#and it was so well run. I was expecting to be in the wars but there was barely any queues to get in and everyone was so nice. I traded

[stzrgirl4norris]

P1 in World History - OP81

Oscar Piastri x Historian!Reader

summary: no one understands how Oscar suddenly dropped facts after facts on the most random historical events

based on this request (by my favorite ever)

liked by mclaren, redbullracing and 1,300,000 others

f1 🎥 Grill the Grid: High School Edition is HERE

Watch our drivers struggle with math problems, historical dates, and chemical reactions 👀

Spoiler alert: we had some surprises.

view all comments:

lando who gave oscar a cheat sheet? be honest

charles_leclerc I would like a rematch with no ancient greek questions please

yukitsunoda0511 I said “napoleon” for everything. Not my fault it worked twice.

mclaren We are also surprised. Very surprised.

redbullracing Gonna have to bring this up to the stewards 🙂‍↔️

fernandoalo_oficial finally, someone knows I was there when Caesar was stabbed

alex_albon me watching oscar answer every history and geography question with his arms crossed like he’s on who wants to be a millionaire😭

user bro oscar even corrected the quizmaster once. is he ok?

user oscar casually dropping historical facts like it’s not suspicious at all…

user i'm so glad they are f1 drivers and not doctors or something

user why did oscar answer all of that without blinking? i’m scared 💀

user nah bc that man answered “Battle of Waterloo” like it was a pop quiz at dinner. WHO ARE YOU 😩

user oscar's not real. he’s a government experiment gone rogue

user the way he SMIRKED when he got the Cold War question right?? sir who are you trying to impress 😭😭😭

user idk if i want to kiss oscar or force him to write my next essay

user charles i expected more from you

user no but Lando getting the math question was so sweet

user when max said “well technically…” I felt that in my bones.

> user he maxplained that whole video and still lost

> maxverstappen1 I want a rematch

Oscar Piastri just added to his Instagram Story

"Great read 👍"

liked by oscarpiastri, yourusername, mclaren and 757,000 others

SkySportsF1 🎤 Oscar Piastri revealed or us the secret behind all his world history knowledge:

“It just sort of happens when you date a historian. Everything becomes a lesson. She once paused a movie to explain Dutch colonialism.”

View all comments:

user not me googling “how to become a historian”

user she paused a movie to explain Dutch colonialism and he STAYED??? yeah he’s in love your honor

user no bc i’d explain imperialism mid-makeout if he asked 😭

user that household must be insufferable

user I too wanna monologue to Oscar during breakfast

user imagine pausing a movie to rant about colonialism and he looks at you like it’s the hottest thing ever? god i’m weak

user and he LISTENED??? he RECALLS the info??

user she taught him centuries of world history and what did he give her back? driving lessons?

user “everything becomes a lesson” sir that is the dream 😭 i want to analyze the French Revolution over dinner too

user this is what happens when you date a girl who annotates books and knows who Franz Ferdinand is

user i want what they have. and by that i mean him. and also her brain. pls.

lando so you’re telling me i lost to oscar in Grill the Grid bc his gf is smarter than everyone at McLaren combined?

> oscarpiastri: you lost because you said Napoleon invented the calendar > yourusername: to be fair… he did change the calendar. you were just off by a few emperors > lando: OH MY GOD SHE’S HERE I’M SORRY PLEASE DON’T QUIZ ME

alex_albon oscarpiastri she paused a movie to explain colonialism and you didn’t RUN? bro you’re in deep

> oscarpiastri: i stayed. i took notes. there was a powerpoint. > yourusername: in my defense, it was really bad colonialism. like offensively inaccurate. > user: i am obsessed with the fact that she said “bad colonialism” like it’s a genre of film > user: alex is 100% pretending he gets this rn

georgerussell63 I want to add to the conversation that just 5 minutes ago during a chat this man casually cited the Meiji Restoration.

danielricciardo nah bc when she paused the movie he just sat there?? with his mouth shut?? couldn’t be me 💀

> yourusername he nodded. he asked questions. it was adorable. > danielricciardo stop you’re going to make the rest of us look bad

mclaren Confirmed: Oscar is now banned from date night and team trivia. Unfair advantage.

user WHY IS SHE SO CASUAL IN THE COMMENTS I’D DIE

> user she’s literally explaining history and being hot about it > user no bc she called it “bad colonialism” and suddenly I need a PhD >user someone make a TikTok of her best comments, we’re documenting greatness in real time

charles_leclerc If my girlfriend taught me history i’d listen too 🥺

> alexandrasaintmleux you can't even tell me who painted the Mona Lisa > charles_leclerc I said "history" 🙄

user do you think Ferrari can hire her to do something?

> user omg what would she even do there? > user anything is better than what they have ❤️ liked by charles_leclerc

liked by yourusername, lando, mclaren and 2,400,000 others

oscarpiastri Turns out there are so many good museums in England Also I now know what mercantilism is now.

view all comments

lando i want her to quiz me

charles_leclerc I refuse to learn, but i’m proud of you

georgerussell63 do you think she tutors for fun?? asking for me

alex_albon you’re literally a walking historical source

danielricciardo please ask her to explain the entire French Revolution to me in meme format

maxverstappen1 you scare me but i respect it

user THEY ARE TOURING HISTORICAL LOCATIONS 🥹🥹🥹🥹

user i know he’s got a napoleon bobblehead

user dating a historian and surviving is proof he’s the chosen one

liked by oscarpiastri, yourbff, mclaren and 8,150 others

yourusername He said “teach me everything” and now he can name every Cold War proxy war. Proud of my little historian-in-training. Also yes, he scored higher than some of my students on the practice quiz.📚💋

view all comments

oscarpiastri Cold War was a vibe

georgerussell63 okay but she’s intimidating in a hot way

> oscarpiastri don’t call my girlfriend hot. LEAVE. > georgerussell63 it was a compliment 😅😅😅

charles_leclerc imagine being forced to learn at dinner 😔

lando can she explain the space race to me using memes and finger puppets

> oscarpiastri are you 2??

user “cold war was a vibe” i’m IN TEARS

user she’s not just teaching him history. she’s giving him range

user whatever taylor swift said about you know how to ball i know aristotle

user i would risk it all for her to yell about the ottoman empire in my kitchen

hattiepiastri just watched him explain the industrial revolution like it was a bedtime story

kimiantonelli who even knows what happened in 1848????

> user aren’t you supposed to be learning that in school?

user is this a kink thing?

user dating a historian sounds like a trap. a sexy, educational trap.

maxverstappen1 can you prepare me for the next grill the grid?

> yourusername sure thing!! > oscarpiastri NO

liked by lando, oscarpiastri and 1,450,000 others

mclaren Study season. Quiz night prep. We no longer know if this is for history or Hungary GP. 🧠🏁📚

view all comments

oscarpiastri she just asked me to rank my favorite Enlightenment philosophers. it’s 10pm. i said Kant and she said “incorrect.”

> yourusername it was a trick question. you were supposed to say “you, darling” > oscarpiastri i’m logging off before I get in trouble > user I NEED THEM TO ADOPT ME

lando does this mean i can’t cheat???

> oscarpiastri she said next time you cheat off me she’s quizzing you on Byzantine trade routes > lando nevermind i’m studying. i’m SCARED.

yourusername Quiz night winner gets free coffee. Loser gets a 20-minute lecture on the French Revolution.

> mclaren we are printing flashcards as we speak

alex_albon imagine prepping for Hungary and getting hit with “define the Treaty of Utrecht” over breakfast

> oscarpiastri: she did that. literally. it was before coffee.

charles_leclerc what’s happening? Why is everyone smarter now.

> georgerussell63 she’s infecting the grid with knowledge. we’re not safe > fernandoalo_oficial finally.

user this is the power of a woman who annotates books and kisses you mid-lecture

user can’t wait until one of them starts mixing up tire degradation with the fall of the Ottoman Empire

[idyllwave]

aeon & bird & arrow 5

yandere!aeon!phainon x fem!reader x yandere!mydei

taglist

@reapersan @lollipipz

Phainon couldn’t stop staring at you. He memorized the way you smiled, noted the way that your eyes would crinkle when he said something funny. And your laugh… he could listen to it for ages. And he loved the way you talked, he could pick out the way your voice falls over each syllable as you told him about your village, it’s people, and about yourself.

“How about you?”

“Me?”

“Yeah, silly. Who exactly is Phainon besides a knight in shining armor?”

He couldn’t remember the last time someone cared to ask about himself. He didn’t even know anyone who would even bother to ask, but here you were proving him wrong.

Phainon, of course, wasn’t his true name, but he felt like it was a name that he wanted you to call him by. But he did tell you other things. His home birthplace, how he traveled from one city to another, and how he currently has a small home in Castrum Kremnos … while leaving out the part that he was actually the aeon looking over the place and helping them win the war that was going on right now.

Though, you didn’t seem to mind how secretive he was about some parts of his life. That, or you didn’t notice. What he also didn’t expect was all your questions you would ask about the various places he’s been to which he would happily answer to in kind.

Then there was the pie you made. He couldn’t remember the last time someone cooked for him. And it was so good too. Granted, you could have given him anything and he would still think it tasted amazing.

He honestly wanted to talk with you forever, but … he could already sense someone approaching.

“Y- you!”

Laios. What an interesting fellow. Phainon honestly didn’t think he would come back. Maybe he should have killed him after all. And before he could stand to confront the man, you had beat him to it and stood in front of him instead. Your hands resting on your hips as you flared at Laios.

“Move out of my way.”

“No, you’ve bothered both me and Phainon enough.”

Laios sneered, “how am I not surprised? The moment a man shows you even a bit of kindness you’re already opening your-“

He froze, you both did when that familiar feeling clawed at you both.

“Finish that sentence,” Phainon said as he stood up and ushered you into his arms, one of his hands pressing gently against your head to make you lean against him.

“Well?”

You couldn’t move as your cheek pressed against his chest. Your hands uselessly reaching to grab ahold of his coat as your heart stuttered loud with each beat against your rib cage. What was this feeling? It was even worse than in your shop. Was it coming from Phainon? It had to be-

Laios stumbled back and fell to the ground, “what- what even are you?!”

“Leave and pray you never find out.”

Laios looked at Phainon, then at you before struggling to get up and running away. It was probably the fastest you have ever seen him leave. And as soon as he was out of eyesight, that pressure disappeared and it felt like you could breathe again. And, of course, you had even more questions, not that you could ask as Phainon was still holding you close. His arm was locked tight around your waist as his other hand was running through your hair.

“P- Phainon?”

He hummed.

You hesitated. Were you even allowed to ask? Would he answer? Would you even like the answer he would give you?

“It’s probably best you don’t ask.”

“And even better if you let her go.”

Yet another nuisance Phainon mused.

“Aren’t you supposed to be fighting a war?”

“There was a break. A temporary ceasefire.”

“How convenient.”

Phainon let you go so you could turn, your eyes widening as your smile returned, “Mydei!”

[butchvaderkin]

vader and disability: a complex narrative

there’s lots of writing about disabled vader which you should go read if you're going to listen to anything i'm saying about it, because i am canonically just some guy and opinions vary, as they should. every vader disability analysis i’ve read rightfully establishes the problematic aspects of disability representation in the star wars canon, most notably the use of disfigurement, amputation, and medical tech as signifiers for vader's evil, particularly in the OT, as well as in the climax of ROTS. this is obviously an essential critique: disability as a shorthand for evil is a deeply harmful trope dating back...well, about as far back as people have hated disabled people. so....a while.

however, the discourse i’ve read struggles to go much deeper than 'disabled villain bad.' this feels like a missed opportunity, given that vader is not a one-dimensional villain or a simple boogie man but a complex character with six full-length films centered on his development and arc. we can acknowledge the harmful implications of this trope and also ask: is there more to unpack here? given that darth vader is one of the most iconic characters in movie history, and he's also disabled, is it not worth our time?

like a lot of star wars discourse, vader disability discourse tends to reject the ways in which lucas complicated his own narrative in the prequel trilogy. anakin's evil is more often framed as internally motivated and absolute: he turns evil, then he turns disabled to reflect this internal state, upholding the harmful trope. anakin's experience of medicalization and pathologization from TPM onwards are left out of the analysis. his in-universe experience of disability and ableism is flattened. lucas' own stated intention of illustrating anakin's victimhood is denied.

this is one of the central schisms at the heart of star wars discourse: whether to accept or reject anakin's victimhood. i would argue that this is inherently bound up in his status as a disabled character. disabled victims, especially imperfect disabled victims, are almost never represented in this way: as the central pillars of their own stories and collaborators in their own end. 

so yes, ultimately both the depiction of vader, of anakin, and the popular response to his characterization are products of an ableist society. that ouroboros is undeniable. however, in our ableist society, disabled characters (and people) are more than anything treated as disposable, adjacent, unnecessary. in this sense, anakin breaks the mold and is punished for it, both within his own story and by those who consume it. he cannot be both a victim and a perpetrator, a disabled hero and a disabled villain, because people struggle to extend that much range of humanity to disabled people. it must be a mess up. the writing got it wrong. is this really george lucas' failure to represent disability in the appropriate way? or is this just who we are? what we expect to see?

as i mentioned above, vader disability discourse also tends to flatten anakin's experience of disability. there's an assumption that anakin doesn't really experience any in-universe impacts of his disabilities, that they exist only as a visual signifier to us, the audience, of his internal evil. but reading anakin as disabled in-universe only strengthens his arcs in both his trilogies. why should i, a disabled viewer, reject that reading? why should we assume the galaxy far far away is not subject to the social model of disability too?

the social model of disability argues that disability isn't a fixed or objective state, but rather a circumstance which arises due to social barriers and attitudes. this runs counter to the medical model of disability, which holds disability as an individual biological problem that can either be cured or not. obviously, many disabled people live with incurable medical diagnoses -- the social model of disability doesn't deny that. rather, it argues that greater harm is caused by the social and structural response to disabling diagnoses than by the diagnoses themselves.

