinking white lights instead of eyeballs. Trained on your body. You feel naked under his gaze. It's almost as if he's torn you apart and memorized every little detail about you. Refusing to sew you up again. He leaves you an open cadaver for his cruel entertainment.

Hours pass, he only ever stares.

You've stopped sleeping since that day.

His ghost haunts you. Flickering in the moonlight as you sink beside an alley wall. When you look up, Jason is there beaming down at you. Jejune, unscarred in every way. You feel phantom kisses across your knuckles.

Just a street cat and her dead birdie.

When did depression and insomnia become such good friends?

"I miss you" you whispered, as tears slid down your cheeks. You blink, trying to relieve the irritation in your eyes. When something blunt and cold presses against your forehead. He's there, the red menace, the annoying thorn that wedged too deeply into your flesh. Pointing his favorite handgun at your head. You almost wish he would shoot.

When the light hits his helmet just right, it's like an open head wound.

"You look so ethereal in the moonlight, like a corpse bleeding out."

He's taken aback by your statement, he tenses, his fingers twitch. In anger or shock, you aren't quite sure. "You're really disturbed, you know that kitty?" His tragicomic lilt tastes so irritably sweet. You can't help but laugh like a madman.

Maybe Batman was right, maybe time does heal all wounds.

Maybe you've finally found your eschar.

When Red Hood punches you, hard enough to fracture bone, you can't help but relish in sickly-sweet sentimentality.

He's so familiar but you just don't know why.

Osteonic, pneumonic your body remembers while you do not.

"Keep throwing punches like that and I might think you hate me, darling." You blow him a fake kiss before he sweeps your feet, making you fall back.

He straddles your hips, pinning you to the ground. You gave him a fake pout before his hand is on your throat. Squeezing, harder and harder. It's like he's trying to push stars inside you, making you connect them and form constellations to say everything he never can.

Spots dance across your vision as you offer him a final giggle.

"Come on kitty, I thought you could take a little roughhousing."

It happens again.

He's so haunting in the daylight. Like a ghost twice dead.

He's staring

He's always staring

You didn't need to see his open casket

You would have thought him sleeping

He's dead he's dead he's dead

You say it so often these days it's like a mantra.

Jason, Red Hood.

Where does one begin and the other end?

You can't keep pushing the ghost of your childhood friend into the first new vigilante in town. But you can't help it.

It's like Jason's been reincarnated.

Like he's finally returned.

You've taken to reading Hamlet.

Not because you want to.

But because you feel like the answer to these phantoms lies between the ivory pages.

Or maybe it's because you wish to study Ophelia's madness. In hopes of finding a cure for your own.

You feel like Ophelia drowning in the river creek.

You feel like Hamlet arguing with apparitions.  

"I hate you." He screams one night, he's been chasing you for the better part of an hour after your recent heist at the museum. You laugh and throw him a kiss as you jump to the next building. But midair Red Hood tackles you, using your body to cushion his fall. Your bodies rest entwined atop that familiar skyscraper. "I love this place" you mutter from underneath him. "I used to come here with my best friend when we were young. It was..."

"...Our spot" he finishes. He lets out a bitter chuckle that sounds more like a profanity aimed straight at you. He stands again, knees keeping you pinned down, digging into your hips. His fist collides with your face again. He does it so often now you've come to almost love them.

"Jason" you murmur as the blood trickles down your nose, you feel something in your eye pop as you laugh. "You remind me so much of him".

Red Hood stands taller. For a second the world stills. He reaches behind and pulls up his helmet...

There's a popped blood vessel in your eye. Or many a concussion has bloomed within your skull. Regardless the vision flickering before you can't be real.

"I've got you under my skin" he murmurs as he lays a chaste kiss upon your cheek. "No matter what I do, I just can't get rid of the thoughts of you." He pulls your body up and embraces you so tightly. You only whisper his name like a scared prayer. Inhale his scent like ichore. He's too solid to be a ghost. Or maybe you're finally dead.

Jason buries his face in your neck. Muffling his sobs as he bites into your shoulder, letting your taste erupt inside his mouth. He's missed you, he's missed you more than anything else. It hurts knowing you'd be willing to replace him with someone else. Hurts that you fell for the first wise-cracking man in a mask that you met. But it's okay, it's fine, he can punish you later. For now, all that matters is that you're right where you belong.

At your spot, with him.

"I'll never leave you again kitty, I promise"

[rueclfer]

evergreen

𖤓 part viii. | series m.list | prev | part ix.

you weren't sure how things got to this point.

with one hand, you were clutching onto a fitstful of touya’s t-shirt and in the other you had your fingers wrapped around his outer forearm as it slung over your shoulder.

touya's body weight threatened to drag you down with him as you two stumbled through the woods. with his phone flashlight haphazardly swinging in all directions in his loose grasp, you could only hope you were heading towards the right direction.

"move your fucking feet, touya," you groan, dragging him forward.

"the fuck do you think i'm doing?" he slurs, accidentally kicking the back of your foot for the third time.

you felt hot against the side of his body at all points of contact. your palm was burning against his waist as were your fingertips wrapped around his wrist. 

it's fine. it's fine. it’s fine

how did a couple shots turn into another quarter of that handle of vodka? how were you somehow managing fine?

the first time you gotten drunk at camp was during your last summer. hawks and touya made it a tradition to sneak in a bottle or two since you were fourteen, but it wasn't until you were seventeen when tomura was old enough to be invited to partake and the weight of peer pressure had finally cracked you.

that night, you were met with your creator in the woods behind hawks' cabin at an ungodly hour with a blanket hung over your shoulder and touya holding back a fistfull of your hair.

"everyone's first time is like this, don't be embarrassed." he assures, biting back laughter.

"did i ruin it?" you drunkenly sob over a pool of your own vomit.

“no, you were perfect.”

at least this wasn’t that. 

you could’ve at least enjoyed this experience and been a bit tipsy, but the responsibility of dragging touya of all people back to your beds was harrowing enough to sober you up.

"my phone died." he groans.

"yeah, i can tell," you huff, staring at the ground in darkness.

"i'm scared."

"of the dark? you're a twenty three year old grown man, babe," you scoff "i'm sure the woods are more scared of you than you are of it."

"in the dark. in the woods. alone. with you." he hiccups.

"i don't bite."

"wish you did."

you hear the smirk in his voice- the familiar teasing tone that never failed to twist your stomach and make your throat go dry. you don't respond.

the buzzing of your cabin's porch light called out to you like an applause at the finish line and you swore you've never been more excited to be reunited with a rock hard twin sized mattress.

“you’re gonna have to walk up a couple steps, okay?” 

you pull him closer to you. how cruel would it be to leave him on the front steps of the porch if he doesn’t cooperate? of course you’d bring him a blanket and pillow. it’d be nice to be woken up by the rising sun wouldn’t it?

“heard.” he mumbles, resting his cheek against the side of your head.

you curse to yourself once your cold hand meets the warmth of skin where his t-shirt had ridden up his waist.

you almost reflexively rip your hand away until your fingers twitch against the sudden divide between soft flesh and unfamiliar rough thick grooves running up his torso.

your eyes dart back and forth between the concentration sewn in his furrowed brows, and the front door just steps away. your fingers freeze in place. touya’s focus remains down at his feet. he doesn’t notice.

you let your fingers press into his skin as you help him keep balance up the steps. your index and middle finger push against thick rubbery skin as your ring and pinky finger sink into soft flesh. you don’t know what to make of it.

once you two practically fall into the front door, you think about giving him a glass of water, and laying him on his back. you could let your hands glide up his torso, bringing the ratty band tee up over his head and onto the ground, and you could look at him. really look at him.

that white hair he used to complain about and slather in black hairdye had grown past his ears. did you stop dyeing you hair because you lost the only person you’d let touch it?

he added a few new piercings to his collection. did you do these yourselves again?

his cerulean eyes still has that gleam to them. i still recognize you.

this is the first time you’ve let yourself think about him all day. every time he crossed your mind since your meeting this morning, you’ve been quick to chased it off with a distraction. maybe you were drunk, because for the first time in years, you’re wondering besides the obvious, what’s changed?

a lot could happen in five years. new people. freak accidents. it’s all inevitable.

maybe it's nothing.

a/n: somehow leaning towards canon adjacent dynamics and snippets eeeeeeep and i also feel like we r finally moving the story along kinda sorta so yaay

tags:

@iluv-ace @bitchyfestivalbouquet @redr0sewrites @babylambdietcoke @bnhabadass @hanmastattoos @1ndee @starsryi @nesrynsblog @twoplayergaymers @suksatoru @ita606 @pookiebear16 @fictionalcharactersownmyheart @in-the-marina-trench @haruhi269 @itgetzweird08 @ilophilia @chimimon @emluvs-sugu @punishblue @whorror-complex @akumakitsune21 @maddie-rose-1 @ixeyi @commonmisery @ggriwm @exselily @kryscent @starrmage @vannyinthestars @burnishingbagels @soobhns @kaybug88 @lantsovheiress @0skullyard0 @albakugo @sleepyk0dyz @blu3-l0v3r @bakugouswh0r3 @kaldurahms-lover @thoughtswithbbg

[softiekatz]

starved - au!claggor/fem!reader

“in which claggor eats pussy like a man starved”

wc: 2.2k

mdni!

warnings: degradation mostly

(also posted on ao3)

When you started dating Claggor, you assumed he’d be kind of vanilla in bed. Sweet, maybe a little awkward, definitely the type to ask before kissing you and apologize if he got too rough. And that was fine. You liked him for who he was. He was steady, thoughtful, gentle with his hands.

But the first time he got between your legs, all of that got ripped to shreds.

Claggor eats like a man who’s been starving his whole life, and you’re the only meal that ever mattered. There’s nothing slow or sweet about the way he goes down on you—no teasing, no warm-up. He gets your legs spread and dives in like he’s drowning and you’re the only air left in the world.

Messy doesn’t even begin to describe it.

You feel the stubble on his jaw scrape against your thighs, his hands bruising your hips as he drags you down the bed to where he wants you. His tongue is relentless, his lips slick and parted, gasping against you like he can’t get enough. Every sound he makes is soaked in hunger; wet, desperate, fucking obscene. He moans into your cunt like it’s his favorite song, and he hums when you twitch or cry out, like he’s proud of it. Every movement, every lap of his tongue, is frenzied and raw, like if he dies tonight, this is exactly how he wants to go out.

And the worst part? He talks while he does it.

Filthy, degrading things that make your spine arch and your hands scrabble against the sheets.

“You like that, don’t you? Fucking soaking. You want me to clean up your mess like the little slut you are?”