if the viewer rejects the idea that anakin experiences negative impacts from his disabilities, they may also reject the idea that there was any structural failure on the part of the jedi, or any active manipulation on the part of palpatine. the fact that disabled children are often failed, neglected, or actively abused, and that this treatment may exacerbate the harm these same children later cause to themselves, their relationships, and their communities, well.....it's not really something people enjoy talking about. the harm that anakin causes from his own choices does not negate a disability reading, just as a disability reading doesn’t negate the harm he causes. disabled people can and do cause harm. disabled people can be both complicit in destructive systems as well as victimized by them. by reducing anakin’s disabilities to a simple visual shorthand for evil and denying the ways they impact him in-universe, viewers can uphold a simplistic reading of the saga in which good and evil are organic absolutes, uncomplicated by systemic and social failures. not only does this ignore the more interesting elements of lucas’ storytelling choices, it misses the opportunity for reclamation and deeper analyses of complex disability narratives. 

as a rebuttal, i would argue that anakin's disabilities create experiences of medicalization, pathologization, objectification, and dehumanization for the entirety of his arc.

anakin's first experience with the jedi is one of medicalization. as a plot device, the midi-chlorians are hated by many, but they tie explicitly into this medicalization reading. anakin's blood is drawn and analyzed by qui gon. he is brought in to a panel of experts who test him and analyze the results. he's simultaneously told that his readings are off the charts and that he can't be helped, he can't be trained. he can't be fixed.

anakin's subsequent "acceptance" into the jedi temple is tinged by constant pathologization. it doesn't really matter how viewers diagnose anakin, wherever on the spectrum of mental/emotional/cognitive/developmental disability, many readings may work. what's clear is that anakin's emotional experience is viewed as abnormal by the people around him. anakin can't control his emotional reactions to the degree the jedi expect and require, and this earns him distrust and active disdain. basic human needs like validation, affection, and respect are denied to him, with this neglect sometimes framed as a direct response to his unwanted compulsive emotional behaviors. in truth, anakin doesn't need a diagnosis from our world; he is experiencing the disabling stigma of such a diagnosis, in his world, either way.

as his arc progresses, vaderkin's life is increasingly informed by physical disability. he becomes a burn victim and a quadruple amputee. while it's not really explicit in the movies, supplemental materials suggest that vader's use of cyborg limbs and breathing equipment make others in the imperial bureaucracy relate to him as less-than-human. he's seen as more object than person, half-man, half-machine. again, it's hard to separate creator ableism out from the in-universe ableism we may be searching for. do vader's prosthetics make him inhuman because lucas holds them as such? or is the objectification and loss of agency vader experiences through his physical disability part of his victimhood? has this framing shifted throughout the history of canon?

in his final form, vader is heavily disabled, dependent on medical technology to stay alive. the sound of his mechanized breathing is one of the most recognizable elements of his character. i would never criticize someone for taking issue with the stigmatizing aspects of this depiction, the problems inherent in equating medical tech use with a lack of humanity. but we can also interpret this through the lens of in-universe ableism. vader's suit was never designed to be an actual adaptive accommodation. instead, it's a form of control and torture which he didn’t explicitly choose for himself. in this sense, anakin is again a victim of medicalization, a curative model of disability which seeks to return the disabled person to a useful participant in the system, or else discard them.

and although anakin removes his mask at the end of his life, none of the choices that allow for his redemption are negated by his disabilities. it is that same disabled man in the suit who throws down palpatine, not a physically "restored" version of his "better" self. again, vader breaks the mold of the disabled villain trope, his complex personhood ultimately upheld in spite of the systemic violence he has experienced and perpetuated.

so yes, in spite of the ableism which has shaped anakin's story, both within and without of his own universe....in the end, i find anakin's disabled humanity at the center of it all. <3

[sapphirewritesx]

Kinslayer - Aemond Targaryen x OC (Naerys Velaryon)

“Going somewhere, little bastard?” His voice is a cruel whisper against my bare shoulder. I struggle to stay still, flesh creeping with dread. He holds my life in his hands, and he damn well knows it. He revels in it. “Oh, you’re trembling.” There’s amusement laced in his every word, savoring the position he’s caught me in. “Poor thing.”

summary: After Naerys' weapons fall into Aemond's possession, she decides to break into his chambers to retrieve what belongs to her.

word count: 4.6k

warnings: panic, slight suicidal thoughts, brief smut (as a memory, not between aemond and oc), mean Aemond I guess?

tags: enemies to lovers, slow burn, strong!oc, niece!oc, arranged marriage, pyrophobia, lots of banter, eventual smut

ao3: Kinslayer by sapphirewritesx

The waxing moon bathes the room in a pale glow, softening the cold shadows that linger in every corner. The sheer curtains by the balcony billow with the breeze, as if beckoning me forward. There is no fire in the hearth, no candles burning. I blew them out the moment the maids left.

My nightgown brushes my hips as I raggedly pace the chambers, wrestling with the urge to stay within these walls. The fury of what happened barely an hour ago festers inside me, refusing to be ignored. How am I meant to close my eyes and rest when my betrothed has, yet again, made a spectacle of ridiculing me and my brothers?

‘Twas only a compliment. A brilliant stunt—one he had no qualms pulling. The more I dwell on it, the hotter my blood burns.

It’s all he’s done since we arrived. Others have whispered the same insult behind closed doors, but never so brazenly. And those who have dared, are unarguably dead—Vaemond Velaryon now among them.

Aemond has already paid for his words with an eye. Is he willing to risk his life, too?

Give me a reason to erase your spurious existence.

No, it’s mine he means to wager.

He has diminished me, threatened me—yet I am simply expected to endure whatever he throws my way. Worse still, I must do so knowing he has stripped me of any means to fight back. The Queen may have ordered my weapons seized, but there is no doubt as to who reaps the reward.

My skin crawls at the thought of my sword and dagger hanging proudly upon his wall—spoils of a war that has only just begun.

The piercing screech of a dragon lures me to the balcony, my slippers whisking against the marble as I rush forward. Gripping the railing, I tilt my head back, searching for the source of the unfamiliar cry. Our dragons, I know to discern. But this one feels violently ancient.

A colossal form emerges through the thick clouds, momentarily eclipsing the faint glimmer the moon casts upon the golden spires of the Keep. There is no mistaking Vhagar. Her massive wings are spread wide, spiked with countless battle scars. Almost two centuries old, still she remains undefeated. An insurmountable creature that, to this day, has known no worthy rival.

She is magnificent to behold, soaring with grace through her domains—the absolute ruler of the sky.

I wonder what such a mighty dragon sensed in that ten year-old boy when she accepted him as her rider, hours after the burial of her former one, Aunt Laena. Despite her age, Vhagar has been perceptive about whom she allowed to claim her. Only four riders have ever been granted the honor of mounting her saddle: Queen Visenya, Prince Baelon, Lady Laena, and as of now, Prince Aemond.

Bile rises within me the moment his name so much as grazes the tip of my tongue.

My fingers twitch, reminiscing that fleeting touch—the sting of my palm against his skin. I should have struck harder. Or perhaps twice, had I seized the chance.

No—I want more than that. I want to make him bleed. To watch crimson trickle down his pale flesh, proof that his blood runs no different than mine.

But how could I, when I’m caged within these walls, forced to witness him ascend to untouchable heights?

Even if he was here, what good am I with without a blade? My bare hands cannot stand a chance, no matter how fierce my desire.

I turn toward the adjoining balcony, where no glint of light emanates. His chambers are deserted. If no guards warded his doors nor mine, I could slip away this instant. A hairpin might just serve to sneak inside.

I step closer, my grip tightening around the railing. The thought that crosses my mind is a reckless one, yet I do not dismiss it.

There’s no need for a door.

My right leg swings over the railing before reason convinces me to back down. The stone is cold and gritty beneath me, scraping through the thin fabric of my nightgown, but it doesn’t deter me. One hand clings to the edge behind me as I shift my weight forward, muscles taut with effort, and jarringly reach for the railing of his balcony. The gap is narrow, but wide enough for a tragic fall to death.

My fingers are slick with sweat as I grip the baluster, inching forward with stubborn resolve. Wind whistles in my ears, my heart thundering like a brewing storm. I stretch my arms, body suspended between the two balconies. One misstep, and I’ll descend into the abyss.

Don’t cower now, I chide myself. If I was bold enough to entertain the thought, then I must see it through. I shall not falter—only finish what I started.

My knee hooks the rail.

With a sharp gasp, I haul myself over—breath knocked from my lungs as my ribs collide with the hard stone floor.

I help myself upright, coughing as air returns to my chest. The spot where I landed throbs, blood pulsing within me from both the pain and the thrill of what I’ve just accomplished.

By morning, it may bloom into a nice bruise. For now, I’m standing in Aemond’s quarters. And I intend to reclaim what was taken from me.

Tentatively, I peer inside. The sole light comes from the center of the room: three thick, dark candles burning low atop a small table. I remain at the threshold, scanning every corner from a distance. I need to know where every flame lies before I dare step further.

To my left rises an impossibly wide bookshelf, every row filled with at least half-hundred volumes, their gold and silver titles glowing subtly under the blue hue of the night. A dark mahogany desk sits before it, its surface meticulously arranged with parchment, quills, and inkwells. I let my eyes wander, drinking in the space—taking the time I most likely don’t have. It stirs a deep curiosity within me, to know what he is like in the privacy of his chambers, the things he does when no one else is watching.

I turn on my heel, venturing a few paces farther to the right, careful to avoid the flickering light. Squinting into the darkness, I spot the large four-poster bed—veiled in black, draped in deep crimson covers, and crowned with a mountain of cushions. I draw closer, letting my fingers glide over the embroidered silk. The mattress yields beneath my hand, plush and sorely inviting.

With a muttered curse for my own impulse, I sit. My nightgown rides up, bare legs brushing against the soft fabric as I shift atop the sterling bed—fit for the true prince he is. I doubt mine will feel quite as fine.

Gods, I didn’t come here to pry about, did I?

I rise at once.

My eyes close for a beat, determination settling again. Swiftly, I smooth the covers and cushions, erasing every trace of my presence before moving along the adjacent wall, back on course to find wherever he keeps his weapons.

A spark of gold coming from a newly found doorframe steals my attention, instinct pulling me toward it. I step closer, standing beneath the arch. My lips part at the sight before me—a vast golden tub, large enough to fit two, overflowing with water and fresh sprigs of lavender.

His bathing chamber, previously concealed from me, awaits ready for his return.

I step back in terror.

Behind the tub, the hearth burns bright, keeping the water warm for the prince. Flames lick at the crackling wood, sending cinders spiraling into the smoke. The scent of ash churns my stomach, the thick air clawing at my throat, refusing to let me breathe.

I run to the opposite side of the room, the flames now licking at the edges of my vision as I try to escape their heat. My skirts billow with each frantic step, stirring a gust of air that snuffs out the three candles at the center of the room. I only stop when my hands hit the far wall, my forehead pressing against the cool stone as I struggle to steady my breath, to regain my bearings.

My mother—she was right. She has always been right.

I crossed from my balcony to Aemond’s, driven by the obstinacy of seizing the moment, only to be undone by the mere nearness of a hearth.

Weak.

The word echoes inside me like a tune that never ends. Nothing else describes it. I’m weak. Boldness is a costume I wear poorly. No matter how hard I try, the mask never fully weaves across my face. For all the stitches I add, there are always loose threads.

I can only play brave but never become it.

My head tilts back, a low groan escaping me in frustration. Pretend, my father’s voice rises from the depths of my memory. Pretend, Naerys—show your teeth, even when trembling out of fear. Pretend, until where once was deceit, only truth remains.

I back off from the wall, clutching at the last shreds of my resolve. Blinking in the dark, I can see now what I’ve failed to notice in the haze of my writhing thoughts.

The entire wall is lined with weapons—a countless collection of daggers and swords of all existing sizes, neatly arranged by shape and purpose. Enough steel to arm a battalion, hanging gaudily on display in the One-Eyed Prince’s rooms.

The blades glint in the shadows, some recently polished, others dull by the weight of history. I trail my fingers along a few, studying their unique craft. But the ones I came for—Bonebreaker and Nightshade—are nowhere in sight.

Could he have…disposed of them, perhaps? He could have melted their steel into another blade, wrought with my tears and shame. Though would he, truly? Or would he rather keep them, to further flaunt his new toys? Befitting, I believe, that he would do just that.

So where, then, shall my weapons be?

I search the room once again, looking out sharply for any hidden spot I might have missed. With the candles now extinguished, I move more freely, sweeping over the center of the room.

Chests, drawers, cabinets, wardrobes—I pull each open, fingers deft but careful, rifling through all that might conceal the blades from me. And each time, I find nothing. No flash of silver, no familiar weight wrapped in cloth.

I bend down before yet another trunk, refusing to surrender to defeat. My wounded knuckles smack against the hard metal of its latch, and I curse through clenched teeth. Kneeling beside the bed, I press my tongue to the split skin, tasting blood. But the pain dissolves in a blaze, replaced by something else entirely. Triumph.

There, just beneath his mattress, I recognize the silver hilt of my sword.

Without a moment of hesitance, I lunge forward to claim it. My fingers curl around the handle, welcoming the cold steel back into my possession. My chest swells with sweet reward, still my waist misses the smaller blade. I glance below the bed one more time, eyes strained. No trace of Nightshade.

I raise from the ground, determined to not leave these quarters without both my weapons.

An irritating sound halts me mid-step.

Nearing footsteps, followed by laughter—distinctively feminine.

They grow louder, echoing closer with every thud of my heart. Women. Something twists inside me. Would he? Right here in this castle, knowing my rooms are right beside his own?

Oh, of course he would. As if it hasn’t already been made painfully clear that he cares nothing for my honor.

No time for dwelling on it.

I run for the balcony, sword clutched tightly in my right hand, and press my back against the pillar.

The doors swing open.

Damned be the Gods. This is, without question, the most ridiculous situation I have ever found myself in—hidden behind the pillars of my betrothed’s chambers, holding my sword in a flimsy nightgown, while he walks in with whores.

Even so, I do not move. I stay rooted in place, listening as something crashes to the floor.