You gasp, eyes wide, because Claggor, sweet, soft-spoken Claggor, is gripping your thighs and snarling between them like he owns you. His voice is wrecked, half-muffled by your slick, and he doesn’t stop . Not when you cry out. Not when you beg. Not even when you shake so hard the bed creaks beneath you.

“I could live down here,” he growls. “You’d let me, wouldn’t you? Let me keep my face buried in this perfect little pussy all fucking day.”

He slaps your thigh when you try to pull away, like he’s angry you even thought of it.

“Where the fuck do you think you’re going?”

You’re not sure if you’re sobbing from pleasure or just the overload, but you can't stop trembling. You weren’t ready for this. No part of you was prepared for him —not like this. He devours you like he’s been dreaming of it for years, like every filthy fantasy he’s ever had is crashing down on you at once, and he finally gets to ruin you with it.

And the way he looks up at you; mouth soaked, chin glistening, eyes burning. And you realize he’s only just getting started.

You barely get a breath in before he dives back, tongue sliding into you so deep your vision whites out. You try to lift your hips, try to squirm away, but Claggor growls and slams your thighs down, pinning you in place with nothing but the weight of his arms and that goddamn mouth.

"You don't get to run from me," he snarls into you, lips dragging over your soaked skin. "You started this, baby. Now you’re gonna fucking take it."

His voice is low and wrecked, full of heat and hunger and something far more dangerous. And you do. You take it. You lie there, writhing under him as he feasts on you like it’s his last night alive, like every twitch and gasp you give him is another hit of oxygen. His tongue works you over with ruthless precision, flicking, dragging, circling your clit just enough to make your whole body lock up and then pulling away like he knows what he’s doing to you.

Sadistic.

You moan, hands flying to his hair. You try to tug him up, try to pull him into a kiss, into anything, but he just growls again and grabs your wrists, slamming them down above your head with one big, shaking hand.

"I said stay down," he pants. His voice is soaked in need. "You're not gonna fucking distract me. This is mine tonight."

He goes right back to it , practically shaking from how hard he’s grinding into the bed, desperate for any friction while he devours you. The noises are filthy; slick, wet, greedy. He slurps and moans like a man possessed, mouth shining with your arousal, and when you glance down through hazy eyes, fuck... the look on his face is downright obscene.

He’s loving it.

He’s addicted .

“You taste like heaven, baby,” he murmurs, dragging his tongue in slow, devastating strokes. “Like you were made for me to eat.”

You’re crying, you realize. A choked, helpless sound escapes your throat as you try to hold on, try not to cum again but Claggor knows . He feels it.

"Don’t you dare hold back," he says, voice hot against your soaked skin. "You give it to me. Be a good little thing and fucking give it to me."

And when you break, when your body finally gives in and you scream through your climax, he doesn’t stop . Of course he doesn't

He just keeps licking , sucking you through it like he's trying to pull your soul out through your cunt. You twitch and gasp, hips shaking so hard you nearly throw him off, but he holds you down and keeps going . He's going to kill you. You’re going to die like this. Shaking and soaked and sobbing while Claggor wrecks you from the inside out with nothing but his fucking mouth .

Eventually, finally, he pulls away with a gasp, face flushed, lips swollen, chin soaked.

He looks dazed. Wrecked.

Like he just found God in the way you tasted.

"Fuck," he pants, voice rough. "You should see yourself right now."

You’re too far gone to speak, legs still trembling, eyes glassy, but that just makes him grin, slow and crooked, as he leans over you and presses a hand between your thighs, spreading you open again.

"Think you're done? Baby, I’m just getting started."

You don’t know how long you lay there; boneless, wrecked, still twitching from the aftershocks, but Claggor doesn’t give you much time to recover. He’s already climbing over you, his body heavy and hot, caging you in with arms that tremble from restraint. His face is still soaked in you, lips swollen and slick, and he doesn’t wipe it away.

No. He wants you to see it.

Wants you to remember what he just did.

"You’re fuckin’ shaking," he murmurs, voice low and guttural as he presses the head of his cock against your entrance. "Look at you. Already ruined. And I haven’t even fucked you yet."

You whimper, but it just makes him grin, sharp and cruel. That look in his eyes... it’s nothing like the sweet, quiet guy you started dating. No, this is something else. Something darker. Rougher. Unleashed.

He grabs your jaw and makes you look at him.

"You gonna cry when I put it in?" he murmurs, voice rough. "That how tight you are, baby?"

You nod, but it doesn’t matter, he’s already pushing in.

Slow , but not gentle. He stretches you open inch by inch, groaning like he’s finally home. The stretch burns, even with how wet you are, and your fingers claw at his shoulders, nails dragging red down his back.

“Fuck, yes ,” he hisses, bottoming out with a brutal snap of his hips. “You feel that? That’s how a good little thing gets used.”

He doesn’t wait. Doesn’t let you adjust. He just pulls back and slams back in, and again, and again, the sound of skin on skin loud and filthy in the room. Every thrust is mean; deep and hard, hitting that spot that makes you see stars. You’re already gone, already gasping, and he loves it. Drinks in every broken moan, every sobbed-out plea like he’s earned it.

"You didn’t expect this, did you?" he grunts into your ear. “Thought I was gonna be soft, didn’t you? Thought I’d light some candles, ask for permission, maybe whisper sweet nothings while I fucked you like a virgin.”

He laughs, low and cruel, and fucks you harder.

“No, baby. I’m gonna break you. ”

He grabs your legs and throws them over his shoulders, folding you in half like it’s nothing, hitting even deeper . You scream his name and he smirks , sweat dripping from his brow, mouth dragging down your neck.

“Such a good hole for me,” he grunts. “So tight, so wet—fuck, I could live in you. You’d let me, wouldn’t you? Let me fuck you open every night until you can’t walk ?”

You’re babbling nonsense now—"yes, please, don’t stop"—and it only fuels him more. He keeps your legs pinned up, rutting into you like a man possessed. Like he needs this more than air.

“Gonna cum inside you,” he growls. “Gonna fill you up until you’re leaking down your thighs. You want that? Want me to fuck it so deep you feel me for days ?”

Your orgasm crashes into you so hard it hurts; your whole-body tensing, throat raw from the sounds tearing out of you. And Claggor doesn’t stop. Not when you cum. Not when you scream. He fucks you through it, makes you take it.

“You cum when I tell you to,” he snarls, fingers bruising your hips. “You don’t cum without my permission, you hear me?”

You nod, dazed and shaking.

“Good girl.”

When he finally cums, it’s with a snarl, hips jerking, cock pulsing deep inside you as he spills everything into you, panting and groaning your name like a prayer.

And even then, even after you’re wrecked and ruined and boneless beneath him, he doesn’t pull out.

He just stays there, cock still buried inside, hand wrapped around your throat, eyes locked on yours with a lazy, dangerous smirk.

You don’t know when you stopped moaning and started gasping for breath.

Your limbs are trembling; fingers numb from clutching the sheets so hard. You’re spread open, flushed, soaked inside and out, body buzzing like you just survived something dangerous, and maybe you did. Claggor’s weight is still on top of you, warm and heavy, cock softening inside you while his breath comes in hot pants against your neck.

And then… like someone flipped a switch… he melts .

He blinks down at you, pupils still blown but soft now, gentle, like he’s seeing you clearly again for the first time.

“Oh, baby,” he whispers, brushing your hair back with trembling fingers. “Shit. Are you okay? Was that—was that too much?”

The whiplash nearly makes you laugh. Your throat is raw, your thighs are aching, your chest still rising and falling like you just ran ten miles, and now he’s cupping your face like you’re made of glass. That sweet , almost bashful concern in his voice feels like something out of a dream.

You blink up at him, dazed. “Are you okay?”

Claggor huffs a soft, sheepish laugh and kisses your forehead.

“I’m good, I just—fuck, I got a little carried away. You were just… so good. Let me take care of you now, yeah?”

You nod, boneless and blinking, and he’s already moving, pulling out of you with a soft apology, easing your legs down from his shoulders with a gentle rub. He’s murmuring under his breath the whole time, little praises and soft reassurances like you didn’t just get absolutely wrecked by him ten seconds ago.

"You're amazing, baby. Did so good for me. So perfect. My perfect girl."

He disappears for a moment and returns with a warm towel, carefully wiping between your legs like he’s handling something precious. He keeps murmuring soft nothings while he cleans you up—"Almost done, sweetheart. Just a little more. Tell me if it hurts, okay?"

And then he’s bundling you in his arms, pulling you into his chest like you didn’t just watch him degrade you until you sobbed. He kisses your temple. Your cheek. Your shoulder.

“You were amazing,” he says again, more serious this time. “I know I got kind of intense. I just—fuck. I don’t wanna scare you off.”

You blink up at him, still in that strange, floaty haze. “You’re scaring me more right now , honestly.”

He pulls back a little, frowning, confused. “Wait, what?”

You gesture weakly at him. “You were literally just saying the filthiest shit I’ve ever heard in my life and now you’re wiping me down like I scraped my knee.”

Claggor blinks. And then he laughs; a soft, genuine sound that rumbles through his chest.

"Yeah, well… I like taking care of my girl. Doesn’t mean I don’t like fucking her dumb first."

You groan and bury your face in his chest. “You’re so confusing.”

He kisses your hair, still smiling. “You love it.”

And the worst part is… you do .

Because yeah, Claggor might fuck like he’s feral, like he’s trying to break you—but after?

He cradles you like you’re the only thing that’s ever mattered.

And maybe that’s what makes it feel so damn good.

[loganhowlettsmybf]

logan finally seeing you again after he thinks you died many years ago but you were being held hostage for experiments

Echoes of the past

word count: 1,5k

warnings: deception of grief, mention of abduction and torture

logan gripped the neck of the whiskey bottle tightly, his knuckles white from the pressure. the glass was almost empty, a few swigs left, but enough to blur the edges of his relentless memories. it didn’t help. nothing did. not the liquor, not the fights, not even the passage of time. years had passed since he lost you, and the pain never dulled. you had been taken from him, ripped away by forces darker than anything he'd ever known. they had broken into the place you called home, leaving nothing behind but a trace of your blood.

he had searched everywhere, for years, for a hint, a clue, anything that might lead him to you. but time after time, his efforts met dead ends, and after years of failure, he resigned himself to the cruelest reality: you were gone. dead.

that was supposed to be the end of it. that was supposed to be the closure that allowed him to move on. but he couldn’t. the nightmares never stopped. the ghosts of what you shared together haunted every quiet moment, every breath. and the bottle of whiskey in his hand was just another failed attempt to drown out the echoes of your laughter.

but something had changed. a lead—something tangible—surfaced, out of nowhere, dropped into his lap by a mutant with telepathic powers. "she’s alive," the voice had said in his mind. "she’s still out there."

at first, logan didn’t believe it. he couldn’t let himself believe it. but the mutant had given him coordinates, a remote facility in the mountains where you were supposedly held. logan couldn’t risk ignoring it. and so he went, the last shred of hope dragging him through hell and back.

————————————————————————

the wind howled through the dense trees as logan scaled the side of the mountain. his body moved with a singular purpose, his senses heightened by desperation. he reached the facility, a hulking, abandoned bunker and smashed through the gates without a second thought. inside, the air was stale and cold. the place reeked of rot and death, but logan pushed on, the scent of you pulling him deeper.

he tore through doors and guards alike, the claws in his hands slicing through steel and flesh with ease. he could hear screams in the distance, the final cries of those who had kept you here, and it only fueled his rage. they had taken you from him, stolen years of your life. they were going to pay.

finally, logan reached a door, thicker than the others, with heavy locks that screamed of secrets too dangerous to escape. he tore it down without hesitation, and what he found inside made his heart stop.

you were there, crumpled on the floor, shackled and broken, your body battered and bruised from years of captivity. the sight of you was like a punch to his gut. you looked so fragile, so small compared to the vibrant person you had once been. but the worst part was your eyes, empty and hollow, a shell of the person he had loved.

logan fell to his knees beside you, his breath caught in his throat. "is it really you?" he whispered, voice cracked with disbelief.

you flinched at the sound of his voice, shrinking back against the cold floor as though you expected more pain to come. you didn’t recognize him. not at first. how could you? years of isolation and torment had twisted your reality, left you in a constant state of fear. but then, something in his voice, in the way he said your name, sparked a faint memory.

"logan?" your voice was hoarse, barely more than a whisper. you blinked up at him, and for a moment, just a moment, he saw a flicker of recognition in your eyes.

"it’s me, darlin’," he choked out, his hands hovering over your form, unsure of where to touch, how to comfort. "i’m here. i’ve got you. i’ve got you now."

tears welled up in your eyes, spilling down your cheeks as the realization hit you. after all these years, after everything they had done to you, logan was here. he was real. but the pain, the fear, the trauma—it all came crashing down on you at once, and you broke.

"i thought… i thought you were dead," you sobbed, your body shaking with the weight of it all. "i thought i was dead."

logan pulled you into his arms, careful of your injuries but desperate to hold you close. "i thought you were gone too," he whispered into your hair, his voice thick with emotion. "i looked for you… god, i looked for you everywhere. i’m so sorry i couldn’t find you sooner."

you clung to him, your fingers digging into his jacket as though he might disappear at any moment. "they… they did things to me, logan. they…"

"i know," he said softly, his voice trembling. "i know. but you’re safe now. i’m not gonna let anyone hurt you ever again."

you cried into his chest, years of torment pouring out in a flood of tears that wouldn’t stop. and logan held you, his own tears mixing with yours as he tried to soothe you, tried to take away your pain. but he knew he couldn’t. the scars they had left on you ran deeper than anything he could heal. all he could do was be there for you, hold you tight, and promise that you’d never have to face this alone again.

————————————————————————

the journey back was a blur. logan carried you out of that place, away from the horrors that had kept you imprisoned for so long. he didn’t stop until he found a safe house, far away from everything.

days passed in a strange, delicate rhythm. logan stayed by your side through every nightmare, every flashback, every moment when the weight of what you had been through became too much to bear. he was patient, gentle in a way that felt foreign to him.

at first, you barely spoke, still trapped in the silence that had been forced upon you for so long. but logan didn’t push. he stayed close, making sure you knew he was there whenever you needed him, ready to listen when you were ready to speak.

one night, as you sat together by the fire, wrapped in a blanket he had draped around your shoulders, you finally found your voice.

"they took everything from me," you said quietly, your gaze fixed on the flames. "i thought i’d never be whole again."

logan’s heart broke at your words, at the quiet resignation in your tone. he moved closer, his hand reaching for yours. "you’re not broken,“ he said, his voice gentle but firm. "they didn’t take you from me. you’re still here. you’re still you."

you looked at him then, your eyes searching his for something, maybe hope, maybe reassurance. "but what if i’m not?" you whispered. "what if i’m not the same person you loved?"

logan shook his head, his grip on your hand tightening. "you’re the person i love, darlin’. that’s never gonna change."

a small, broken smile tugged at the corner of your lips, and for the first time since he found you, logan saw a glimpse of the person you used to be. it wasn’t much, but it was enough. enough to remind him that healing wasn’t a straight path, it was messy, painful, and sometimes it felt impossible. but it was possible. and he would be there with you every step of the way.

————————————————————————

months passed, and the scars of your captivity began to fade, not completely, not ever completely, but enough that you started to reclaim pieces of yourself. you and logan rebuilt what had been taken from you, brick by brick, moment by moment. the nightmares didn’t stop, and the fear didn’t entirely go away, but you found strength in each other. and slowly, little by little, the cracks in your heart began to heal.

one day, as you stood on the porch of the cabin, watching the sun dip below the horizon, logan came up behind you, wrapping his arms around your waist. you leaned back against him, letting out a soft sigh as you felt the warmth of his presence.

"thank you," you whispered, your voice barely audible in the stillness of the evening.

"for what?" logan asked, his breath warm against your ear.

"for not giving up on me," you said, turning in his arms so you could look into his eyes. "for finding me.”

logan’s eyes softened, and he pressed a gentle kiss to your forehead. “I love you.”

tears filled your eyes, but this time, they were tears of something new. not pain, not sorrow, but hope. because even after everything, you had found your way back to each other.

[no-phrogs-in-hats]

Laugh Tracks Part 2 !NSFW!

Avenger!Agatha 2.0 x Avenger!Reader

Word count: 10,012

Chapter warning (s): MDNI; Agatha with a sedative dependency, Agatha is still depressed, guys it's Endgame--yes Nat still dies rip, Agatha has major PTSD, reader comes back yayyyy, very emotional and passionate smut

Summary: It's been five years since Agatha lost you. Sedatives are part of her nighttime routine, isolation is her new normal, and grief consumes her whole. But now, there's a way to get you back, and it takes everything in her to start hoping again.

A/N: Hi! I hope you enjoy this little finale, we are never seeing Avenger!Agatha 2.0 again after this. We are solely sticking to Avenger!Agatha 1.0 and reader and their domestic bliss in their NYC brownstone that Tony paid for. Also, if any of yall are editors, I saw an edit with Tchaikovsky’s nutcracker pas de deux and I’m craving an edit of this mini-fic to that. Just an idea💕

Spotify playlist I listened to

Masterlist

Part 1

Tip jar💕

New York City

5 years after the Blip

The days get easier.

Not easy.

But easier.

New York City is dark and sullen. The once lively city has been reduced to eerie silence.

“I can’t believe I agreed to go to this thing with you,” Agatha grumbles.

“It’ll be good for you,” Steve says, opening the door to the support group meeting room.

There are four other people already there. The room is dark, with three fluorescent lights shining above the circle of chairs.

Steve takes a seat with Agatha beside him. He’s quiet, but he brings a sense of comfort to the room.

“Hey guys,” Steve says. “Welcome to support group. Remember, you can share as much or as little as you want. We’re here to give advice and listen and lean on each other. So,” he sighs, “who wants to go first?”

A man sitting beside Steve pipes up. “I guess, I’ll go. So, I…uh…I went out on a date the other day for the first time in five years. You know? I’m sitting there at dinner.” He looks at Steve. “I didn’t even know what to talk about.”

“What did you talk about?” Steve asks, smiling softly.

“Same old crap,” the guy shrugs. “Past five years, how things have changed. My job, his job. How much we miss the Mets.” He trails off, thinking. “And then, things got quiet. He cried as they were serving the salads.”

“What about you?” one of the members asks. “Did you cry?”

He nods thoughtfully. “I cried…just before dessert. But I’m seeing him again tomorrow, so…”

“That’s great,” Steve says. “You did the hardest part. You took the jump. You didn’t know where you were gonna come down. And that’s it. That’s those little…brave baby steps you gotta take…to try and become whole again, try and find a purpose. Anybody wanna go next?” The circle is quiet and Steve nudges Agatha. “Agatha? What about you?”

Agatha huffs and rolls her eyes. “Okay, fine.” She sits up straight in her chair, arms and legs crossed. Her lips purse and her tongue darts in her cheek. 

“267 years ago, I lost my son, Nicky. He was six-years-old.” Agatha takes a deep breath. “I’m very experienced with grief,” she says, letting out a dry laugh before her face falls. “But, uhh…I don’t know how to cope with this loss. I knew her for over a century and…”

Agatha trails off, eyes going glassy before she blinks rapidly and chuckles. “I use sedatives almost every night because those are the only things that help me sleep…” She pauses again, and this time, the humorless chuckle turns into full blown laughter.

As tears start forming, Steve sighs, “Agatha…”

“I’m sorry!” she laughs, wiping her eyes. She stands up, still giggling to herself. Her hand gently pats Steve’s shoulder. “I’m sorry…I’m gonna–I’m gonna go wait in the car…”

When the passenger side door slams shut, Agatha laughs again. She presses her palms into her eyes, giggling quietly, but when she sits up she catches a glimpse of herself in the side mirror.

The dark circles under her eyes, her hair, stringy and unkempt–she’s a shell of what she used to be. Her laughter fades into quiet chuckles before broken sobs rake through her. 

And they don’t stop.

In the past years the tears have faded, replaced with a deep, unshakable anger. At what, she doesn’t know. Questions and thoughts linger in her mind throughout days as she watches reruns of sitcoms–your sitcoms.

She refuses to watch anything else.

Trillions killed. Why was she one of them?

She slowly regains her motivation, but not for much. She eats. She socializes–more or less–with what remains of the team. She takes care of herself, even if it’s the bare minimum. She’s surviving, but not living.

Trillions killed. Why wasn’t I one of them?

The days get easier.

But they’re not easy.

Never easy.

An hour passes and the tears are starting to ebb. The driver side door opens and Steve slides in without a word. As they drive, it’s quiet.

But it’s not a bad quiet. It’s the quiet that’s needed. It’s given to her out of respect. It’s a quiet that’s oddly comforting, even if Agatha is sniffling and wiping her nose on her sleeve. 

On the drive back to the Compound, they stop at a diner.

“Why are we here?” Agatha asks, voice thick and nose red.