“Fuck’s sake,” the blasted voice cuts through the quiet night, but I don’t quite set it apart. “One-eyed thinks he can tread like a cat in the dark?”

A chorus of giggles follows.

“Candles!”

Another thud, then the shuffle of fine boots and silks, too tangled with wine to care where they land. Metal clinks as the guards hurry in, lighting the candles and torches alike.

Light spills across the room in soft bursts, seeping through the curtains that lead to my hiding spot.

“Good, good!” he claps, his tone slurred. “Make yourselves comfortable, ladies. My brother should arrive in no time.”

Ah. No doubt now.

Aegon the Drunken, presenting his little brother with a late night entertainment.

“He is going to be so pleased with such company tonight,” the prince promises.

Certainly, I whisper to myself.

Does he plan to… share these women with Aemond? The image paints itself in my head, and the small portions of venison I managed to get down my throat tonight threaten to come right out. I’ve read of such… particular doings, but I never quite appreciated the prospect. 

“Will you be joining us, my prince?” One of them asks, her voice trained for seduction.

“Oh, no, no,” Aegon says with a muffled snort. The women let out a disappointed sigh. “Wouldn’t want him to feel threatened by the length of my cock.”

I scowl as they all burst into laughter.

How generous, the King’s firstborn son.

I dare to peer inside, just enough to glimpse the scene. Three of them, perched lazily around a velvet bench, their skin barely covered in red silk. Aegon, seated between them, is pouring himself some more wine.

Three.

Quite the night ahead for my betrothed, I see.

Fine. Let him indulge all he wants. He is a man of twenty, not the boy he was ten years ago. It would only be strange, if he didn’t seek such encounters. Stranger still, that the thought unsettles me at all.

But then why shouldn’t it, when he is free to do as he pleases, while I’m expected to remain chaste and untouched?

For him, of all men.

I secure my sword in my grasp and turn toward the balcony, ready to return to mine, when his voice slices through the room like a sharp blade.

“What’s the meaning of this?” Aemond’s question silences the ladies’ irritating giggles. “You have your own chambers to fuck your whores in, don’t you, brother?”

“Ah, don’t be stupid,” Aegon slurs. “I brought these girls for you. Time you got some more practice.”

Practice. Is that what we are calling it, now? More practice, to be fair.

“No,” Aemond cuts in swiftly, dismissing his older brother’s offering. “Not tonight.”

“But—”

“I said not tonight,” he repeats, his refusal oddly clear. “Get out now.”

“Alright, alright,” Aegon grumbles, stumbling as he raises from his seat. “Let’s go have fun on our own then, ladies!”

My stomach churns as my mind instantly drifts to Helaena. His wife. His sister. Watching over their children while he spends the night with whores.

“Don’t do this again,” Aemond warns. “Is that clear?”

Aegon halts, hand smashing against the doorframe. “Damn it, brother. Just trying to help you relieve some of the tension that bastard put you through.”

That’s me—I’m the bastard. And I’m inexplicably irritated to be nothing more than a tension that needs to be relieved.

The hiss of a blade unsheathing makes me rise onto my tiptoes, daring another glance. Just as I suspected, Aemond stands with his sword drawn, its tip aimed at his brother’s chest. The three whores scurry behind Aegon, gasping at the prince’s loss of temper.

“Get out,” Aemond commands again, voice cold as the steel in his hand.

“Gods,” Aegon mutters, throwing up his hands. “No need for that, you boring idiot.”

He stumbles toward the door. “We’re out!”

And with that, Aemond is left alone, still unaware of my presence.

I should have taken advantage of the earlier chaos. It wouldn’t have been difficult to slip out, but I stayed, curiosity tethering me in place.

His footfalls fill the new silence, fading as he crosses the room. A sigh, then the soft thud of his sword hitting the floor. Moments later, the heavy rustle of leather follows.

Is he…undressing?

My insides turn. The bath. Right—he’s going to bathe.

This is my chance to leave unnoticed.

Every step toward the railing pulls the knot in my chest tighter. I wasn’t this afraid on my way in—revenge had poisoned all reason. But now? Now I’m terrified. One glance down, and the confidence I held is as good as gone.

Too late to regret this.

I have to go back.

My movements are too quick—too clumsy. My foot snags on my gown, and I stumble. My hands shoot out, gripping the railing just in time, but Bonebreaker slips from my grasp, clattering against the stone with a far too loud noise.

Fuck.

No time to think.

I snatch the sword from the floor with one hand, hike my nightdress with the other, and lean forward. I strain to lift myself, my ribs heaving as my breathing staggers. Just a little bit higher. Just a bit more—so I can drop the sword to my balcony, free my hands, and get the hell out of here.

Strong, long fingers clamp around my waist.

I gasp, my balance gone. My body tilts forward, eyes catching the sheer drop between the two balconies. My heart lurches into my throat.

Now, this is a terrible way to die.

“Going somewhere, little bastard?” His voice is a cruel whisper against my bare shoulder.

I struggle to stay still, flesh creeping with dread. He holds my life in his hands, and he damn well knows it. He revels in it.

“Oh, you’re trembling.” There’s amusement laced in his every word, savoring the position he’s caught me in. “Poor thing.”

His fingers tighten around my waist, dragging me back just enough to throw my grip off the railing. My legs falter—half my body dangling above the drop. He doesn’t help me down. No, he leaves me suspended, teetering between safety and oblivion, as if deciding whether to have mercy or rid himself of me right in this instant.

And how easy I’ve made it for him, if he chooses the latter. There will be no questions. No doubts, when they find my broken body sprawled beneath this tower. An expected tragedy, that the bastard couldn’t withstand the weight of her own existence.

A rush of cool wind caresses my cheeks, inviting me for a dance into the void.

Wouldn’t it be a sweet death, to fall into a never-ending sleep?

No duty, no marriage, no throne.

“Let me fall,” I breathe, surrendering to the better end.

My request hangs in the air, and for a heavy pause, he says nothing. As though now that I cave in, he is the one to hesitate.

“I will,” he grunts, and I brace myself for the descent into the abyss. Then—his grip shifts, bare arms wrapping around me. He pulls me down, back against the hard line of his chest. “But not quite yet, my darling niece.”

I can’t quite describe the feeling that soaks through my bones—anger, confusion, disappointment. My soles land on the hard stone, his embrace anchoring me to the ground. I try to break away, shoulders wriggling to get him off me. His arms don’t loosen. Instead they force me forward, caging me between his body and the edge of the balcony. As if he thought I might just leap, robbing him of the sickening desire of finishing me himself.

His fingers dig into my scalp, jerking my head to the side by a fistful of my hair.

“It’d be such a shame,” he murmurs against my nape, voice soft as silk, “to dispose of you so easily.”

“What do you want, then?” I demand, but the edge in my voice is fraying.

How quaint of me. He doesn’t want an easy death. No, he wants pain. He wants to watch me unravel, to hear me beg for the mercy he’ll never give. He wants me broken before it ends. But why? Is my bastardy the only reason for such hatred?

His breath hitches, chest rising against my back in a quiet, uneven exhale. He doesn’t answer right away—no, he’s savoring this, drunk on the power he holds over me.

“Do you really want to know, little bastard?”

“Yes,” I rasp, the word catching in my throat. “I do.”

His fingers detangle from my hair. They trail down deliberately, tugging the loose fabric of my nightgown over my shoulder—because even a flash of my skin is an offense to his half-blinded sight.

“I want your blood, your soul, your heart, ” he dictates, each word punctuated, as though naming trifles. “Mine to spill, to possess, and to tear apart at my pleasure.”

My pulse thrums in my ears, chills cascading down my spine. He wants to destroy all of me. To strip me bare of every last shred of humanity, until I am as hollow as him. Surely, were I a proper lady, that would take time. He’d be surprised, to find just how empty I already am.

“Now,” he murmurs, his hands traveling to mine as he sets them on the railing, a finger gravely brushing over my knuckles. “Tell me, Naerys…”

I know I should be scared—fighting, clawing, kicking my way out of his hold—but I don’t hear the rest. Moonlight pours over his exposed skin like a river of molten steel. The veins in his hands strike deep and purple, dark and rich. Faint scars lace his forearms, gleaming like ivory ink, written stories in a tongue I’ll never comprehend.

This position—the press of his chest, the weight of his grip—pulls me into a memory I have never lived, but read quite a few times.

The prince brought his hand to her collarbone, fingers gliding over soft skin, tracing the delicate path down to her chest. His grip around her waist tightened as he tilted her neck, teasing her skin with breath and restraint. Her heart pounded, aching for the heat of his lips, the sweep of his tongue. But the prince was cruel in the way he drew out desire, and so he waited until she begged—until she moaned his name in a desperate plea. His mouth crashed to her neck with an insatiable hunger, biting and kissing as if he meant to consume her. The ache between her legs bloomed, dripping wet. One hand tangled in her hair, the other deftly unlaced the front of her corset. When her breasts spilled free, her nipples pebbled in the night breeze—but not for long. His mouth closed around them, tongue tracing fire across the sensitive flesh. Then he turned her to the edge of the balcony, made her clutch the stone as he lifted her skirts. His hands found the heat between her thighs, fingers parting—

“Naerys.” His whisper blows the fantasy away like smoke, and I’m thrust back into this ordinary realm, where a different prince still cages me. These hands wrapped around me were never meant to worship—only to wound.

“Answer me.”

“Hm?” I mumble, the sound a blend of taunt and uncertainty. His question hangs by a thread in my mind, because those few last words he said before I slipped, I didn’t quite catch.

“Don’t test my patience tonight,” he warns darkly. “Tell me how you entered my chambers, thief.”

Thief, is it?

A low, smug chuckle escapes me. “Same way I was getting out.”

Without warning, he spins me around, his hands forcefully pinning my lower body to the edge. I swallow, my gaze drawn instinctively to the hard lines of his bare chest. Every inch of him is sculpted with strength, each muscle taut and coated in the sheen of the moon and stars that watch over us. He’s lethal—devastatingly so.

“You jumped from your balcony to mine, to get into my chambers?” His brows furrow slightly, as if the mere thought of me doing something so reckless is beyond his comprehension. He looks at me like I’m a riddle he can’t quite solve. Fairly enough, neither can I. 

“In a pretty nightgown and slippers?” His voice drips with incredulity, a hint of amusement rising beneath.

“I jumped from my balcony to yours to take back what is mine,” I snap, glancing down at my sword, scattered on the floor like a piece of worthless steel.

His laugh is ungodly, dark as the night.

“Yours?” He tilts his head slightly, eye narrowed with challenge. “That blade is no longer yours. It belongs to me now, whether you accept it or not.”

His lips tilt to the side, displaying a pleased smile as he grabs both my wrists in a knot. “As do you.”

The rage that took hold of me as I paced in my chambers resurfaces tenfold. “That blade—”

“How?” he cuts in, slicing my outburst at the root. His eye locks on my right hand as he pulls it toward him, inspecting it closely. “How did you get this?”

“I don’t owe you an explanation,” I snort.

“Very well, I’ll ask you a third and final time.” His gaze hardens, a silent warning—a subtle reminder that he won’t hesitate to make good on his threats. “How?”

I sigh, relenting. “I scraped my knuckles on the railing on the way in.”

A scoff. “A bastard, a thief… and now a liar. Anything else to add to your charming list of sins?”

“I’m not lying,” I say, expression stoic. My answer was perfectly plausible.

“Hm.” His mouth curls with derision. “So you’re daft, too.”

He doesn’t give me the chance to bite back. 

“You had both these wounds at supper,” he says flatly. “If you’re going to lie, at least put some effort into it.”

I raise a brow. “You were paying close attention, then.”

“I was,” he admits, almost distracted. “Observing, you see, teaches much about your adversaries. Reveals weak points, if you are…keen enough.”

“And have you learned any of mine yet?” I dare ask, struggling to maintain my defiance.

He studies me intently, head tilted. His hold loosens, just enough for my arms to fall to my sides. I look down to myself, following his gaze right to the center of my chest. The thin fabric of my nightgown clings to my form, and I suddenly become sorely aware of the way my raised nipples visibly peak underneath. 

My teeth sink into my bottom lip to conceal the sound of my embarrassment. This surpasses indecency—and my thoughts—they flare to the whores he refused tonight.

I know what must be crossing his mind. I look nothing like them.

His violet eye sparkles like a spiral of amethyst, blinking as he faces me once again. The curve of his lips returns. “You’re cold, dear niece,” he murmurs. “Let’s get you back to your room.”

Without warning, I’m effortlessly hurled over his shoulder, carried like a child. But if I am to be treated as such, I might as well act the part.

I kick and writhe, his long hair tangling with mine as I swing my head against his back. “Put me down!”

“Not a chance.” His arm snakes around my waist, my hips resting over his bare chest as he crosses the room. “I’m escorting you to your quarters.”

“Ah, so chivalrous,” I mock, “to carry your betrothed over your shoulder into the corridors of the Keep.”

No matter how close our chambers are, little birds linger in dim corners of this castle, waiting for a new tune to sing come the morrow.

“Aemond—” I call his name, desperate to make him reason. “We cannot be seen this way—the guards, they’ll talk—”

His steps grow faster. “Think I care?”

[the-friendly-entity]

[ ~"Unwanted Eyes"~ ] - Cookie Run

You are a Human who found the Earthbread! Meeting cookies all around! how do the cookies react to seeing a human in their kingdom?

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3

What contains? Sensitive Topics (Kidnapping mention multiple times)

Can be visualized as? Friendship Relation Ship (stableshed to the last 2 Parts), Cookies meeting you!

Sinse you last adventure in the Creme Republic, even thing turn out good in the end, everyone mind as been busy lately

Gingerbrave and his friends was worried about you, they never think of expected you tracked so many attecion (Exept Wizard, he was more awared diferent from the others) So they mostly worried what gonna happen to you, but they agreed of anything happen they will be there to keep you safe!