Steve shrugs. “Just thought we could get some dinner. I know that support group days make me hungry, and this was your first one so…”

Agatha scoffs. “First and last.”

It’s amusing how stereotypical the diner is–checkered floors and red booths with frosted glass windows. The sound of espresso machines and bells ringing mingle with the conversations of waitresses at the counter.

“I’m sorry about your son,” Steve says quietly, taking a drink of coffee. “I didn’t kn–”

Agatha cuts him off. “Nobody knew,” she says, picking at the food on her plate. “Except, you know…”

“Yeah,” he mumbles.

“How did you do it?” she asks, eyes still focused on a piece of waffle.

“What?”

“With Peggy,” she clarifies. “How did you get through it? When I lost Nicky I had…plenty of distractions, but…not this time.”

Steve takes in a painful breath. “I…don’t know. I guess, at some point, you process it and you learn to live life without them–you live life for them. I guess it’s different with you two, though,” he says, sitting back in his seat. “A century is a pretty long time.”

Agatha hums. “Yeah, it is.” She finally looks up at him, an amused grin on her lips. “Who knew we had more in common than just being hot?”

 __________

“You know, I’d offer to cook you dinner, but you seem pretty miserable already.”

Steve leans against a shelf that separates the kitchen and dining table. When he and Agatha walk in, Nat sits at the table, hands pinching the bridge of her nose as she holds back tears.

“You here to do your laundry?” Nat asks.

Steve gestures to Agatha as she takes a seat with Nat. “Nope. Just droppin’ off Harkness.”

“Oh, yeah, he forced you to go to that support group he holds every week,” Natasha chuckles. “How did it go?”

“I started laughing during it,” Agatha smirks. “I had to leave.”

Nat hums. “Did he take you to that diner after?”

“Yeah,” Agatha chuckles. “It was nice, though. Thank you, Steve.”

A chime rings out and a hologram is displayed above the table. Nat sighs and taps at the invisible screen, and a sudden, vaguely familiar voice is talking.

“Uh,hi! Is anyone home?”

Across the room, a screen is lit up, showing a man at the front gate of the Compound.

“This is Scott Lang!” he shouts, waving at the camera. “We met a few years ago at the airport! You know, in Germany?” 

The three of them watch the video footage on the wall, exchanging confused looks with each other.

“I was the guy that got really big,” Scott continues. “I had a mask on. You wouldn’t recognize me.”

“Is this an old message?” Steve asks slowly, eyes glued to the screen.

“No,” Nat breathes. “It’s the front gate.”

Scott looks more and more desperate.”I really need to talk to you guys!”

Agatha, Nat, and Steve stand there awkwardly as Scott paces and mutters to himself.

“I thought he was blipped,” Agatha mutters to Nat.

Nat nods absentmindedly, squinting as she watches Scott. “So did I.”

“Scott,” Steve says. “Are you okay?”

He stops in his tracks. “Yeah.” Then he pauses, rubbing his face tiredly. “Have any of you ever studied quantum physics?”

“Only to make conversation,” Nat shrugs.

Scott perks up. “Okay, so…five years ago…right before…Thanos…I was in a place called the quantum realm. It’s like its own microscopic universe. To get in there, you have to be incredibly small. Hope, my, uhh…She was my…” He pauses, swallowing hard before getting back on track. “She was supposed to pull me out. And then Thanos happened, and I got stuck in there.”

“That must’ve been a very long five years,” Nat says.

“But that’s just it,” Scott says. “It wasn’t. For me, it was five hours.The rules of the quantum realm aren’t like they are up here. Everything is unpredictable.” His eyes dart to the kitchen table where a sandwich that Nat was making lies on a plate. “Is that anybody’s sandwich? I’m starving.”

“Scott, what are you talking about?” Steve asks.

“So,” Scott continues, mouth full of bread and peanut butter, “what I’m saying is, time works differently in the quantum realm. The only problem now is we don’t have a way to navigate it. But what if we did?” 

He starts pacing again, getting increasingly excited as he goes. “I can’t stop thinking about it. What if we could somehow control the chaos, and we could navigate it? What if there was a way we could enter the quantum realm at a certain point in time but then exit the quantum realm at another point in time? Like…like before Thanos.”

“Are you talking about a time machine?” Agatha scoffs.

“No. No, of course not,” Scott says.”No, not a time machine. It’s more like a…Okay, yeah. A time machine.” When he sees the looks on the other three’s faces, he gets defensive. “I know. I know, it sounds crazy. But I can’t stop thinking about it. There’s gotta be…some way…” He sighs and his face drops. “It’s crazy.”

“Scott, I get emails from a racoon,” Nat says. “So, nothing sounds crazy anymore.”

Scott nods slowly. “So, who do we talk to about this?”

Agatha sits in bed against the headboard, knees bent toward her as she hugs your pillow against her chest. The only light in the room is the bright TV as she watches more reruns of a sitcom. 

There’s a knock on the door and Steve enters at her quiet, “Come in.”

She doesn’t look at him, not right away. Even when he takes a seat on the edge of the bed.

“What are you thinking about?” he asks.

Agatha shrugs and responds with a hum.

“You don’t wanna do it, do you?” Steve sighs.

She looks at him now. “What?”

“The time travel thing,” he clarifies. “You don’t wanna do it.”

Agatha huffs. “It’s not that I don’t want to do it…I just…What if it doesn’t work?” Her fingers grip tighter onto your pillow. “You saw what happened after we killed Thanos…I can’t–” Her voice catches in her throat. “I can’t handle that again. It’s like I’m losing her all over again.”

Steve nods thoughtfully. “Yeah…I understand. But what if it does work? What if we are able to get everyone back?” 

When Agatha doesn’t respond, he sighs. “Look, I haven’t known her for nearly as long as you have. But I’ve known her long enough to know that if she was in your position, and she had the opportunity to try and get you back…she would jump on it in an instant.”

Agatha sighs, wiping away a tear and laughing quietly. “She’d probably take control of the entire thing.”

“She probably would,” Steve chuckles. His face drops and he swallows hard. “I know you don’t wanna hope. I can see it in your face. But I think you owe it to her, and you owe it to yourself, to try and get her back.”

“Myself?” she says quietly.

Steve nods. “You’ve lived a long life. You deserve to be happy, Agatha. I’ve gotten to know you in the past…what, eight years? 2015? You’re stubborn as hell. And more than anything, you always get what you want.” 

He stands up and heads back to the door. “If you want it to work, it’ll work.”

“I hate your optimism,” Agatha grumbles.

As Steve stands in the open doorway, he grins. “I know. I’ll be back in the morning around ten to pick Nat and Sott up. Just think about it, okay?”

The car doors slam shut. Tony stands outside on the porch of his cabin with his daughter in his arms. He doesn’t say anything, only acknowledging the four of them with a nod, but when they follow him in, he relents.

He pours five drinks when they’re back on the porch.

“Time travel?” he says, arching a brow.

“I know what it sounds like,” Scott says.

Steve scoffs. “Tony, after everything you’ve seen, is anything really impossible?”

“Quantum fluctuation messes with the Planck scale,” Tony explains. “Which then triggers the Deutsch Proposition. Can we agree on that?” He hands Steve a drink. “In layman’s terms, it means you’re not coming home.”

“I did,” Scott shrugs.

“No,” Tony says. “You accidentally survived. It’s a billion-to-one cosmic fluke.” He begins to hand out the rest of the drinks. “And now you wanna pull a…What do you call it?”

Scott takes his glass and shrugs. “A time heist?”

“Yeah,” Tony scoffs. “A time heist. Of course. Why didn’t we think of this before? Oh, because it’s laughable. Because it’s a pipe dream.” 

“The stones are in the past,” Steve says. “We could go back, we could get them.”

“We can snap our own fingers,” Natasha nods. “We can bring everyone back.”

“Or screw it up worse than he already has, right?” Tony adds.

Steve’s face is cold. “I don’t believe we would.”

“I gotta say it,” Tony says. “Sometimes I miss that giddy optimism. However, high hopes won’t help if there’s no logical, tangible way for me to safely execute said time heist.” He takes a seat with his drink in a wicker chair. “I believe the most likely outcome will be our collective demise.”

“Not if we strictly follow the rules of time travel,” Scott counters. He sits down beside Tony. “That means, no talking to our past selves, no betting on sporting events.”

“I’m gonna stop you right there,” Tony says, putting out his hand. “Are you seriously telling me that your plan to save the universe is based on Back to the Future?”

“No,” Scott sighs.

“Good. You had me worried there,” Tony says, “because that would be horseshit. That’s not how quantum physics works.”

“Tony, we have to take a stand,” Nat says, face falling. 

Tony looks up at her. “We did take a stand. And yet, here we are.”

Agatha’s chest burns with frustration. “Tony, we have a chance to bring everyone back!” Her voice begins to rise quickly. “And you’re telling us that you won’t even–!”

The door to the cabin opens and closes loudly, followed by the pitter patter of little feet. As Tony’s daughter runs over, Agatha stops.

“Mommy told me to come save you,” Morgan says quietly, climbing into his lap.

“Good job,” Tony groans, picking her up. “I’m saved.”

After the failed attempt with Tony, the second best option was Bruce. He was hesitant at first, but it took very little convincing. 

“Alright, fire up the, uh, van thing.” Bruce stands at a control panel for the time machine.

When Scott opens the doors an endless tunnel is displayed, glowing yellow and blue. Steve walks back into the room, head held high.

“Breakers are set!” he calls. “Emergency generators are on standby.”

“Good, because if we blow the grid, I don’t wanna lose, uh, Tiny here in the 1950s,” Bruce chuckles.

Scott’s eyes widen. “Excuse me?”

Nat, who doesn’t look up from the tablet she’s typing on, snickers “He’s kidding.” She looks at Bruce and smiles. “You can’t say things like that.”

As Scott preps his gear, Agatha leans in close to Bruce, arms crossed and voice low. “You were joking right?”

“I…have no idea,” Bruce says awkwardly. “We’re talking about time travel here. Either it’s all a joke, or none of it is.” He turns away from Agatha and gives Scott a bright smile and a thumbs up. “We’re good!”

When Scott’s armor is secure Bruce starts up the time machine. “Alright, Scott, I’m gonna send you back a week, let you walk around for an hour, then bring you back in ten seconds. Makes sense?”

Scott hesitates and then scoffs. “Yeah. Perfectly not confusing.”

When Scott is brought back the first time, he’s a teenager–and terrified. “Um…guys? This doesn’t feel right.”

“Is that Scott?” Nat asks.