The Acients was more huge worries, of the Creme Republic intencions with you, they remember what happen when the Creme Republic was interested in the Soul Gems, and all what cause to almost start a war if not was to finally everything turn out good in the end, but was just a luck shot, not even that but if the evil was alredy putting eyes on you and planing to do things with you

The Creme Republic and the cookies arround the world just continue they wisper, talking about the recent things happen in the republic, and even you was in the news, indeed the attecion you are reciving start to excalate more and more, more cookies know about your existence and the thing you been doing arround they world

and for youself, you really dont know what to think, everything feels like too much, you still adjusting to everything even alredy pass time, you still learning, there still a lot of things you dont know about the cookies and they world, how things work and they culture, due how much you limited due the bad influence of the witches, if you feeled chainted in the past due the cookies and acients, now you feel like stuck underwater to the creme republic eyes as well, feeling that the small error will fatal to you, thankfully your friends and the Acient make you feel sure that everything will be ok, and continue to pass your time as you usually do, maybe just maybe, dont let your own head get the best of you

but something about the Acient was right, you will track a lot of unwanted eyes, oh yea they did, eyes as been observing in the start when you start to move arround, kingdom to kingdom, meeting the world, non awared of being stalked by

a group of evil cookies, followed by one of the most evil cookies as put the cookie world in danger in the past and now present, Dark Enchantes Cookie, as been reporting about your existence, every little thing you been doing, how close you are with gingerbrave and how close you are with the accients

thigs of corse, they start to planing and wispering in the shadows...

Licorice Cookie

"Now the republic has eyes on the witch too!, this just make too complicate to follow arround now that has everyone on they back! i just got LUCKY i dint get caugh in the republic otherwise i will be pieces of crubs!"

-Licorice Cookie was been the one who firts saw you when you was arround the Earthbread, and the firts one who report you existence, sinse then as been follow you arround doing the dirty work keeping eyes on you and see what you up too, putting his back in danger multiple times and almost multiple times was near to be caugh-

Licorice Cookie has some sorta fear towards you, after all he never saw something like that HUGE in his entired life, so even himself get spook about you exitence

Even see you as a pathetic alive thing due never you defend yourself or do something againts the cookies, he cant denie you still a danger, your size benefics a LOT so he cant risk to be crush on if has the chance to finally break angry

Red Velvet Cookie

"Indeed will be a problem, but being under too much attencion and protecion just mean how value is, even for the acients too, knowing the power the witch that holds can be catrastofic, but eather way, we always manage to be step ahead from them, this will be no much diferent"

Red Velvet Cookie has mutliple times observe you in the distance, no much as Licorice Cookie has he has more important task ahead, but he indeed has curioisity in you

Defenely loves when one of the reports in you visit in Dark Cacao Kindom you was petting the Cream Wolfs! he wonder if you likes the Cake hounds too, maybe even a way to persuve you to send you a trap

As far he hear for the repord, he found you very usefull, more that could imagine from what you been doing arround the earthbread

Poison Mushroom Cookie

"Do you think the Witch like Mushrooms?...."

Poison Mushroom Cookie as always does not think about the actual situacion, thinking of share his mushroom to you if ever can aproche you

He even thinks will had a new friend to play with! a very big big one!

He Wonders when finally can aproche you to finally play with you, due Licorece and the others dint let him to be near you yet

Licorice Cookie: "i DOUTH about it, even so, why is so important this witch? is been show nothing but being weak and easy to stalted, i dont think is worth it personally, just a waste of time"

Pomegranate Cookie

"Maybe, but Dark Enchantress is very interested in this witch, seeing the potencial that can bring in our mission, i have high expetecion about none the less from our highness, maybe is not what this witch can do, but the power can hold inside and maybe manipulate to use for our own good, only Dark Enchantress know better about this witch, and is show is worth it, then we dont have to undermastimate it, after all, is been so long time a witch step in...."

Defenely interested in you and what Dark Enchantress cookie has plans on you, she cant imagine of how much can do to you if could get you in her "hands"

She had multiple plans alredy, the most if of corse, trying to consume you in the darkness like she did with Dark Choco Cookie, but she awared that you not be so easy, that maybe the "magic" you hold inside can protect you so she need to prepared carefully before take actions

Even if she cant control you, that not matter, as she can take your magic power from you, is enough to reach success in they mission, the magic you could hold, the magic she could control, enough to make all cookies beg in fear!

Matcha Cookie

-Very difernet from anyone else, Matcha Cookie dint found much intereste in you, yes you are a witch is still interestd in it, but so much attencion about how much you can do...she feel very off, she dislike the atencion you reciving in this conversation, no really getting what you can do she cant do alredy?-

Matcha Cookie: "(Why will be so interesting about them?....i can show i can be better that them, yes yes, much better that them!, Dark Enchates Cookie will see how much woth i am....)"

Matcha Cookie with you is....well, due she not know much about you due she dint hear about the reports a diference from anyboy else, she dislike this unexpected topic anybody talks about

She dislike you becuse of that, but only she being followed by her jealousy and attencion she always wanted, due no boddy pay attencion of her or even feel part of the team

Affogato Cookie

"Hoho! I can imagine how much we can do with that witch! seeing how...patetic they mindset is, it will be no problem to even aproche to them!, just wait the perfect time is all alone....not even need to put so much effort to put them down, just pretending be one of does {so good vunerable cookies' to follow to a trap"

Affogato Cookie alredy want to make the risk to aproche you, seeing how you been arround the cookies, he could easly gide you to put you down

and not only that but use his magic to control you and manipulate you! to follow what he wants, if can use you he could easly even put down the rest of evil cookies and empired all the earthbread!

Of corse, the only problem is Gingerbread and his friends, he need to find a way you stay away from them...

Butter Roll Cookie

"Not only that, but we can finally learn how cookies are made from the hands of our creators! finally unleash the secret we so much been looking for so long! so much we can learn, so much we can improve! finally our efforts will be finally hear! and our long investigation will finally concluded, or better! IMPROVE IT! we can even perfeccionate what witches has do for ages ago to even make it much much perfect!"

Defenely the more exited from any cookie here, alredy exited to cook and be ready to prepare more cookies with now your existence that can help make much better cookies!

He even interested of what you made off, due you not made of candy as cookies are, maybe he could use you as ingredient too to see what cookie can make out from it

Schwarzwälder

"HAHAHAHHA! Look like destiny finally is our side! with this witcher in our hands, nothing will be stop us now to archive our mission!"

Schwarzwälder Defenely happy from this, to finally destine smiles at them, you arrival just a sign of good knews for the evil cookies

He thinks the same as Red Velvet Cookie, due the report of you interaction with the Cream Wolfs, he could aproche you and act cute to trick you to gide you to a trap with no much problem

"~Indeed~"

Dark Enchatress Cookie

"we alredy been going good with the reales of the Beast Cookies, but now? i had to admit i dint think my plans was going to change, but it just make our posibilities to win in a complet success! if we can get that witch in our side, all cookies will give up fighting! and beg for they pathetic lifes!, not even the republic or the acient cookies will stop us, but for now, we will continue to observe, but soon my little followers, soon that witch will be in the dark side....."

Dark Enchatress Cookie herself, She alredy sinse the reports and to know about your existence in the Earthbread make her smile, if dint thinks alredy going good, but you is like hell send they best warrior as a gift

Defenely knows about you visit with White Lily cookie, she enjoy a lot how much you scared off with just only existence, she never had a good laugh for so long!

She defenely no surprised of White Lily Cookie decicion on you, due she awared about you precenses be a danger and a good use for the evil cookies, even hearing White Lily Cookie worries about you and the concern of you get found by the evil cookies, oh if White Lily knew...

Dark Choco Cookie

Due is no longer part of the Evil cookies anymore, he just being alone in his journy to find himself and cure from his past errors, it was indeed a big surprised when he saw you in the distance, something that the evil cookies always spook a lot

He start to follow you in the distance, for two reasons, if you are a danger and what are you propuse in here in the Earthbread

He stop when he saw the Acients was with you and observe you doing nothing but good things for the cookie comunity, he still have douths about you, but he knows now you are under the Acients watch

[stellar-collective]

Matchstick AU is awesome! It makes me feel emotions :)

It does, also, bring to mind a thought; in the regular IEYTD world, is there ever a moment where either Phoenix, Ollie, or Reginald ever go ballistic on someone? And why would they do so?

Because my characterization of Ollie is Cinnamon Roll Medic, but push certain, well hidden buttons and he Will Attack Without Mercy. Mostly related to Phoenix's Mental Health.

I'd like to know what you do for yours! No pressure, though :D

i’m glad you’re enjoying the Matchstick AU!! suffering :3

those three are really, REALLY hard to get mad, but yeah, they’ve all got breaking points.

Phoenix is really, really hard to get to go ballistic bc the only thing that really fazes them is their friends getting hurt and that just makes them upset or scared, not mad. HOWEVER… if a villain were to grab one of em and hurt em JUST because it hurts Phoenix, i think that would really get them. like, taking this unique, capable, lovable person and reducing them to another way to hurt Phoenix? oh, they’d see RED.

Reggie is similar, where the only way to get him visibly angry is to deliberately provoke him. him going ballistic is very “oh, you want to see what i’m like when i’m mad? fine. you asked for this.”

and Ollie… yeah. he would never, ever get angry for his own sake, but if someone makes Phoenix upset (or heaven forbid, cry), he’ll yell at them. he does it so infrequently and it feels so out of character that it’s TERRIFYING. i’d also imagine that he has a secret second Scary Mode where he gets really quiet and serious and calmly does Whatever It Takes to escape the bad situation, but that one is SUPER rare.

bonus sillier sketch:

POV: you just successfully incapacitated Agent Phoenix and assumed (incorrectly) that now it was going to be an easy fight

[sampilled]

How was the Taylor Swift concert?

It was absolutely amazing!!!

It was so fun and usually I hate that stuff like this is in daylight(it only started to get dark when she started the midnights set) but it was actually great cuz she could see out in the crowd and she noticed people getting engaged (two girls. Rise up swiftbians) and congratulated them and it was sooooo cute

Her tour also broke records in Scotland!!!! Most attended music show ever!!!!!

[littleapplle]

bad dog!

mating season's part two. not necessary but read it for more context. nsfw. 4.1k w.

cw.: hybrid!caleb, fem!reader, masturbation (m), dry humping, caleb is pathetic and anxious asf, a lot of spit, handjob, cunnilingus (sigh...), p in v, big d caleb, knotting, breeding kink, pregnancy kink (sorryy..), caleb is PATHETIC (again), biting and lwk marking kink, doggy style, mating press, squirting.

note: ah!! its finally out! to everyone who liked and asked for a part two of mating season, im sorry! i took so long to start and finish this. i hope i can keep up with the expectations and that this is just as enjoyable as part one.

“bad dog!”

Is what caleb's got most used to hearing in the past few days.

“caleb, do you know where my white bra is- hey, what are you hiding in there? bad dog!”

“caleb! stop going through the dirty laundry basket! bad dog!”

“caleb, why are there holes in my black panties? oh my god did you chew them again?- ugh! bad dog!”

the first few times, he'd whine in guilt and shame, give you his best puppy eyes and maybe, just maybe, get away with it. but now? you're afraid he's getting bolder, that your punishments – denying him his weekly spoon of peanut butter and his blueberry bites – aren't being enough to keep him on his tracks. 

and what's the solution for a puppy with bad manners? a trainer, of course! you've searched everywhere online for a hybrid trainer close to your apartment and nothing was worth wasting time on. most of them were men, which you knew wouldn't end well.

puppy!caleb is friendly, a sweetheart around you. he lies on his back and whines for belly rubs and when you scratch a particular spot on his side, his leg twitches a little. your sweet pup is lovely but you know him well enough to know it's better to avoid interactions with other men.

it's not personal! he isn't scared of them or anything. he just doesn't like them around you:( so why would you bring a stranger to your shared apartment to not only try and order him around but also infect the air, which usually smells like you, with their yucky scent? that's a nono!! caleb is a good pup but his teeth are still huge and sharp!!!

with no other options left, you return to scolding caleb almost daily for his misbehavior.  sure, you’re letting him get away with it sometimes and maybe you're too soft on him but you're trying!

his behavior worsens with time. it's been a little more than a  week since the incident you'd rather not mention. caleb barks when you get home, showing his teeth to the world once his nose sniffs a different scent in your clothes. caleb growls and both of you play tug of war with your clothes every morning. caleb hides stuff around the apartment and you're running out of undies.

he's clingy. you love him but he's constantly clinging to you, sniffing every inch of your skin when he thinks you're not looking. When you sit down on the couch to work, laptop resting on top of your thighs, he lies down on the floor, waiting for you to invite him to sit beside you and take a nap while you write reports, and when you don't? his sharp teeth nip at the ticklish skin of your foot. bad dog!

to his dismay, you still have a job and need to go out by the morning and spend the whole day out. the baby teethers you bought for him aren’t helping to keep his teeth and mind busy anymore and caleb is starting to destroy the shit out of your apartment. you’ve found bite marks everywhere this past week. your mascara? bitten. the corner of your bedside table? destroyed. the cute and pink silicone spatula in your kitchen? disintegrated.

ok, sure, it’s kind of your fault for not educating him properly but how could you? poor boy gets anxious when you’re not around and his gums are itchy! he’s innocent! 

so, to help with said problem, you bought him a friend! a fluffy, cute, white bunny plushie with the cutest light pink heart for a nose. but that alone was too tedious for your bored pup! to prevent him from absolutely destroying the plushie, you spray some of your perfume in its fluffy body. the cologne he whines and buries his face in your neck when you wear, the one that made you put a lock on the cabinet under your bathroom sink because he kept spraying it in the air when you weren’t home.

great idea! he loves it. a bit too much maybe, but it’s a win. 

“i’m leaving, caleb! leftovers are in the fridge. yes, i love you, yes, i have to go, no i can’t call in sick.”

you announce loudly from the front door before shutting it close, a tactic you quickly learned. you sneak to the front door quietly, tell him that you’re out and boom. door locked. sometimes you can hear him whine and paw at the knob and it breaks your heart but your boss will chop your head off if you arrive late one more time this month. you try to make your goodbye as painless as possible for him, like removing a bandaid with a single quick pull so he doesn’t have the time to process the sting.

the clock hits 11:00, it’s been an hour since you left. caleb is miserably sprawled on the couch, he tries to focus his eyes on the show playing on the tv but his purple orbs stare at the clock more times than he can count.

it’s 18:00 by the time he gets frustrated and decides he’ll take a nap in your bed. everything on the tv is too boring if you’re not there to watch it with him, he doesn’t want to eat if you’re not there to treat him with dessert- oh, he misses you dearly.

opening the door of your room, he sighs like a wife that has been waiting six months for her husband, who left to save their country, to answer her last letter, whining dramatically at the hopeful thought you’d magically come home earlier. the mattress sinks down with his weight, curling under your weighted blanket like a puppy.

and that’s when he sees it.

his new little friend, with a light orange bow tied around its neck, sitting beside his head on the pillows. you’ve definitely sprayed your perfume on it this morning, the scent is still too fresh, he notes. 

he yanks it closer quickly, big hand and fingers gripping the fabric with force as he buries it in his face. comfort immediately runs through his veins, filling his bored brain with a sense of calmness. his fluffy ears twitch, glueing to the sides of his head pitifully and there’s a barely visible tail wagging slowly under the thick blanket.

caleb takes a whiff, a second one, a third one, and his eyes start to water. this is inhumane! he cherishes your gift dearly but now the scent just makes him miss you even more. rubbing his face closer to the plushie’s tummy, his canine teeth sink on the fabric as gently as he can, trying not to damage the toy you gifted him with so much love.

his little puppy heart shatters. if you were by his side right now, you’d pet his ears, pinch his cheek just enough to make his canines visible and giggle at him and it’d make him feel better! 

his hips buckle against the mattress as he squirms around the bed sadly and a shiver runs up his spine, making the fur on his tail stand up. caleb has been so pent up since he pressed you to the floor and had his way around you, his cock is always sensitive, the scratches you give behind his ear make his lower stomach tighten with arousal and his pupils are always blown.

gross stuff is a nono in your bed but his hands paw at his hardening cock through his boxers anyway. It’s not in his hand he wants to come and the feeling of not having what he wants makes his chest heavy with frustration. With a hiss, his hand leaves his cock, like any touch burns and hurts him more than it helps. 

‘caleb- no. i need you to calm down before i give you the spoon. breathe.’ is what you tell him after lunch, when he gets to have some peanut butter. the situation is different, he feels like a bomb, ticking closer and closer to exploding but he obeys your voice in his head anyway, breathing nervously against the now covered in saliva bunny.

a long breath makes his eyes roll to the back of his skull as his hypersensitive nose catches a glimpse of the intoxicating sweet smell of your cologne. 

and what happens next is not processed by his pathetic brain. the poor plushie is dragged down the blanket and pressed right to his crotch, its fur sticky with precum that seeped through his boxers. this is what you wanted when you gifted him this thing, huh? a ragdoll for him to fuck when you’re away? well it’s not enough!

his hips rut against the bead filled body with messy thrusts and more whines escape his lips. He can’t come. Not in this, not in his hand, his knot will take too long to go down and he’ll be sensitive, too sensitive. it has to be you. he wants you.

caleb is not there to see the clock tick 18:40, his ears don't help him this time, his nose is buried in your pillow too deeply to catch your slightly sweaty scent in the air and tell that you’re home. 

from the front door, you arch a brow as you kick your shoes off and place them on the shoe hack. the apartment is quiet, too quiet. caleb is like a child, you’ve noticed, if everything is too silent, something is wrong. 

“caleb? where are you, boy? have you eaten anything yet?” you call out, no one answers.

the door of your bedroom is ajar. is he sleeping? cute. you walk carefully to its direction, tiptoeing in hope to not wake him up. and once you peek inside, your smile falters.

“caleb! gross!”

the shriek makes him snap out of his drunk, dumbed down mind and his eyes almost pop out of his skull. his ears, once hidden on both sides of his head, stand on top of it, tense. “you-” he cries and sits up.

you don’t give time to finish his sentence, a frown blooming in your face as you cross your arms close to your chest by the door. 

“seriously caleb?! in my bed? i just changed the sheets this morning, for fuck’s sake-” and listen, he wants to apologize, feel guilty and pout but he can’t. he can hear your breath hitching, he loves when you come home with sweat clinging to your skin, fuck, you smell so good. he wants a taste. this time, he’ll get it.

this time, he begs. he crawls to the edge of your bed, tail wagging behind him mindlessly and the words that leave his mouth are pathetic.

“please- r’lly need your help! feels so hot- please i- i really need you! been waiting for so long, ah, please- i’m a good boy, kept my teeth to myself, promise. oh fuck.” your ears can barely catch up to everything he’s saying, his words are dragged, desperate, needy.

you really want to keep up with the ‘i’m mad at you’ act but you break. his whines go right to your core, arousal pooling on your underwear disgustingly fast. pinching your nose, you sigh, walking to his direction and sitting on the bed.

with the space between you two getting smaller, his tail wags faster, his pupils blown wide, shaky. your hand makes contact with his sweaty cheek and he is quick to lean in, shutting his eyes close and basking into your touch. “what’s wrong, pupp-” — “hot.” you can hear the distress in his voice. “it’s okay, i’m here now, aren’t i?” at the reassurance, you receive a lick in your hand as acknowledgement.

scooting closer, you cradle his face with both hands. there’s a bit of sweat clinging to his bangs , making them stick to his forehead, a bit of saliva is smeared on his lips and his brows are furrowed. “oh, my poor pup.” you coo in pity before pressing a kiss to his wet lips. he whines, kissing— well, licking your lips stupid—, you groan at the mess but doesn’t fight against it, you’ve been mean enough already.

while his clammy hands grip your shirt for a sense of grounding, yours scratch his chest in affection, tracing down to the happy trail that trailed up to his bellybutton. you’d love to take your time with him, let your mind settle, but knowing caleb, he’ll grow frustrated and bark weakly as a way to protest. so, in order to keep him quiet, your wandering hand pulls down his wet underwear, his cock standing proud against his stomach.

your eyes almost pop out their sockets once you peek down. he is big, much bigger than whatever the average is. his tip is an angry shade of red, beads of precum leaking down the shaft. the cool air makes it twitch. 

slowly, awkwardly, your hand wraps itself around it, working up and down. that makes him snap, breaking the kiss and throwing his head back with a loud whine. “‘s that good, pup?” he doesn’t answer, how could he? not when your thumb presses on his tip in a way it makes his thighs shake and his ears twitch with pleasure and he’s trying so hard not to come. 

your other hand leaves his face, going south to cup his balls gently. his jaw tightens. gross. you think with a smile but leans in anyway, kissing his adam’s apple as it bobs with his nervous gulps.

the stimulation is too much for him, making his brain go fuzzy. your lips now working on his shoulder blade, your hand gripping his length tightly, your other hand massaging his balls- “stop! argh- please, ‘m gonna cum! can’t cum. needa be inside you, please.” caleb squeals, both hands holding down your arms with force as his hips buckle in your hands.

so you do, you let go, just staring at him with big eyes as his chest goes up and down quickly and his face flushes with heat. once he settles from his high, caleb’s hands grip the hem of your shirt, taking it off quickly and messing your hair. “ow! caleb-” — “no.”

caleb has always been stronger than you, you lose against him when roughhousing, you give up on trying to save your clothes from his teeth because once something is in his grasp, you’re not getting it back. in a second, you’re under him, face shoved into one of your pillows while your ass, covered in the pretty, black skirt you left to work with is up in the air.

he doesn’t take the skirt off, too irritated to care about something so trivial. he takes a second to sniff your crotch, covered by a cute pair of wet lilac panties, before yanking the fabric down to your bent knees. you squeal against your pillow at the roughness and the quick, hot sniffs on your lips.

last week caleb discovered he loves the way you taste, he’d love to eat you out the whole night, starting now, but he just can’t take this long right now. his warm tongue laps at your arousal, lips wrapping themselves in your folds and sucking gently.

“c-caleb! fuck! good- good boy, keep going, baby.” muffled whines escape your lips and at the praise, caleb’s tail wags faster, tongue working around your clit, teasing it. he sees the way your knees fight to keep your ass up and not buckle weakly, that’s his sign to keep going. 

his free hands grip your ass, spreading it for more easy access. he trails kisses from your clit and up to your slit, continuing going up till he gets to your asshole, placing an open mouthed kiss to the hole. it twitches, your body shivering at the unexpected contact. you hit the pillow you’re currently biting in protest. “gross, caleb!”

it doesn’t take long for your moans to grow louder and your thighs, dripping with sweat, shake violently as he sucks on your clit harshly. “fu-ck! yes! good boy, caleb- mghhh- jus’ like, ah, that!” you moan, creaming on his mouth tiredly.

you curse his stamina, because once you think you’ll finally be able to catch your breath and rest, caleb’s already rutting against your wet folds and slapping his dick on your sensitive bundle of nerves. energetic mutt, you curse. he is not giving you a break.

“caleb.” you warn, trying to make your voice as steady as possible. “gimme a break and then we can conti- aaH! oh my god- fucking mutt!” you scream, cursing him for the pain between your legs as he buries himself inside you in a single thrust. his tip kissing your cervix and walls tightening around his length painfully. 

“s-sorry! o-oh fuck. fuck, y’er so tight- mgh-” 

and ohhhh fuck, he waited so long for this. you look so pretty from this angle, hair tangled and messy, face buried in a pillow, back and thighs sweaty while your knees can barely hold up your weight. he gulps down, trying not to piston his hips inside you just yet. 

he doesn’t give you much time to get comfortable before snapping his hips against your ass, the sound of skin against skin disgustingly lewd. his torso bends down to bury his face in your nape, breathing deeply in your hair once he does. “mine. oh- ahh- yes, mineminemine!” caleb whimpers, his eyes rolling back as you clench down around him, making his thrusts messier. 

as a response to pleasure, his fluffy ears twitch and drop to the back of his head once again. his tail doesn’t stop wagging ever, swishing behind him happily. the warmth in his stomach grows at the sound of your moans and screams, your curses only making him hornier.

you’re a meanie, you don’t let him chew on your shirts and get a whiff of your bras, you nag at him and hide the small container with blueberries that’s usually in the fridge when he does something wrong. and usually, he’d whine, eyes getting watery at the thought of you being mad at him, but now? he doesn’t even care! you look so pretty, you feel so good. his ears barely get a glimpse of you cursing all his next generations.

a shiver runs down your spine once he licks the back of your neck, sniffing it contently as his cock abuses your insides. you hate him, you fucking hate this mutt, he is disgusting and he does not obey and his cock drags along your walls so fucking nicely. his mushroom tip pokes your cervix roughly, making you stupidly drool in your sheets while your things dig on the bedding. 

“y’smell so good- y’er so tight- feel so- ngh- good! mine, right? don’t like other men around you! noooongh”  – “w-wait! caleb! aah!” something in his mind upsetted him because the way he thrusts into your cunt is inhumane, caleb’s bigger frame presses you down on the mattress, the hair of his happy trail tickling your lower back as his skin slaps on yours. 

you’re a mess, pussy drooling pathetically and stretched to her limit around him, juices spilling down your thighs and the mattress everytime he fucks his cock inside you. and when you’re sure you’re getting used to him, of fucking course caleb has to start talking again. “need to mark you, everyone need’ta know y’er mine, just mine. that’s my cock you’re clenching around. needa bite you, yeah.” 

and he keeps up with his words, his loving, ticklish licks to the back of your neck turning into a sharp pain. you scream, squirming under him and one of your hands tries to slap whatever bit of his skin you can reach but it’s worthless. once caleb sets his mind into something, you’re definitely not the one that’s able to stop him with physical force. with a hand tightly around your waist and the other keeping your neck in place, his canine teeth sink down on your nape, biting down just enough to make the skin irritated and leave a scar for a few weeks.

and when you feel like you’re getting closer, his hips stop, his cock slips out of you and a strangled whine leaves your wet lips as he manhandles you, flipping you on your back. “you!-” annoying! you’re so annoying! bad dog!, you want to shout. “s-sorry. need to see your face.” he hisses as his eyes wander down at your breasts. “you’re so pretty, ahhh, so pretty. have i ever told you that?- fuck, mine and so pretty- oh-” 

he doesn’t waste any time, his hands help your legs up his shoulders and he slips inside you again. his sunset colored eyes stare at his cock going in and out, in and out, in and out of you and he finally notices the creamy ring around the base of his length and smeared on your lips. it’s pinkish, he notes, probably from being too rough and not stretching you properly. he’ll say sorry later.

“you’re so-” he pants tiredly, “so pretty.” a sweaty hand gropes the fat of your tit, squeezing it under his large palm. “want t’a breed you- need to- fuck! need to get your tits swollen with milk-” caleb leans in once again, this time bending your body like a stick, pressing your legs closer to your chest in the process. his nose takes a whiff of the valley of your boobs before wrapping his lips around your free boob, playing with the other one with his hand. 

your voice fails you once again. it’s not like you have the strength to judge him harshly again anyway. his tongue swipes at your hard nipple, sucking it like he has a point to prove. “and you would mghhh! would look so pretty and round and ah! everyone would know y’er mine, oh god-” 

with a last kiss, as if sealing a promise, he lets go of your nipple with mercy and stands up again, kissing your knee as an apology for bending you like your bones are made of jello. and then it hits him. “o-oh! s’rry forgot you like this.” the hand squeezing your tit snakes down between you two, adding some much needed stimulation to your clit.

you jump, legs thrashing against his shoulders and back at the pleasure. you clench around him once more and this time, it’s his turn to squeal in pleasure. “o-oh fuck. ‘m cumming, g’nna breed you, yeah? fill you up, mhm? yeah? fuck! cummin’!” caleb whines before throwing his head back, his sweaty hair barely moving an inch away from his forehead while doing so, and his once steady thrusts turn languid, messy. 

his cock twitches around you, spilling white, watery ropes in your pussy. bicolor orbs roll to the back of his skull as he feels his knot grow swollen at the base of his cock. even after coming, he keeps pistoning his hips in you, tiredly, but it’s the thought that counts.

at the weird, swollen and hot thing trying to fuck its way inside you, you mewl, eyes going wild open as caleb tries stretching you just a little more. 