“Yes, it’s Scott!” he snaps back. A button is pressed and teen Scott is sucked back into the time machine. When he reemerges, he’s about forty years older than his original self. “Oh, my back!”

“Oh, god, you turned him into a senile old man!” Agatha grimaces.

“Can you bring him back?” Steve panics.

Bruce rushes around the panel, pressing various buttons. “I’m working on it!”

Scott is sucked back into the van, and this time what pops back out is a baby.

“That is a baby!” Agatha shouts at Bruce. 

“It’s Scott,” Bruce points out.

Agatha gestures dramatically as her voice rises. “As a baby!” 

“He’ll grow!” Bruce tries to reason.

“Bring Scott back!” Steve argues.

Bruce presses buttons and turns knobs. “When I say kill the power, kill the power!” Nat groans as she runs to the electrical box. A loud, electrical whirring sound is heard as the time machine fires up again. “Kill the power!” Bruce calls.

And the baby is gone, replaced by the original Scott.

He stands there awkwardly. “Somebody peed my pants. But I don’t know if it was baby me or old me…or just me me.”

It’s warm outside as Agatha stands against a pillar. Footsteps come up behind her but she doesn’t look, because she already knows who it is.

“Well, that didn’t go as planned,” Steve sighs, standing next to her.

Agatha scoffs and lets out a dry chuckle, shaking her head. “It won’t work,” she says. “Not unless Tony gets his head out of his ass.”

And right on cue, the devil himself is pulling up in his sleek, black Audi. The tires squeak as he slams on the breaks and reverses.

The window rolls down and they’re met with Tony's smug face. “Why the long faces? Let me guess, he turned into a baby.”

Agatha rolls her eyes as Steve nods. “Among other things, yeah. What are you doing here?”

Tony gets out of the car. “It’s the EPR Paradox. Instead of pushing Lang through time, you might’ve wound up pushing time through Lang. It’s tricky, dangerous. Somebody could’ve cautioned you against it.”

“You did,” Agatha huffs.

“Oh, did I?” Tony perks up. “Well, thank God I’m here. Regardless, I fixed it.” He holds up his fist and wrapped around it is a metal band. “A fully functioning time-space GPS.”

It takes two weeks to get the entire thing situated–test runs, building a quantum portal, figuring out what dates and planets to travel back to. But now, as the sun rises, Agatha stands on the platform with the rest of the team.

Gears shift beneath their feet as the platform turns on and helmets activate. And then, the portal opens, and Agatha’s stomach is in her throat. The twists and turns of the quantum realm make her nauseous, but she regains her bearings when she lands on her own two feet in New York City.

“Alright, we all have our assignments,” Steve says sternly. “Two stones uptown, one stone down. Stay low. Keep an eye on the clock.”

A loud thud and roaring pierces the air and everyone jumps. In front of them, a bigger, angrier Hulk jumps forward and smashes an alien with a car. 

Everyone looks at Bruce who ducks his head in embarrassment. 

“Maybe smash a few things along the way,” Steve says.

Bruce rips off his shirt. “I think it’s gratuitous, but whatever.” He goes into the street, groaning and attempting a poor impression of his past self.

When Bruce leaves, Agatha, Steve, Tony, and Scott form their plan–break into Stark Tower and retrieve the Tesseract and Loki’s staff. The breaking into part is easy, but the Tesseract is another story.

When they round the corner of the building they landed behind, everyone freezes–and Agatha…well, Agatha almost collapses right then and there.

Every Avenger but Bruce is gathered as one–Tony, Steve, Nat, Clint, Thor…and you. 

As the other three move back to hide, Agatha stays right there.

“Agatha, what are you doing?” Steve asks.

But she doesn’t respond. She takes a step forward to see you better. Her heart flutters seeing you again, tears prick her eyes, and her stomach twists in knots.

“She’s…” Agatha’s lips are parted as she gapes. Her voice is quiet, barely above a whisper. “It’s her first mission, she…”

Steve slowly comes up behind her. “Agatha, we need to go.”

Agatha doesn’t listen. Instead she takes another step, and another, and another. Tears stream down her face as she begins calling your name, but Steve’s arms are around her instantly and his hand covers her mouth. 

As he drags her back into the alley, she struggles against his grasp, cursing and screaming into his hand. Steve turns her around, hands grasping her shoulders.

“You can’t do that!” he spits out.

Agatha rips herself out of his grasp. “Let go of me!”

“I know you wanna go to her,” Steve says, voice calming. “But you can’t. She has a job to do just like us. Okay?”

Agatha doesn’t say a word, instead she sniffles and looks away with red, puffy eyes. And then she gives him a small nod.

Agatha and Tony not-so-discreetly fly up to the balcony of the lounge. Scott, in his ant size, rides on Tony’s shoulder.

They duck behind a divider, observing the 2012 Avengers as they corner Loki. 

And Agatha’s heart threatens to break again.

She watches you again, throat tight and eyes watering as you laugh at a joke Nat made. In front of Agatha, Tony scoffs. “Mr. Rogers, I almost forgot that that suit did nothing for your ass.”

“No one asked you to look, Tony,” Steve says in the ear piece.

Scott, still on Tony’s shoulder, radios through his own ear piece. “I think you look great, Cap. As far as I’m concerned, that’s America’s ass.”

Agatha peeks through the divider, observing the cut of 2012 Steve’s suit. “Yeah,” she says quietly. “I gotta say, I agree with Scott. That’s America’s ass.”

“I thought you were a lesbian,” Tony says, turning his head to look at her.

Agatha scoffs. “Just because I’m a lesbian, doesn’t mean I can’t look. You have a nice ass, Steve.”

“See, Tony,” Steve says. “Harkness is a lesbian and even she agrees that I have a nice ass.”

Tony huffs and rolls his eyes. “Okay we’re getting off topic here.”

Without warning, the elevator dings and the doors open. Agatha and Tony sneak off quickly, hiding behind a wall that separates the lounge. They crouch down as they observe the interactions.

“Who are these guys?” Scott asks.

Tony watches carefully. “They’re S.H.I.E.L.D. Well, actually Hydra, but we didn’t know that yet.”

“Are you serious?” Agatha scoffs. “She told me they turned out to be Hydra, but she didn’t tell me they actually looked like bad guys.”

When the case to the Tesseract is open, Tony flicks Scott across the room. Both Tony and Agatha run out quickly, jumping off the edge of the balcony and flying down. They hover for a moment as Tony analyzes the building.

“Alright, Cap, got the scepter in the elevator, just passing the 80th floor,” he says.

“On it,” Steve says. “Head to the lobby.”

Agatha feels stupid as she looks at herself in the security uniform.

“Ugh, why are these things so itchy?” she complains, pulling at the neck cover.

“They’re just for a few minutes,” Tony sighs. “Just until we get the Tesseract.” The elevator in the lobby opens and the 2012 Avengers march out. “Thumbelina, do you copy?” Tony says. “I have eyes on the prize. It is go time.”

Scott’s voice crackles in the ear piece. “Bombs away.”

A large crowd is now forming and emotions begin running high as the Avengers begin arguing with the agents.

“Alright, Stuart Little,” Tony says quietly, “let’s go. Things are getting dicey out here.”

“Promise me you won’t die?” Scott says.

Tony’s voice is a mumble. “You’re only giving me a mild cardiac dysrhythmia.”

“That doesn’t sound mild,” Scott says.

“Just do it!” Agatha hisses. “We need to get out of here.”

As 2012 Tony convulses on the floor and the briefcase is left unattended, Agatha waves her hands and the metal case flies to her. She hands it off to Tony as they head for the exit, but when the door to the stairs bursts open, both of them are knocked down and the Hulk stomps in.

They lay on the ground, the wind knocked out of them as panic ensues.

“Where’s the case?”

“Where’s Loki?”

Scott radios through the ear piece as the both of them get up. “That wasn’t supposed to happen, was it?”

Back in the alley, Agatha sits in the passenger seat of a beat up car with Tony in the driver seat and Scott in the back. Steve jumps down from a fire exit in front of the car.

“Hey, Cap,” Tony says. “We have a problem.”

Scott scoffs. “Yeah, we do.”

The situation is explained to Steve and the mood has dampened quickly.

“So what do we do now?” Steve asks.

“I don’t know!” Tony huffs.”Give me a break, I just got hit in the head with the Hulk.”

“You said that we have one shot,” Scott says, frustration boiling in his words. “This was our shot. We shot it. It’s shot. Six stones or nothing. Six stones or nothing!”

Tony hangs out the car window. “You’re repeating yourself, you know that? You’re repeating yourself.”

“You’re repeating yourself. You’re repeating yourself,” Scott mocks. 

“Oh, come on!”

“No, you never wanted a time heist!” Scott says. “You weren’t on board with the time heist!”

“I dropped the ball!” Tony says.

“You ruined the time heist!”

Agatha, who’s now outside of the car, and leaning against the hood, groans. “Oh my god, shut up!”

All three men look at her.

“Stop acting like children!” Agatha snaps. “It’s nobody’s fault! It’s done. There’s no going back. The mission…” Her voice is tight. “We failed. That’s it.”

“There have to be other options for the Tesseract,” Steve says.

“No, no, no!” Scott says, flipping out at the idea. “There are no other options! You heard Harkness, we failed! There are no do-overs. We’re not going anywhere else. We have one Pym Particle left–each. We use that…bye-bye, you’re not going home.”

Steve huffs. “Well, if we don’t try, then no one else is going home, either”

Tony gasps, getting out of the car quickly. “I got it! There’s another way to retake the Tesseract and acquire new particles!”

“And how, pray tell, are you going to do that?” Agatha asks, rolling her eyes.

Tony ignores her and goes straight up to Steve. “A little stroll down memory lane. Military installation. Garden State.”

As they discuss their plan, both Scott and Agatha look at each other, confused.

“What are we doing?” Scott asks, but he receives no answer. “What’s happening? What is it?”

“Improvising,” Steve says. He hands the scepter to Agatha. “Get this back to the Compound.”

__________

Despite every Infinity Stone being in possession, the Compound is bleak. 

“Do we know if she had any family?” Tony asks.

“Yeah,” Steve croaks. “Us.”

The fresh air on the dock does little to help with the shock of Nat’s death.

Thor walks up to Tony, sneering at him. “What?”

“Huh?”

“You’re acting like she’s dead,” Thor says. “Why are you acting like she’s dead? We have the stones right? As long as we have the stones, Cap, we can bring her back, right? So, stop this shit. We’re the Avengers. Get it together!”

“We can’t get her back,” Clint chokes. “It can’t be undone. It can’t.