“caleb-? what the aha! fuck?” — “sorry!” he cries but keeps going anyway, his fingers working faster around your clit to make up for the pain. “jus’ a little more? ple- ase? it feels good, doesn’t it?” back to being stupid and pathetic apparently, because the way he stares at you with puppy dog eyes and begs is disgusting. 

his other hand leaves your thigh to press down on your tummy and it becomes too much. your walls convulse around him and you cry, clit throbbing under his touch pathetically. the hand putting pressure on your bladder makes your eyes roll, your hands grip the sheets to the point of turning white.

“caleb! ah! oh my god- fuck- aha, cumming, i’m gonna cum! pl-please keep going!” 

and you don’t have to ask him twice. he thrusts his cock in you a last time, his knot slipping in easier than he thought it would, thanks to your drooling cunt and his cum and that does it for you. your body goes static, hips bucking against his and back arching against the bed. his fingers don’t stop, rubbing your clit until you’re shaking uncontrollably and your juices spray on his thighs and lower stomach.

“oh-”  — “don- not a word!” you manage to cry out.

“so… how long till it goes down?” you murmur tiredly against his shoulder, arms wrapped around his big frame as he lies on top of you. your legs feel sore, aching from being spread for so long, thanks to his cock still buried in you.

“an hour and a half, probably” caleb shrugs. 

your eyes snap open. “an hour?!” — “and a half.” he barks with a chuckle.

“i hate you! you’re heavy, y’know?! argh, bad dog!” he only manages to laugh at your rage and lick your cheek, covering it in saliva.

⊹ ࣪reblogs are very much appreciated. thank you for reading!(*´▽`*)

[bethanydelleman]

I'm really tired of the "woman sad about her arranged marriage" trope, especially if that woman is royalty.

I am sure that many women across time were sad about their arranged marriages, but I'm sure a lot of others were excited, ambivalent, or resigned. Again, especially if you were royalty! I am sure if you were born a princess, you were trained from birth that your whole purpose in life was to marry someone important to solidify the power of the person on the throne. And honestly, it's an important job, if it wasn't, they wouldn't have tried so hard to do it.

That woman isn't just marrying another king or prince, she's going to be an ambassador of her country. She's supposed to be there promoting good relations. She isn't just a woman being sold off, she has a job! Also, if she is marrying the reigning monarch (or the heir), she may well end up running the country if the king is off at war or he dies when the heir is really young. That happened a lot throughout history! (or maybe she marries the third son and helps him find his way to the throne. Good for her)

It just feels like a modern sentiment being projected back. In Romeo and Juliet, when Juliet's mother first brings up marrying her to Paris, Juliet's basically cool with it and says she'll try to like him. She would have known this was going to happen because that is what rich women do, they marry into another family so their two families can be buddies. What else would she even be expecting?

It wouldn't bother me so much except that it's all we see! Give me a story about a woman who is like, "Cool, I shall give it my all!" Or she's like rolling up her sleeves and planning how she's going to get the court on her side and rule France, power behind the throne style (these women are mostly portrayed as villains, but who is to say the king would do a better job?). And also, have a little faith in women's fathers? You think men in the past didn't occasionally consider the happiness of their daughters? Not even a little bit?

[batboyblog]

Copy Right and Public Domain in 2025!

It's January 1st 2025 which means it's my favorite unsung holiday! Public Domain Day! This is the day once a year when, in the US, copyrights expire and things enter the public domain, meaning they belong to everyone! even you, Steve!

American copyright for books, movies, art work, and musical compositions (but not recordings, more on that later) runs for 95 years (way too long!) so today works published in 1929 join us in the public domain.

So whats free? so glad you asked.

Popeye the Sailor Man

Many people assume Popeye originated as a cartoon character but thats not true, he comes from a comic strip. The strip was called Thimble Theatre and Popeye was something of a late addition. Thimble Theatre was first published in 1919, so Popeye's girlfriend Olive Oyl has been in the public domain since before the big 20 year copyright freeze of 1998-2019. Popeye first appeared as a minor character 10 years into the strip's run but was so popular he soon took over and the strip would be renamed Popeye less than 5 years later. Now as always whats public is only what appears in 1929, later developments, remain copyrighted. Such as, while Popeye always had super strength its not till 1932 his superpowers were tied to eating spinach, and Olive Oyl originally had a different boyfriend named Ham Gravy, who she dumped for Popeye when he became the main character. It looks like Popeye is following tradition for famous now public domain characters and getting a quicky horror movie this year.

Tintin!

This is personally very exciting as someone who grew up with the Belgian boy detective. Like Popeye I expect a lot of people don't know that Tintin started off as a weekly comic strip. Indeed Tintin appeared as a part of a weekly youth supplement in the Catholic newspaper The Twentieth Century. Any ways, Tintin was first published in there in January 1929, and soon would start what would become the first Tintin story, Tintin in the Land of the Soviets. Now only part of Tintin in the Land of the Soviets was published in 1929, the story line wrapped up in May 1930, so only those 1929 stories and what appears in them is free and clear and Tintin was published in black and white not color. Tintin's author Hergé had no idea what he was doing and was really learning on the job so In The Land of the Soviets is generally seen as his weakest outing and the only one he never opted to redraw in later years. Even so it's nice to see the character free in the world. No word on if Tintin will star in a horror movie.

Buck Rogers (but not really)

The original futuristic space man was published, again a comic strip, in 1929 which means he should enter the public domain today, but he won't. That's because he already is public domain! Before the Copyright Act of 1976 copyright was 28 years with the option to renew for another 28 years. The copyright on the original comic strips was not renewed so ran out at the end of 28 years, 1958. So Buck Rogers has been free and clear for close to 70 years now, whatever you hear about him today.

What else?

Famously last year Mickey Mouse entered the public domain, but all the entered public domain was one (maybe two) animated short, Steamboat Willie. Well this year a dozen Mickey Mouse animated shorts enter the public domain, including the first time Mickey has his iconic white gloves, and the first time Mickey speaks (the first thing Mickey Mouse ever says, voiced by Walt Disney himself, is "Hot dogs! Hot dogs!" in case you were wondering) This will give creators much more to work with if they want to use Mickey in their works which is exciting.

Speaking of Walt Disney, The Skeleton Dance is entering public domain, you likely don't know the title but I suspect you've seen at least part of it at some point

so look for this showing up on TVs in the backgrounds of films and TV shows in the next year or so

Books

The iconic novels of World War I, Ernest Hemingway's A Farewell to Arms and Erich Maria Remarque's All Quiet on the Western Front enter public domain. In fact All Quiet on the Western Front entered public domain last year, but only in the original German, the 1929 translation by Arthur Wesley Wheen is whats entered the public domain now. John Steinbeck's first novel, Cup of Gold, William Faulkner's The Sound and the Fury, Virginia Woolf's A Room of One's Own, and Agatha Christie's Seven Dials Mystery (always get an Agatha Christie novel on this list for the rest of our lives). Dashiell Hammett published both Red Harvest and The Maltese Falcon, later made into one of the greatest films of all time, in 1929. Future children's book author E. B. White (who's go on to write Charlotte's Web and Stuart Little) and future New Yorker cartoonist and humorist James Thurber teamed up to write the delightfully titled Is Sex Necessary? Or, Why You Feel the Way You Do a book of spoof essays making fun of popular books on Freudian sexual theories at the time. The Roman Hat Mystery the first of the long running Ellery Queen mysteries was published, Queen would keep publishing mysteries into the 1970s (and Ellery Queen was a pen name for two people). Richard Hughes' A High Wind in Jamaica and Oliver La Farge's Laughing Boy also came out in 1929 and are in the public domain now. There's much else but those are the highlights sorry if I missed your favorite 1929 novel.

Movies

Alfred Hitchcock and Cecil B. DeMille's first movies with sound, Blackmail and Dynamite respectively, came out in 1929. Marx Brothers' first feature film The Cocoanuts joins the public domain. Other comedy land marks are Harold Lloyd's first sound film, Welcome Danger and Buster Keaton's last silent film, Spite Marriage (which Keaton also directed). John Ford's first sound film, The Black Watch, which also is 21 year old John Wayne's first appearance in a film, as an uncredited extra, he worked in the art department. Hallelujah the first studio film to have an all black cast came out that year. Also worth noting is The Hollywood Revue of 1929 a singing and dancing review, one of the earliest and the movie that popularized the song Singin’ in the Rain, maybe the first time a movie made a song a hit.

Musical compositions

musical compositions, ie the lyrics and musical notations you might see on sheet music are governed by the 1976 Copyright Act, and music written in 1929 is public domain. Music recordings are governed by a whole different law (we'll get there). Songs written in 1929 include Singin’ in the Rain by Arthur Freed & Nacio Herb Brown, Ain’t Misbehavin’ and Black and Blue by the legendary Fats Waller, What Is This Thing Called Love? by Cole Porter, Tiptoe Through the Tulips by Alfred Dubin, You Were Meant for Me by Arthur Freed & Nacio Herb Brown, and also Happy Days Are Here Again by Jack Yellen which would become FDR's campaign theme song in 1932.

Art!

a number of pieces by Salvador Dalí including:

Illumined Pleasures

The Accommodations of Desire

The Great Masturbator

are entering the public domain as is René Magritte’s The Treachery of Images.

Art is hard because while movies and books are clearly "published" and put on sale, what counts as "published" for a piece of art? the law is not totally sure.

Musical Recordings

as I promised, we got here. Till 2017 there were no federal laws governing the copyright of music recordings before the 1970s, it was governed by a confusing patchwork of state laws and it was not totally clear what was or was not free and clear even from the very earliest recordings ever. Now the term of a music recording's copyright is set at 100 years (way too long) so music recorded in 1924 is now public domain such as. Nobody Knows the Trouble I’ve Seen by Marian Anderson, Everybody Loves My Baby (But My Baby Don’t Love Nobody But Me) by Louis Armstrong, California Here I Come by Al Jolson, Rhapsody in Blue by George Gershwin, Shreveport Stomp by Jelly Roll Morton, Mama’s Gone, Good Bye by Ray Miller, and It Had To Be You by Marion Harris. Now many recordings a lot less famous can finally be preserved and digitized to save them for the next 100 years. Many abandoned works are literally rotting away since without the copyright holder's permission digitizing a work isn't legal.

[anghimalaaynasapuso]

HORNY PRIEST JOHN PRICE

breeding kink, sacrilege (?)

john joined the church after leaving the military, though he never spoke much about what led him there. some men left war and found peace in quiet towns, in family, in distance. john, meanwhile, found himself in the shadow of the cross, searching for something he couldn't name.

he knelt, prayed, studied scripture— not because he'd had a sudden divine vision, but because he’d needed something to tether himself to.

he's never been one to talk about faith in absolutes. the young priests, fresh out of seminary, speak with a certainty that makes him envious. they talk of god’s mercy like it’s a thing they’ve held in their hands, like they’ve never doubted it for a second.

john doesn’t have that luxury. his hands have held a rifle, pressed down on wounds, ended lives.

what right does he have to stand in the confessional and tell a man his sins are forgiven when his own are still heavy in his chest?

he doesn’t let it show. not when he stands before his congregation, not when he delivers the homily, and not even when he listens to the confessions of those who kneel before him.

the words come easy. “god is love. god is mercy.” he says them with the confidence of a man who believes them. perhaps if he says them enough, one day it'll drive home.

he's decently well-respected in his parish. john speaks in measured tones, and listens with the kind of patience that makes people trust him. he’s rarely if ever unkind, never raising his voice even when the children at sunday school test his patience or when the older priests debate doctrine with a stubbornness he doesn’t bother entertaining.

the congregation admires him for it.

he keeps a well-worn rosary in his pocket, fingers brushing over the beads when he’s deep in thought. it’s an old habit, one he never lost even when he stopped saying the prayers as often as he should. late at night, when he can’t sleep, he walks the empty church, the only light coming from the red glow of the tabernacle lamp.

he runs his fingers over the smooth wood of the pews, listens to the creak of the floorboards beneath his boots, and exhales smoke into the dim air. it feels like a kind of penance, staying here long after everyone else has gone, keeping watch over something he’s still not sure he belongs to.

the first time you meet, it’s in the courtyard after sunday mass.

you’re new to the church. new to the neighborhood. moved in just a month ago, so he’s heard. he hadn't taken much notice at first— he rarely does. parishioners come and go, faces blending into one another over time.

but then he sees you. all wide eyes and bright smiles, the late-morning sun catching the warmth in your hair, laugh spilling out like a song. you shake hands with mrs. calloway, nod attentively as she chatters on about her garden, and there’s something about the way you tilt your head, the way your lips part in quiet amusement, that makes something ugly and raw twist in his gut.

john shouldn’t be looking. he knows he shouldn’t be looking.

and yet.

you catch sight of him, and your smile brightens, something open and eager in your face as you step forward. “father price.”

your voice is softer than he expects. sweeter. a fact not good for his health.

he nods. “you’ve settled in well, i see.”