Useless arguments play out as Clint and Thor debate the possibility of Nat being revived.

“It can’t be undone!” Clint insists. “A soul for the Soul Stone! That’s it. That’s the price.You can’t undo it.”

Agatha surprises herself with how affected she is by this. Five or six years ago, the only person she’d feel this way about would be you. But Nat was there. Nat picked up the broken pieces for Agatha. Nat was the one who forced her out of bed to keep living. Nat was the one who cared for her when she couldn’t care for herself.

“She’s not coming back,” Agatha mutters, sniffling. “She sacrificed herself for the stone, we have to make this right.”

All six Infinity Stones are locked onto the new gauntlet. 

Space.

Power.

Time.

Reality.

Mind.

Soul.

“Alright,” Rocket says. “The glove’s finished. The question is, who’s gonna snap their freakin’ fingers?”

Multiple people put themselves forward, and they’re all shot down. Thor even makes an excuse of being the strongest Avenger, and therefore he should be the one to snap his fingers–and he even breaks into tears as he begs Tony.

But in the end, it’s Bruce.

“The radiation’s mostly gamma,” he explains. “It’s like I was made for this.”

“Alright,” Tony sighs. “Bring everyone back.Don’t change anything from the last five years.”

Bruce nods. “Got it.”

Those with armor suit up as if they’re going into battle. Agatha stands beside Sott, a wary look on her face as a shield of purple is formed in front of them. Metal doors encase the room from ceiling to wall with loud thuds, and then it becomes quiet.

“Everybody comes home,” Bruce mutters.

Agatha’s heart is thundering in her ears. Everybody comes home.

Every person–and raccoon–in the room watches intently as Bruce slides the gauntlet onto his hand. It adjusts in size and streams of bright color swim up his arm. He collapses instantly, groaning loudly in pain as electricity crackles over his back. 

“Take it off!” Thor shouts. “Take it off!”

Steve holds out his hand. “No, wait! Bruce, are you okay?”

Bruce doesn’t respond, and groans and yells even more as he clutches the gauntlet with his other hand.

“Talk to me, Banner,” Tony says.

And then he nods. Bruce seethes, “I’m okay. I’m okay.”

He screams as he uses every last bit of strength in him to raise his hand. And then, he snaps. A white flash, and he collapses.

Tony, Steve, and Thor are on him immediately, but when the metal doors lift, Agatha’s head turns. There’s a ray of sunshine beating down into the small courtyard, and on the tree is a small flock of birds. She gasps quietly as she follows Scott.

“There are birds,” she whispers. “There haven’t…They haven’t been out there in years.” She looks at Scott, and she can’t help but smile, because the birds tell her everything she needs to know.

The Infinity Stones worked.

And you’ll be back in her arms by tonight.

__________

Your eyes flutter open against bright sunlight. You can still feel the imprint of Agatha’s kiss on your lips, but Agatha herself is nowhere to be found.

It feels like only moments have passed by–like you passed out and woke up again seconds later. But you know that’s not what happened.

Is she alive?

Where’s Agatha?

What happened?

You roll over quickly and steady yourself on your knees. All around you is confusion. Wanda lays on the muddy ground, Sam is just coming to his senses, Bucky and T’Challa have just reformed into their own beings, and no one knows what’s happened.

“Wanda?” you call out, and run over to her as she sits up. 

The last time you saw her was hunched over Vision’s lifeless body, but he’s nowhere to be seen, and Wanda’s slowly remembering what happened. Sam comes over, Bucky joining him soon after, and no one knows what to do. 

“Where is he?” Wanda panics. “Where’s his body?”

A ring of shimmering orange and gold manifests in the air with the bottom quarter ending on the ground. Inside is a portal to what looks like a grand entrance hall. A man walks through the arch, drawing robes. His face is stern, almost somber, and everyone exchanges glances.

The man takes a careful look at each one of you and nods at T’Challa. “Your majesty…”

“What the hell is going on?” Bucky asks. “Where is everybody?”

“It’s been five years,” the man explains, all too calm with his words. “Thanos wiped out half of all living creatures in the universe.” He turns to T’Challa. “Thanos is back. I need you to gather every soldier you can. We’re going to battle.”

__________

Blood trickles from her forehead and water rains down on her face.

It happened quickly–the stones, the birds, the explosion. 

Agatha’s head throbs as the sound of streaming water hits her ears. When her eyes open, her vision is slowly going back into focus, but it’s dark. 

“I can’t breathe!” Rocket’s small shrieks come from only a few yards away. “I can’t breathe! I can’t breathe!”

James crawls from his suit of armor toward Rocket, lifting a sheet of rock from his body. Agatha sits up quickly and regrets it immediately as her head gets dizzy. 

“Rhodey!” Bruce stands on the opposite side of them, arms flexed above him as he holds up a piece of concrete. 

When the three of them look, a wave of water floods down, filling their pocket of rubble.

“Mayday!” Rhodes calls over the ear piece. “Mayday! Does anyone copy? We’re on the lower level! It’s flooding!” No answer. “Mayday! We are drowning! Does anybody copy?”

The water is rising quickly. Agatha’s head is tilted back as she tries to stay above water. 

Only one voice answers.

“Wait!” Scott’s voice is filled with static. “I’m here! I’m here! Can you hear me? Hang on! I’m coming!”

Of course it would end like this, Agatha thinks.

The stones worked.

You’re back.

But she’ll still never get to hold you again.

Scott manifests in front of them out of the blue–literally. He struggles in the water, but manages to stay afloat. “Okay, here’s the plan guys. I’ll make myself a bit bigger and I’ll gather all of you in my arms and make myself giant and bust out of here. How does that sound? Because if you think it could be better–!”

“Drowning!” Agatha yells, cutting him off.

“Oh, right!” he panics. He grows about four feet taller. The concrete crumbles around them, but the four of them move to Scott. His arms wrap around them tightly and then, with a press of a button, he’s growing again.

Scott’s hand catches all four of them and he balls up his fist. It’s dark, but when the sound of crumbling concrete dissipates and his hand opens again, portals fill the sky. Rings of gold give way to distant lands and below, in the rubble of the Compound, are thousands of people in battle formation.

Agatha’s eyes scan the battlefield as she hovers in the air. When she spots you, her world tilts on its axis. You stand beside Wanda, orange balls of magic radiating from your palms, but you never look up. You don’t see her.

Battle cries and screaming pierce the air as both sides sprint toward each other. Leviathans drift through air as Chitauri and Outriders storm the ground, but Agatha doesn’t care. Her eyes remain on you, even when dodging plasma rays and blades. 

But it doesn’t last long. Agatha loses sight of you after a Leviathan goes down and she searches frantically on the field of rubble. Clouds of dirt and flames block her view. All she desires right now is to see you again, but even in the air, she can’t spot you.

When she lands, it’s right by Steve, who’s wielding a giant axe. As she clears out the never-ending stream of Outriders, she watches Thor take the axe and hand him the hammer.

Agatha scoffs loudly and chuckles. “Look at you, pretty boy!” she teases. “We got Mister Chosen One over here!”

Steve laughs and rolls his eyes. “Alright, Harkness.”

“I mean, I knew you were a goody two-shoes,” she laughs. “But, really? The hammer?”

“Well, this hammer is about to save your ass,” Steve calls, and launches the hammer towards her. It misses her by inches and lands right in the face of a Chitauri before flying back into his hand.

__________

“Cap, what do you want me to do with this damn thing?” Clint’s voice radios over the ear piece as you and Wanda stand back to back.

“Get those stones as far away as possible!” Steve responds.

Bruce is heard next.”No! We need to get them back where they came from!”

“No way to get them back,” Tony says. “Thanos destroyed the quantum tunnel.”

A familiar yet vague voice radios over, “Hang on. That wasn’t our only time machine.”

As you knock down a swarm of Outriders you watch T’Challa, with the Infinity Gauntlet in hand, become encased in a tower of rubble. You call out his name and retrieve the gauntlet with a glow of orange from your hand, flying past the man whose aim is to get it. Above you, Peter is swinging from obstacle to obstacle.

“Hey, Parker!” you shout, and he looks down. “Go long!”

You throw the gauntlet and he manages to catch it with a web. When you land on the ground, your breath stops. Just a few hundred feet away, within running distance, is Agatha. You shout–scream–her name, and just as you start running, and just as her eyes lock on yours, you’re knocked back by an explosion.

Blue plasma rays shower the rubble of the Compound. You drag yourself a few yards to duck beneath the ceiling of a gold shield held up by a sorcerer. Your eyes scan the grounds, but you’ve lost sight of her. It’s nothing but smoke and dirt and concrete powder, all mixed in a whirl of flames.

When the explosions stop, it’s quiet. Eyes are immediately averted to the sky where the canons have begun firing at another object. A flash of light shoots through the sky before the space ship above begins falling. Mini explosions are set off, one by one until it’s landed in the lake. 

“Hey, Danvers,” Steve says, voice crackling over the ear piece, “we could use an assist over here.”

You don’t hesitate. You’re on your feet–then in the air. You watch Wanda fly toward the direction that Peter was going and you follow her quickly, still scanning the field for Agatha. With Carol taking the gauntlet, you assist Wanda with the Leviathans. More explosions fill the battlefield as Carol flies through machinery and debris, and you watch as Thanos sprints toward her, double edged sword in hand.

You call out Pepper’s name and the two of you, with two other women you’ve never met, charge at him. The combination of the magic and plasma rays send him flying back as Carol keeps flying toward the brown van. 

But he gets up.

And he raises his arm.

And the double edged sword is launched into the time machine.

You’re blasted back at least fifty feet by the burst of energy that erupts. And when you land, face first into the rubble, your head is pounding and your nose is bleeding. 

You don’t move. 

You don’t want to move.

You lay there, breathing heavily. Your eyelids are heavy as you watch the last ditch efforts of everyone against Thanos. 

Thor and Steve are violently thrown against the ground.

Carol is forced away by the Power Stone.

And then Tony gets up. 

Your eyes are slowly becoming too heavy to keep open, and you desperately want to close them. To sleep. To wake up when everything’s over. To wake up when Agatha’s there.

It’s quiet, almost drowned out from the ringing in your ears. But you know your name was just called. Tony is still fighting Thanos, Steve and Thor lay on the ground unconscious, Carol is nowhere to be seen. But then you hear it again. And again.

You roll onto your back and take in a painful breath–definitely a broken rib or two. Your name is called again, and even through the pain, you sit up. Your vision is slowly focusing and when you see that purple lycra jumpsuit and that frizzy, brown hair, you push the pain aside and climb to your feet.

You sprint toward her.

You don’t stop, not even when you stumble on a piece of concrete. 

Agatha throws herself at you with all the force of a semi-truck, completely toppling you over as she laughs and cries. She’s covered in dirt and dried blood matts her hair and stains her clothes. 

“Ow! Ow!” you say through a messy combination of laughter and tears.

“I’m sorry!” she cries. “I’m sorry!”

You wince, clutching your side as her hands hold your face.”It’s fine, it’s just some broken ribs…and a broken nose, I think. I’ll be okay.”

As you sit on the ground, you cling to her. Agatha’s hands grab at every inch of you, as if testing to see if you’re really back.

Her hands cup your cheeks. She presses kiss after kiss to your face and when she pulls away, her lips are trembling and her face is red and splotchy. Her thumbs gently caress your skin and she looks over you, letting out a soft cry. 

“You’re really back,” she croaks. Agatha presses a hard, tearful kiss to your lips. “God, I missed you.” Another kiss to your lips and she pulls you in closer than ever. As she holds your head, she buries her nose in your hair and inhales deeply. 

Nothing has changed. You still smell like the shampoo and conditioner you used that morning before going to the jet hangar. You still smell like your perfume–the perfume she occasionally sprays on her pillow to ease her to sleep at night. Even covered in blood and dirt, you’re still you. 

Agatha takes a deep, shuddering breath in and lets it out. “I love you so much.”

With your head on Agatha’s shoulder you can see across the field of debris. Thanos stands there, Infinity Gauntlet on, but his face has fallen. And then your eyes drift.

Tony kneels on the ground, hand raised, and when you focus on him, there they are.

All six Infinity Stones are locked in the glove of his armor.

Your eyes widen. “Oh my god!”

“What?” Agatha asks quickly, pulling away.

And then he snaps.

A white flash and then silence.

Eerie, skin-crawling silence.

Ash and dust are now floating through the air as Thanos’s army crumbles. Agatha helps you up and the two of you make the walk toward Tony. The sight of him makes your stomach drop. He’s pale and his eyes stare straight ahead, struggling to focus on who’s in front of him.

Peter crouches down in front him, hands resting on the warm metal of his armor. “Mr. Stark, can you hear me?” His voice is straining and stumbles through his words. “It’s Peter. We won.” He smiles through his tears. “We won, Mr. Stark. We won, Mr. Stark. We won. You did it, sir, you did it.” 

Peter starts crumbling, hands clinging onto Tony. “Mr. Stark…Tony…”

Agatha steps forward, her hands gently taking his shoulders. “Peter, sweetheart.” He stands up and curls in her arms, sobbing against her shoulder. Agatha holds him tightly, hand rubbing over his back. “I know,” she mumbles. “It’s okay.”

The weeks after the battle are a haze. With the Compound gone, the only other place is Stark Tower, but Pepper informs you that it’ll be shut down within the next month. So, that’s where those remaining stay until they can find a new home.

Two nights after, you’re woken up by the feeling of Agatha thrashing in sleep. You can see her breathing beginning to quicken and when your hand shakes her awake she gasps. Her eyes fly open and she sits up, hyperventilating and looking around.

“Agatha,” you say, trying to calm her down. “Agatha!” She stops when your hands grab a hold of her and force her to look at you. “It’s okay.��� Your hands cup her cheeks, thumbs wiping away the tears that slipped free. “It’s okay,” you breathe. “It’s just a dream.”

The panic leaves her body and her eyes close. Her hand takes one of yours and she kisses your palm. “I’m–uhh–gonna go to the bathroom,” she rasps, and drops your hand. 

The door to the bathroom opens and shuts, and you’re left to sit alone in bed.

And these nights repeat many times.

You can’t leave the bed unless Agatha is up before you, otherwise she panics and searches for you frantically.

One night, you were gone for twenty minutes to get a glass of water. Agatha had been fast asleep when you left, but the second you opened the door the sound of sobbing hit your ears. You rushed in to find her curled around your pillow with red and puffy eyes.

She sits up quickly when she sees you and you climb into bed. “Agath, wha–?”

“Where were you?” she sobs into your shoulder as your arms wrap around her.

Your hands run through her hair as she cries quietly. “I’m so sorry,” you mutter. “I didn’t realize…I was just getting some water…I’m sorry.”

Tony’s funeral is intimate and quiet. You and Agatha stand with Wanda, Bucky, and Sam as you watch the flowers float along the water. Dinner is served–also quiet–and soon, you find yourself alone with Steve on the porch.

“What happened during those five years?” you ask, accepting a beer that he offers you. 

He takes a seat beside you. “You mean in general, or–?”

You open the beer and take a drink of it. “Agatha,” you say. “What happened with Agatha when I was…gone?”

“Umm, well…” He sits back, sips his beer, and nods his head thoughtfully. “A lot. Nat and I were usually the ones who were there for her. She, uhh…” He looks at you and sighs. “She wasn’t okay.”

“I figured,” you hum.

“She didn’t leave her room for almost a month,” Steve says. “And then, we killed Thanos, hoping to get everyone back using the Stones, and…she started isolating. Nat made sure she ate, helped her shower. The first year was…really, really hard on her.” Steve chuckles. “Last month, I took her to a support group I started for people to talk about the Blip.”

“Oh, Jesus,” you scoff. “And how did that turn out?”

“She started laughing during it,” Steve shrugs.

You take a sip of your beer. “Yeah, that sounds about right.”

“I know she won’t tell you this,” Steve says, “because she’s Agatha and she doesn’t want to be seen as someone with feelings…but, uhh…she has to take sedatives to sleep.”

“Really?” you ask quietly, heart breaking at the mere thought.

Steve nods. “Yeah.”

“Okay,” you breathe, clearing your throat and drinking your beer. You wipe away a tear and then chuckle. “You know, the last time I saw you two interact was in Wakanda when she told you that your punches were sloppy.”

Steve laughs. “Yeah, we’ve…we’ve gotten closer. I can see what you love about her.”

The screen door creaks open and Agatha steps outside. “Oh, good. There you are,” she sighs, clearly annoyed by someone inside. “Are you ready to go, or are you gonna crack open another cold one with Pretty Boy here?”

You stand up and hand her the beer, smiling as she immediately downs the rest of it. “Yes, I’m ready. Give me a second.”

When Steve stands up, you hug him tightly while standing on your tippy toes. “I love you…Thank you,” you whisper, watching over his shoulder as Agatha walks toward the car. Your voice is breaking now, and tears start to spill down your cheeks as he holds you tight. 

“Thank you, both, for taking care of her when I wasn’t able to.”

It’s cold and bleak outside when you move into your apartment the following month. It’s slow, but Agatha begins pulling away–physically, emotionally. But you’re still there for her when she wakes up screaming. You’re still in the kitchen making chamomile tea to help her fall back asleep. You’re still there, waiting for her to come back to you.

You’re there for her, but no one is there for you.

Not Steve.

Not Nat.

Not Tony.

Not anyone you called family.

But you don’t say a word, because Agatha needs you. 

And as much as you love and cherish her…it doesn’t feel mutual anymore.

You lay in bed at night, watching her sleep–the slow rise and fall of her chest, the quiet snores that slip out of her mouth. She looks so peaceful, but when you see her eyelids fluttering and feel her limbs twitching under the covers, you know what it means. She thrashes around, only startling awake when your hand touches her.

“Agatha, it’s okay,” you whisper, sleep weighing heavy on your shoulders. Your hands reach out for her, but she flinches and you pull away. “What’s the m–?”

Agatha recoils and balls up her fists, clenching and unclenching them repeatedly. “Just–it’s fine–I’m fine.” She gets out of bed and sighs as she opens the bathroom door. “You can go back to sleep, I’ll be a while.”

So, you listen to her, and you go to sleep.

That’s all you do.

Sleep.

But not in her arms. 

You sleep on your side of bed, tucked under the covers as Agatha lays facing away from you. 

It’s like she’s a whole different person. In the century that you’ve known her, she always had a hand on you–your lower back as you walked down the street, on your leg as you sat beside her reading, on your waist while sleeping. There was never a moment where she wasn’t touching you. And now there is.

You miss her.

You miss the old Agatha that would tease you for doing everything in a pattern of three.

You miss the old Agatha who would kiss you and touch you, and run her finger tips over the side of your waist, knowing how sensitive you are.

You miss your Agatha.

There’s a moment where you think she’s coming back. She’s slowly starting to smile again–starting to laugh again, returning to her wit, slowly but surely becoming herself again. 

You walk into the bedroom with a full basket of clean laundry. When the door opens, Agatha’s searching the closet for a pair of clothes.

“Oh, good, you’re up!” you chirp. “I was thinking that we could go get a late lunch or early dinner. Maybe around three?” You set the basket down on the dresser and lean against the doorframe of the closet, looking up at her. “Nowhere fancy, but I just don’t feel like cooking.”

Agatha passes you a glance. “Yeah, sure.” 

“Okay,” you mutter. “If you have anywhere you wanna go, just…tell me and we’ll go…”

You take her hand and squeeze it before reaching up and aiming to place a kiss on her cheek.

But she pulls away.

Your hand lets go of hers and drops to your side. “Why won’t you touch me?” you ask quietly.

“What?”

“You won’t touch me,” you say. Your voice is meek and you hold back tears. “Why?”

Agatha hesitates. “I don’t–what are you talking about?”

“You know exactly what I’m talking about,” you say. The frustration builds quickly, and as hard as you tried not to, your voice ends up rising. “You won’t touch me, Agatha! You haven’t touched me in months! You barely hug me! Barely kiss me! You’ve pulled away from me! Why?”

“I’m sorry that I’ve been grieving for the past five years!” Agatha shouts back. 

Tears flood your eyes and you quickly bite back. “Well, I’m grieving right now!”

Agatha’s jaw tenses and her eyes flare. “What are you grieving? You didn’t lose anything! You didn’t spend five years by yourself!”

“You didn’t spend them by yourself!” you yell. “You isolated! Steve and Nat did everything to help you! He told me at the funeral, everything they did for you, and you say you grieved alone?”

The dam breaks and your vision is clouded with tears. “I am grieving alone! You’re the only close person I have left in my life, and you’re not even here!”

“Steve and Nat were two of my closest friends! They took care of you! I am grieving them, Agatha! The world that I lived in is gone!” Your throat is tight, but you continue. “The life I knew is gone! The family that I loved for ten years is gone! The Compound is gone! Our home is gone! You’re not the only one grieving, Agatha!” You take a deep, steadying breath and look her in the eyes. “It was five years for me too, even if I wasn’t here to experience it.”