“i have. everyone’s been so kind.” your hands clasp in front of you, fingers tangling. “i wanted to introduce myself properly. i should have done it sooner, but-” you shake your head, sheepish. “i guess i was nervous.”

nervous? of who— him?

he watches the way you glance down, the way your teeth catch the plump of your lower lip, the slight shift of your weight from foot to foot, and something slow and molten pools in his stomach.

and then, unbidden—

i want to fuck her mouth.

the thought slams into him. his fingers curl, blunt nails pressing into his palm. john's throat tightens, heat crawling up the back of his neck, shame dragging its claws down his spine.

he schools his expression, keeps his voice level. “there’s nothing to be nervous about.” a beat. his gaze lingers on your lips a second too long. “i hope you find what you’re looking for here.”

your eyes meets his then. for a moment, he swears you see it. the crack in his composure, the way his restraint stretches thin around you like fraying rope.

but then you just smile again— so fucking gentle— and bid him a polite goodbye before slipping back into the crowd.

he exhales, tries to control his breathing, before turning on his heel and heading inside.

it doesn’t get better after that.

oh no. in fact, it only gets worse.

because you linger. you stay. you join the congregation, sit near the front every sunday, your hands folded neatly in your lap, your lips parted slightly in quiet reverence as you listen to the sermon. you bite your lip when you concentrate, tuck your hair behind your ear absentmindedly, shift in your seat just enough to make his mind wander places it has absolutely no right to go.

and it haunts him.

creeps into his thoughts when he thinks he's already run far away from it. slips into his head when he least expects it. a slow, insidious thing, winding around his ribs, sinking its teeth into the softest parts of him.

john finds himself getting lost in his imaginations more and more as the weeks pass by. it starts with something simple. something small.

you, in his kitchen.

the space is yours as much as it is his now— he hardly steps foot in it unless you usher him in, your hands on his arms, guiding him to sit, to rest. the scent of warm bread and roasted meat fills the house, seeping into the wooden beams, the stone walls. the windows are cracked open just enough to let the breeze in, carrying with it the scent of the fields, the distant bells of the church.

you hum as you work, a quiet little tune under your breath, flour dusting your fingers, smudging along the curve of your cheek. you’re barefoot, the hem of your dress skimming your ankles, your apron tied neatly at the back. domestic. wifely. His.

"you’re spoiling me, love."

you laugh, glancing over your shoulder at him where he sits at the table, his elbows braced against the wood, his chin resting on his hand. john hasn’t even touched the sermon notes laid out before him, hasn’t even opened the book he’d planned to read. no, his attention has been on you— watching you move, watching the light catch on your hair, watching the way you fit so perfectly in his home.

"you work too hard," you murmur, turning back to the stove. "someone has to take care of you."

the words sink into him, low and warm, wrapping around something deep in his chest.

you do take care of him.

you set a plate before him, still warm from your hands, and press a kiss to the top of his head, your lips soft against his hair.

you fold his robes neatly after they’ve dried in the sun, pressing your hands over the fabric like a prayer. you pluck a stray thread from his collar before mass, your fingers deft and careful, your brow furrowing in quiet concentration.

you brush his hair back from his forehead when he sits too long at his desk, rubbing slow circles at his temple, your fingers easing away the weight of his work.

and in the evenings, after the dishes have been washed and the fire burns low, you climb into his lap with a soft sigh, tucking yourself against his chest.

"long day?" you ask, your fingers smoothing over the front of his shirt.

"mm." john presses a kiss to your hair, lets his hands settle at your waist, palms warm through the thin fabric of your nightdress. "better now."

and it is better, with you here, with your warmth seeping into his, your breath brushing his throat.

he wants all of it. the soft, easy domesticity. the routine of waking to you curled beside him, of pressing sleepy kisses to your bare shoulder before dragging himself out of bed. of watching you move through his home with the comfort of a woman who belongs there.

and, god help him—

john wants to fuck you too.

until you leaked him, until his seed dripped down your thighs, making a mess of soft, perfect skin. wants to bend you over his desk, press your face into the worn wood, break you open on his cock until you sobbed for him, begged him to fill you. he’d grip your hips hard enough to leave bruises.

he wants to whisper filth into your ear, his breath hot— gonna fill you up, love. gonna fuck you so full of me you’ll be dripping for days. you want that, don’t you? want me to breed you like the needy little thing you are?

he wants to press his fingers into your mouth, make you suck them clean before shoving them between your legs, fucking them into the soft clutch of your pussy until you cried for him.

and when he finally sinks his swollen cock inside you— he’d make you feel it.

john wants to fuck you raw, grind his hips against yours, keep you pinned beneath his weight, stuffed full of his cock. he’d press a hand to your belly, feel himself inside you, make you watch as you take a cock too big for you.

and when he’d spill inside you he wouldn't stop. oh no— he’d fuck it deeper, press his fingers to your swollen clit, make you come with him, make your body take every last drop of his seed.

because he wouldn't just fill you. he’d breed you. over and over, until you couldn't keep yourself up, too boneless to thrust back into him, too full to take any more.

but he was a man of god.

and men of god did not shove their sweet, willing parishioners over their desks, did not drag their teeth down soft skin, did not slap needy little cunts until they were wet and dripping.

they did not fuck desperate little things in church pews, in quiet confessionals, did not fist their hands in soft hair and shove pretty mouths onto their cocks, did not whisper filth between gasped-out prayers.

they did not spend their nights with their heads buried between trembling thighs, devouring the taste of sin, holding squirming bodies still as they licked deep, sucked hard, forced sweet, innocent things to come against their tongues.

they did not rut into them like beasts, gripping soft wrists, pinning them down, owning them with every brutal thrust. they did not press their hands to swollen bellies, fill their women over and over until their bodies were wrecked, too full of come to take another drop.

men of god did not fuck.

but god forgive him, he would.

all those thoughts come to this moment, this night—

john finds himself alone under the dim glow of candlelight, sitting on the pews, head tilted to the cross.

his breathing is uneven, ragged in the dim hush of the empty church. each inhale scrapes against his ribs, sharp and burning, like penance for the filth curdling in his mind. his hands tremble as they move beneath his robes, fingers fumbling at the buckle of his belt. the metal clinks, far too loud in the sacred silence, but he doesn’t stop.

can’t.

his breathing is uneven, ragged in the dim hush of the empty church. each inhale feels like it scrapes against his ribs, sharp and burning, as though the very air is punishing him for the thoughts festering in his mind. his hands tremble as they move beneath his robes, fingers fumbling at the buckle of his belt. the metal clinks softly in the quiet, a sound far too loud in the sanctity of this space.

the leather gives way, and his cassock feels suffocating now, the fabric too heavy against skin flushed with heat. his fingers slip lower, dragging the waistband of his pants down his hips with shaky, desperate movements until he’s free— finally free— from the painful confines of his underwear.

his cock springs forward, already hard in his hand, flushed dark at the tip, the skin tight and aching. a bead of precum glistens there, catching in the flicker of candlelight like something obscene in the house of god. he wraps his hand around the base, his grip firm but not enough to ease the pressure coiled in his gut. the heat of his palm sends a shudder rolling down his spine, breath hitching as his thumb swipes over the sensitive head, smearing the slick wetness down the length.

his cock is long, veins pulsing along the shaft, the kind of thick that demands attention. his foreskin still covers the swollen head, slick with the evidence of his own arousal, precum smearing against the soft skin of his lower stomach. he hisses through his teeth as he wraps his hand around the base, fingers barely closing around the girth, feeling the steady throb of blood pulsing beneath his grip.

his balls hang full and tight, pulled close with need, the skin sensitive to the faintest brush of fabric. every movement is torment, the soft rub of his cassock against his bare thighs sending a shudder through him, making his hips jerk forward, seeking relief.

he strokes himself slowly, dragging his foreskin back to expose the flushed, leaking head, then rolling it forward again, savoring the sensitivity. his thumb swipes through the slick wetness pooling at the tip, smearing it down the length, adding just enough glide to make his fist slip easier over his cock.

his grip tightens, dragging the pleasure out like a prayer he’s too ashamed to speak aloud. the church is silent around him, the air thick with the scent of burning wax and old stone, but all he can think about is you.

on your knees before him.

john sees it so clearly, feels it like it’s already happened. the way you’d sink down, your eyes looking up at him through thick lashes, expectant. your soft lips parted just enough for your tongue to wet them before stretching around his cock. the thought makes his stomach clench, his fingers twitching as he strokes himself tighter, his foreskin gliding over the swollen head before he pulls it back again.

you wouldn’t be able to take all of him at once. he knows that much. He’s too thick, too long— your jaw would ache just trying, your tongue pressing firm against the heavy weight of him, struggling to make space. the first inch would be easy, maybe even the second. but when he pushes deeper, when his tip nudges the back of your throat and you gag, just a little, he knows he’d lose whatever control he has left.

he swears he can see it— your fingers curling against his thighs, the little choked noise you’d make when he holds you there, when his cock throbs against your tongue. your throat would flutter, swallowing around him, trying to adjust to the stretch. and oh, god, the way your lips would look wrapped around him, swollen with abuse and slick with spit and precum. john nearly loses himself at the image alone.

his hips jerk forward into his own grip, chasing the fantasy, breath coming through the vaulted ceilings of the church. he’d guide you through it, hand buried in your hair, tilting your head just the way he likes. gentle, at first. Letting you set the pace. But then when you get too comfortable, when you start to tease, pulling back just to trail soft kisses along his length— he’d snap.

he’d pull you down, bury himself deep in the hot sleeve of your mouth until your throat clenched around him and you whimpered against his balls. his other hand would cup your jaw, feeling the bulge of himself pressing against your cheek, watching as tears bead at the corners of your eyes, shuddering from the effort of taking him.

he wonders if you’d try to pull away, fingers gripping his thighs in a silent plea. would you struggle? would you whine? would you let him break you like this?

john groans, his grip tightening almost painfully. he pumps himself faster now, the obscene slap of skin against skin filling the empty church. his balls are drawn tight, aching with the need to spill, and in his mind, he’s not coming into his own palm.

he’s coming down your throat.

you’d swallow, wouldn’t you? just for him. he can see it— his cum thick on your tongue, your lips parting to show him before you close your mouth and swallow it down. maybe a little would escape, dripping down your chin, and he’d swipe his thumb through it, pressing it back to your lips.

“messy thing,” he’d murmur. “but you took it so well.”

the thought sends him over the edge.

his hips stutter, cock jerking in his grip as his orgasm crashes over him, hot and sudden. cum spills over his knuckles, , dripping onto the cold stone beneath him. his breath comes in harsh, broken gasps, his thighs trembling as he rides out the aftershocks, his vision hazy with the force of his release.

and when it’s over— when he finally stills, his body spent, his mind heavy with guilt— he drags his gaze upward.

The cross looms above him, watching.

if this is damnation, he’ll sin again.

[notjustjavierpena]

Sundays

Main Masterpost | Support a disabled creator

A/N: Season 2 of The Last of Us ruined my life, so here is my attempt at fixing my eternal wounds. Lord knows that everyone deserves better. I spent four weeks trying to perfect this. It might be the best thing I’ve ever done. Please be kind and patient with me ❤️

Summary: Joel’s Sundays are for early morning patrol and making babies with you.

Pairing: Joel Miller x f!reader/you (no y/n)

Tags: Domestic fluff, soft but haunted Joel, banter, teasing, Star Wars reference, kissing, praise kink, dirty talk, pussy eating, fingering, breeding kink, one use of daddy, emotional and filthy sex, creampie, aftercare, cuddling 

Word count: 5.7k

Link to this work on AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/65911807

Sundays

On Sundays, Joel does the morning patrols while the rest of the town sleeps. When someone asks why he has volunteered to do them, he lies and grumbles something about nobody else wanting to get out of bed during the weekend so he has to. Yet he always wakes up at the crack of dawn without complaint, showers in the miracle of hot water, fixes himself a cup of coffee, and reads his book - they have recently emptied a library on an extensive supply run and they found The Shining on dry shelves - with his glasses perched on his nose. He likes it; the quiet time for himself while feeling your presence in the house as you sleep under warm blankets upstairs. His morning routine always ends with taking off his glasses to put them on their designated spot on his nightstand and kissing your beautiful hair, watching your body curl up contentedly underneath the covers or if he is really lucky, you turning onto your back and sleepily muttering a demand for a proper kiss. 

He goes back down, ties his well-worn leather boots on a dining chair, holsters his handgun, throws his rifle over his shoulder, and then leaves with a quiet click of the door. 

The Spring air bites slightly in the morning but he doesn’t mind, appreciates the way it wakes him up a bit more and sharpens his focus. He misses you the second he steps out the door, thinks about your warm and soft skin while he checks the front of Ellie’s house, and then walks towards the stables, the gravel crunching underneath his boots. He listens for anything out of the ordinary - can’t be too careful - and even checks the fences surrounding the horses, the weak spots he keeps meaning to patch up himself because he doesn’t trust anyone else to do it right.

Patrol is as usual. He doesn’t expect any danger and thankfully doesn’t find any either, but he is a man of habits and old habits die hard. His free hand rests near the strap of his rifle in case of anything out of the ordinary, but the only time he needs to be on his guard is when Callus, his horse, gets frightened by a rabbit in the bushes along the trail. He calms the animal with a broad, soothing hand and kind words. He thinks about Sarah, about how she would have loved the nature here, and rarely anymore about how her blood felt on his skin.

He is gone for a few hours, three maybe but no more than four. He does all of his usual inner checklists and rides past each checkpoint, all the while thinking about your hair still messy from sleep, your bare foot sticking out from under the blanket.

On his way back, his thoughts continue circling around you. It’s almost dangerous how much he lets his mind drift; how easy it is to get lost in wondering what you’re up to on his way home. He pictures you in the sun coming in through the windows of the house he built for you with hands that have killed but now get to cradle your face too. He loves you most bathed in morning light that makes your skin glow. With a half-laugh, you said you’d be doing housework today, dragging your fingers through his hair last night whilst tangled up in his body. 

He wonders if you’re humming to yourself while mopping the floors or fighting extra stubborn dust bunnies underneath the couch. What are you wearing? What are you thinking about? Is it him? Are your souls really so entwined that your thoughts are full of him whenever his are so full of you? Joel doesn’t even know if he believes in that sort of thing - hearts beating in sync like that - but you don’t give him a choice sometimes, a feeling that not even Ellie has ever teased out of him.

When he arrives home, he smiles with his eyes closed at the twinkling sound of the wind chimes hanging on the porch ceiling. There is dust on his boots and his bad knee has started to ache from the slow change in temperature over the last few hours but he feels content. He removes the rifle from his shoulder to leave it by the door and then toes the boots off carefully. 

He inhales the smell of home deeply in through his nose before holding his breath to listen for any sound of you. His brown jacket comes off right after he has noticed the quiet movements upstairs that make the house creak just a little. However, it’s not the noisy floorboards but your soft curse that makes him climb the staircase.