Agatha opens and closes her mouth, but clearly doesn’t know what to say.

So you continue.

Tears continue streaming your cheeks. “I am devastated that you had to spend those years grieving. But I feel like you’re punishing me for it! I didn’t choose to go, Agatha,” you breathe. 

You sniffle and let out a sob, your voice strained as you practically beg her. “I want you back. I want you to do more than just hug me. I want your touch. I want you to kiss me!” You almost have to force your next words out. “I want you to love me like you did five years ago!”

Your head drops in your hands and your palms press into your eyes. “Oh, god,” you sigh, shoulders shaking. When you uncover your eyes, Agatha stands there, thinking of what to say. “I’m sorry,” you sniffle. “I just…Agatha, I miss you. I nee–”

You’re pulled into her arms immediately with a hard kiss on your lips. Your arms wrap around her tightly, tears mixing with spit and teeth and tongue. It’s impossible to get close enough to her. 

You both stumble to the bed and you fall down onto the mattress in a heap. You’re both gasping for breath as clothes are frantically ripped from one another’s bodies, and you almost moan from how good the skin-to-skin contact feels.

The both of you sit in the center of the bed. Agatha’s arms hold you as you sit in her lap, legs wrapped around her waist as you kiss her hard. Tears have begun to fall from her eyes now, mixing with your own and adding the flavor of salt to the kisses.

“I’m sorry,” she huffs into your mouth. Agatha presses a gentle, wet kiss on your lips. “I’m so sorry.”

“I miss you,” you whisper, and kiss her again. “Touch me. Love me. Please, Agatha.”

Her hands pull your face in as she presses frantic kiss after frantic kiss to your lips. “I love you.” A kiss. “I love you so much.” Another kiss. “I love you so fucking much. I’m so fucking sorry.”

You pull her down on top of you. She straddles your hips as she kisses you, muttering quiet apologies between each one.

“I don’t care,” you mumble. You roll her onto her side and your legs tangle as you pull her in close. “Stop apologizing and kiss me.”

Hands grab and grope at skin. Agatha’s lips attach to your neck and she rolls you onto your back again. Her fingertips graze over your side and she smiles in the crook of your neck as you shiver.

You arch into her feverish touch as her fingers trail lower and lower. Your breaths are shallow with anticipation, and after almost two months (and five years), the touch that you’ve been craving so badly has returned.

You tremble beneath her, fingers digging into the pillow under your head. Agatha’s lips return to yours in a fiery passion of teeth and tongue and you gasp in her mouth.

“I love you,” you huff. “I love you, I love you, Agatha.”

Her fingers don’t change their pace. They’re steady, not quite slow, but enough to drive you to the brink as she presses into you. “I love you,” she mumbles, and kisses you hard. 

“I wanna cum,” you cry, lips brushing hers, and nails digging into her arm and shoulder. “I wanna cum, please!”

Your eyes squeeze shut and your jaw drops. Agatha kisses you hard as you shake and sob, grabbing at every possible thing to ground yourself.

She slowly fucks you through the aftershocks, pressing kiss after kiss to your face. “I love you,” she mutters between each one. “I love you, I love you, I love you.”

When she brings her fingers back up, you don’t hesitate. With wide eyes, you take them quickly, sticking them in your mouth to lick clean. She watches you in awe–a look that she’d given you a hundred times before.

“God, you are incredible,” she breathes. 

The rest of the afternoon is spent like this–backs arched, breaths heavy, chests covered in sweat, and hands grasping at whatever they can reach.

Agatha’s thumbs softly swipe over your cheeks as the kisses slow and noses brush against each other.

“So much for an early dinner,” you say, stifling a yawn as you lay on your side facing Agatha.

“Did you really think I stopped loving you?” Agatha murmurs, pulling away just enough to look at you.

Her hand brushes through your hair as you sniffle. “No…I don’t know…I think I was just being dramatic.” 

You let out a quiet chuckle and Agatha shakes her head. “No,” she croaks. “You’re not. I…I missed you so fucking much but I didn’t even…I never asked about you once…how you were feeling…I’m sorry.” 

Your eyes, puffy from tears, soften as you look over her face. Your hand rests over her forearm in a comforting way to both of you. “Steve told me that you went to a support group,” you snicker. “And that you had to leave because you started laughing.”

Agatha rolls onto her back and groans. “Yes, I did. And it wasn’t as helpful as he said it would be. Is there anything else he told you?”

“That you can’t sleep without taking a sedative,” you whisper, still on your side and facing her.

Agatha’s head turns quickly to face you. “What?”

“It’s okay,” you mumble, pressing a kiss to her bare shoulder. “You don’t have to talk about it, but I wanted you to know that I know.”

Tears fill her eyes once again. “I’m sorry,” she rasps. “I told you that you didn’t have to worry, but…I’m sorry.”

Your hand rests gently on her cheek. “Agatha, don’t apologize for the way you coped with your grief. I’m here now. We can grieve together.”

__________

You’ve never been more content.

You lay in bed, in the darkness of your bedroom with the only light being the TV on. You let out a quiet chuckle as you watch the sitcom you had seen a thousand times.

And the best part–Agatha’s arms are wrapped around you again.

Your face rests against her chest and her fingers run up and down your back. You can hear her heart beating beneath your ear and your eyes grow heavy. 

“I wanna get married,” she blurts out.

You look up at her, wide awake now. “What?”

Agatha swallows hard. “The night that we were supposed to go see a show on the West End…I was gonna propose to you at dinner. I wanna get married.”

“Agatha, I…” You smile softly and let out a sigh. “For better or for worse, right?”

Agatha leans in, planting a gentle kiss on your lips. And with the laugh tracks in the background, she smiles, muttering, “And ‘til death do us part.”

[slutoru1207]

Invincible!Mark x reader x Variants!Mark part 10

Warnings: AFAB Reader, Post-Labor, Psychological Distress, Possessive Behavior, Multiversal Variants, Angst, Horror Elements, Yandere Themes, Emotional Manipulation, Mother-Child Bonding

Your body was heavy with exhaustion, your limbs weak and aching from the trauma of giving birth. But none of that mattered. Not the pain, not the terror of being ripped away from Mark, not the lingering fear clawing at your heart.

Because your baby was here.

A soft whimper beside you had your breath catching, your instincts overriding your fatigue. With trembling fingers, you reached out, brushing your son’s tiny cheek. His warmth, his smallness—it was overwhelming. His dark curls, the faintest hint of Mark in his features. He was beautiful. Perfect.

Yours.

A shaky exhale left your lips as you slowly, carefully, pulled him into your arms. He was so small, so fragile, yet his little fists clenched the fabric of your hospital gown with surprising strength. You pressed a kiss to his forehead, breathing him in, grounding yourself in the only thing that made sense in this nightmare.

Then, the presence in the room made itself known.

“You look good like that.”

Your body tensed as Sinister Mark’s voice slithered through the dimly lit space. He was leaning against the wall, arms crossed, his gaze locked onto you with an intensity that made your stomach churn.

He wasn’t alone.

Other Marks stood behind him—Scarred Mark, a quiet storm of emotion; another who bore a striking resemblance to your Mark but with a colder edge, his expression unreadable; and one who simply watched with a strange, almost reverent look.

Your grip on the baby tightened instinctively. “Stay away from us.”

Scarred Mark exhaled, rubbing his temple. “No one’s going to hurt you.”

“Then take me back.”

Silence.

Your Mark’s cold counterpart finally spoke. “No.”

Fury surged through your veins. “You stole me from him! You stole our son!”

Sinister Mark smirked, stepping closer. “We didn’t steal anything. We took back what was already ours.”

The baby whimpered, sensing your distress, and you forced yourself to steady your breathing. You wouldn’t let them see you break. You wouldn’t let them take this moment away from your child.

“You don’t own me,” you said through clenched teeth, rocking your son gently. “You never have.”

Sinister Mark crouched down in front of you, his gaze flickering between you and the baby. “We imagined this, you know. In different worlds, different times.”

You stiffened as he continued, voice disturbingly soft. “Some of us almost had this with you. Some of us lost you before it could ever happen. And some of us never even got the chance.”

A sharp breath from Scarred Mark made your gaze snap to him. His jaw clenched, his hands balled into fists at his sides.

“She died before we could even talk about it,” he muttered. “Before we could even dream.”

Another Mark, one you hadn’t paid much attention to, finally spoke up, his voice quiet and broken. “She died giving birth.”

Your blood ran cold.

For the first time, you saw something beyond possession in their eyes. You saw grief. Deep, unshakable grief. A grief that, in their twisted minds, they believed they could erase by having you.

Your arms tightened around your son. “I am not her.”

“No,” Sinister Mark agreed. “You’re better. Because this time, we won’t lose you.”

Meanwhile, Back at the Facility

Mark was pacing, his hands running through his hair, his breathing erratic. The Guardians were in motion, gathering intel, but it wasn’t fast enough.

“They took my family,” he snarled, punching the nearest wall. The impact cracked the reinforced metal, his rage barely contained. “We should already be moving.”

Cecil’s voice was sharp. “We don’t know where they took her. If we rush in blind, we could lose her for good.”

Mark wheeled on him, eyes blazing. “So what? We sit here and do nothing?”

“We find her first,” Cecil shot back. “And then we wipe those bastards out.”

Eve stepped forward, her expression tight with worry. “She just had a baby, Mark. She’s vulnerable. We have to be careful.”

Mark’s fists clenched, his entire body coiled with tension. “I know. But every second they have her—” His voice broke slightly. “Every second, she’s scared. And they have my son.”

Cecil’s jaw tightened. “Then let’s get them back.”

-

The baby stirred, his tiny face scrunching up as he let out a soft, tired cry. Immediately, your focus shifted back to him.

And, to your shock, so did theirs.

Sinister Mark, the coldest, most detached of them, softened ever so slightly. His gaze lingered on the child, something unreadable flickering across his expression.

Scarred Mark exhaled slowly. “He looks like us.”

Your heart pounded as another Mark, one who had barely spoken, hesitated before kneeling beside the bassinet. His gloved hand hovered over the baby, uncertain, before finally settling gently against the blanket.

The baby cooed, curling into the warmth.

A strange silence settled over the room. A fragile, temporary peace.

For a brief, fleeting moment, they weren’t Variants. They weren’t threats. They were just… lost versions of Mark, staring at the child they would never have had.

And it terrified you just how much that realization affected them.

But you wouldn’t let their sadness change what was real. You wouldn’t let their grief keep you here.

Your son wasn’t theirs.

And you would find a way to take him home.