A younger version of him - a version that was newer to you - would have first thought that you were up to something sinful and private but Joel now knows that the near-silent swear is one of quiet frustration. You don’t hear him at first, too busy muttering to yourself about the fitted sheet that keeps slipping from your fingers as you try to tug it down over the corner of your shared bed. 

“Shit,” you curse again quietly, bent across the bed in a kneeling position with one knee on the mattress and the other stretched out behind you. 

He knows he should announce his presence like the gentleman he is but he is too busy trying to catch his hitching breath from the sight of your gorgeous body. The swell of your hips and the dip of your back have his old ticker beating in his chest like a kick drum but it is, more specifically, the choice of your underwear that has him feeling downright lightheaded. Hugging your hips are a pair of lace panties and they’re see-through and barely there but most importantly cute. You probably picked them up from the trading center without much ceremony, drawn by their aesthetic rather than their practicality, and then forgot they existed until laundry day arrived. He can understand why; they are so impractical that they almost piss him off but it doesn’t outweigh the near-laughable way he is already hardening in his jeans.

“Hey baby,” he finally says from the doorway, his hands shaking slightly with how hard it is to not just walk up and grab at your hips as a greeting. 

“Joel,” you jump a little in your spot and look at him over your shoulder, the sheet still hanging between your fingers in a secure grip, “You scared the shit outta me!”

“What are you wearing?” He asks simply instead of apologizing, trying to act nonchalant as he walks to the side of the bed but you pick up on the strain in his voice. 

You glance down at yourself with a sigh but it just makes your ass jiggle, “Oh, these? They’re my last clean pair right now since I’m doing an epic pile of laundry today. Sun’s coming out. Perfect day for hanging it outside.” 

“They’re–” he replies, gaze fixed on your ass. His voice continues in the same strained tone but he doesn’t know how to finish his sentence. 

“They’re awful,” you help him and start struggling with the corner of the sheet again, “Feels like my ass is being flossed by lace.”

Joel snorts at that, “Should take ‘em off then.”

“You’d like that wouldn’t you?” You snort yourself, finally managing to pull the sheet over the edge. You flatten it with your palm, caressing it almost as if you’re apologizing for the roughness you’ve caused it and so it looks like it hasn’t been a battle to secure. Then you flop onto your back, stretching your arms out behind you to hold yourself up. The grin on your face is mischievous and sexy yet subtle, the position you’ve put your body in pushing your chest out so he can see your breasts through the thin fabric of your t-shirt. He thought he wanted you badly during his patrol but looking at you now, he thinks he might lose it if he doesn’t touch you soon. 

“You’ve got me. Take them off,” he murmurs with a smirk but when you playfully don’t follow orders, he starts leaning down over you slowly with his sore knee dipping into the mattress. You try to crawl back, squealing but he has taken on bigger things than you.

“Joel,“ you stop him by planting your bare foot on his chest but the way your leg bends at the knee just exposes that soft, intimate skin between your legs. He wants to dive into you but he’ll humor you for a moment.

He grabs your ankle to make you laugh but his mind betrays him by reminding him of how fragile his existence here with you is. Jackson remaining completely untouched by reality is a fantasy. He doesn’t tell you, never would tell you how easily it could all go wrong again, because you deserve the fantasy more than he does.

“Joel,” you repeat his name and he comes back to you if only briefly, watching your loving grin with a deep ache in his chest. He hasn’t felt this kind of ache since Sarah’s mother, a tell-tale sign that you are the real thing for him, that he built this house so you can fill it up with love and life. 

Life. It seems almost bordering on insanity to be thinking about children at his age in a world so broken but your eyes sparkle in the town square where mothers carry their babies in wraps while trading cartons of strawberries. You deserve to nurture someone other than him because your soul has so much to give. 

“If you’re not going to do anything but overthink,” you hum teasingly when time has passed and Joel feels embarrassed for having been lost to his own inner world. His thumb presses into the curve of your Achilles heel, tugging your body closer to himself by wrapping your leg around his waist instead.

“You’re the only person who talks to me like that,” he chuckles softly while his cheeks are slightly crimson. 

“It’s good for you,” you shoot back him and it is the truth.

“Was just thinking ‘bout how you do so much that I don’t deserve,” he says with his eyes roaming over your face and chest for a place to kiss. He chooses the column of your throat, “Cooking, cleaning… Lovin’ a man like me.”

“It’s not about deserving,” you muse and sigh at his stubble on your skin, “Do you want me?”

What kind of question is that? He wants you so much that it sometimes feels like it would be easier to live in your veins, to replace his tired and aching bones with yours if it meant never being without you. He sounds psychotic, sounds like something that he read in the string of horror novels he has gathered by now because they feel oddly comforting when there’s something worse on the other side of the gates. 

“Forever,” he replies simply. He would rather die than not have you.

“Not too much to ask for if you ask me,” you reach to cup his face, thumbs stroking along his cheekbones until he closes his eyes at the feel, and then pull him to your lips. You kiss him gently for a moment but with how much Joel wants you, he quickly lets it drift into something else, something more. He kisses you with all that want in his body, needs it to stop prickling underneath his skin. 

“Have you had breakfast?” He murmurs against your mouth, checking in, the question heavy with care for you. 

“No,” you whisper back into another kiss, fingers threading through the hair at the back of his neck, “I was waiting for you.”

“What if, after this, I take you down to the market?” Joel starts descending his lips on your body. He mouths over the mound of your breast, nipping at your sensitive nipple as it strains against the fabric of your top in its arousal, “Could get you fresh strawberries. Or blueberries we could throw in pancakes.”

You let out a soft moan that’s mixed with a breathy laugh, “I’m ovulating.”

“What?” Joel’s voice has gone scratchy. He stills his touch, moving to look up at your face to see what emotion is playing on your features. He didn’t even know you were keeping track. At first, he doesn’t understand your point but you’re quick to let him in.

“There’ll be babies all over the town square,” you grin down at him, cheeks warm with playfulness as you glow, “Just saying.”

“Maybe one of ours one day?” Joel tests the waters.

“Yeah?” Your grin turns into one of unabashed glee.

“Yeah. I wouldn’t mind it if we made a baby,” he answers quietly and moves his palm up under your top to lay it flat against your belly, “We could try. I mean, we’ve been dancing around it for months now, haven’t we?”

“Then don’t pull out,” the way you say those words, like honey dripping from your tongue, makes Joel swear under his breath and his cock jump. He watches the dizzying sight of you shimmying out of the lace underwear before spreading your legs to give room for him. Looking between your legs is like he’s been offered something holy by the devil himself, your slit already glistening and ready for him.

“Wasn’t gonna,” he smooths his hand down your belly to grab the hem of your top again, easing it up your body. You lift your arms over your head to help him get it off, the movement of your body making your tits shake. He moves backward on the bed, kissing his way down your sternum while squeezing your right breast. You arch slightly into the touch, taking it with a soft release of your breath.

Joel revels in you, revels in the fact that you have allowed him something that he hasn’t thought about in decades because the world did not allow it. He wonders if he’ll be a good father again after all these years of never letting himself think of being something to someone so tiny and fragile, dependent. Ellie had already been a mouthy teenager when he got her, and while she had relied on him, she had had one hell of a survival instinct and hadn’t needed any cradling. A newborn will be different; they will need parts of his being that he hasn’t touched since Sarah was handed to him in the hospital. He doesn’t know if he can trust himself to cradle his newborn with hands that now only know how to pull a trigger. He doesn’t know if it is like riding a bike, that it will happen naturally the second he sees them, but he knows that he wants it. God, he wants it. 

“What are you doing?” You question when he is suddenly between your legs, his feet out over the edge of the bed, and it makes him stop dead. Maybe he should stop having these thoughts when he makes love to you. 

“What do you mean?” He asks as he is halfway down on the floor to get in position. He furrows his brows in confusion. 

“You do realize that this is not how babies are made, right?” You giggle in response, sweetly enough to make his cock twitch. Oh, that’s what you’re playing at.

“Ain’t it?” He smirks.

“No!” You snicker. 

“Then I guess I’m just doing this for fun,” he replies and swings your legs onto his shoulders. He yanks at your hips to pull you towards his mouth, “C’mere, you.”

You squeak with giggles and Joel’s heart dances to the sound. However, your laughter switches to a moan the second his mouth touches you and covers nearly the whole of you. He doesn’t need to think about it anymore, has learned what you like by now from the countless times he has eaten your pussy like it was his last meal on this godforsaken earth. 

“Shit,” you gasp towards the ceiling and cross your ankles on the broadness of his back. He swears that he can hear it in your voice how your eyes roll back when his tongue caresses you in soft strokes. You taste so good that he moans into you, lapping up every drop of sticky sweetness with his tongue. 

“I know, baby. I got you,” he pauses briefly to suck on two of his fingers to wet them, following it up by turning his hand toward the ceiling and then sinking the digits inside of you. He expertly presses them upward, curling them into the spot that immediately has your hips jolting. 

“There,” you tell him with a whine, twisting your hands in the freshly-made bed sheets with a curse that he doesn’t know if is directed at him or the stupid fitted sheets slipping from the corners again, “Joel— ah, don’t stop!”

You gasp as he rubs into that spot over and over again, pairing it with his mouth circling in on the place you need it the most. Your clit is hard and sensitive, perfect for wrapping his mouth around and sucking until his cheeks hollow. 

“Oh God… Oh God,” your pitch rises as he works you open on his hand. At some point, you lose yourself enough in it to start tightening your legs around his back and shoulders. It makes your pelvis lift off the mattress until your back is beautifully arched, makes your cunt press firmly into his mouth for any friction. He grabs your thigh with his free hand for leverage and groans softly into you, taking the reward of sinful pleasure shooting straight to his cock from the way you fuck yourself on his fingers and mouth. 

Outside, the heat can’t compete with the warmth coming off of your body. He can hear another gust of wind blowing through the wind chimes around the porch, mixing with the sound of the city waking up and coming to life. He could die right here, he thinks, between your beautiful thighs with skin that smells just faintly of your homemade lavender oil but right now mostly of sex. It wouldn’t be bad, hell, the whole town would say that he died doing what he loved. 

A hand tangles in his hair now. You have relented on the sheets in case you’ll rip them, and Joel takes each painful sting of his follicles with pride as you balance on the edge. He sinks his fingers deeper, works his mouth faster to get you to tip the scales and come so hard that the world fades away from the both of you. 

It happens a moment later. You hold your breath for just a few seconds, completely quiet as you concentrate while the anticipation within your body crackles like electricity he swears, he can feel. 

Then you cry out in relief, throwing your head back and squeezing your thighs around his head so the sound in his good ear blurs as well. He can feel your muscles clamp down on his fingers, near-arrogant pride swelling in his chest from how skilled he is in making you feel good. 

He keeps his mouth on you as long as you allow him, the tip of his tongue flicking over your sensitive and goddamn pretty clit until you protest with a whimper. When he draws back, he keeps fucking you through the aftershocks with his fingers and dares look up at you, heart beating out of his chest and his dick hard enough that it is aching. His fingers are wet with your come, making your cunt squelch in the otherwise quiet room. 

“Attagirl,” he breaks the silence with a praise in his easy southern drawl, letting his fingers slip out finally, “You liked that, huh?”

You hum approvingly in your afterglow and he can’t get close to you fast enough. He crawls up from the floor, grunting at the way his knees remind him of his age, and moves up on the bed. He slots between your legs again like he was made to fit there, kneeling between your thighs. You look soft and dazed, chest still heaving from your high. 

“I love you. Every damn inch of you,” he murmurs softly. He looks at your face, how you smile with your eyes closed and your nose is slightly scrunched up as the sun dances over your features through the window. You’re glowing. Simple as that, no other word for it, like you will when carrying his kid, and he should tell you that you’re the only peace he has ever found. He should say it to you but he cowers each time. It feels more weighted than telling you that he loves you. 

“I know,” you whisper back eventually, eyes blinking open and your hands reaching for his belt. The metal clinks as you undo the buckle, a smug little grin on your face. 

“Alright, Han Solo,” he rolls his eyes for show and then moves over you, the devil in his eyes. He wipes his slick chin and lips on your face, making you laugh in the way that is enhanced by dopamine. He bumps his nose into yours, “Think you’re funny, huh?”

“Little bit,” you smile and get the fly open. You reach inside and wrap your fist around him, the playful air in the room settling immediately when you stroke him lazily, “But I’m just trying to get you to take your clothes off.”

“Fuck, baby,” he groans while you run your thumb over the slit of his dick, “You’re killing me. Gimme a sec of this.”

You give in and let him have this for a moment, stroking him with practiced flicks of your wrist until his hips start to rut so he can fuck your hand. He moans as he stares down between you, the muscles of his neck and shoulders wound so tight from trying not to come that it is a miracle his old bones haven’t snapped in half.

When you feel him near the edge, you squeeze around the base to halt his orgasm. You’ve started to breathe hard alongside him, clearly worked up by the sounds he is making for you. 

“Fuck me,” you beg him, your voice stutters as you frantically try using your free hand to yank his jeans down over his hips, “Please, Joel, I need you inside me.”

He thinks about how worked up you must be between your legs after holding out for so long. Knowing how wet you get from touching him like this, you must be soaked for him and ready to be taken care of like you deserve. It means that Joel doesn’t need to be told twice, already tugging his jeans and underwear just far down enough for what matters. 

However, despite the rush of getting undressed, he still takes the time to reach for one of the newly-fluffed pillows resting against the bed’s headboard. 

“Up,” he says without further explanation but you know what he wants to do, would probably trust him with your life even if he just gave you a look. When you lift your pelvis in the air without question, he slides the pillow underneath you so your hips are tilted just right for him to reach deep. 

Your legs are spread, your cunt practically served on a platter for him with how it is raised slightly in the air, squeezing around nothing as if begging for him. He looks down at your face as he runs the head of his cock through your folds, coating the very tip in a mix of precome and your shiny slick. 

You aren’t watching him though, too busy chewing on your bottom lip with your eyes glued to how the head of his cock sinks into your wet heat. When he starts stretching you with his thick girth, your mouth falls open in a soft moan. 

He places a hand just above your mound, holds you there while he bottoms out with a growl. Then he rocks his hips once then twice, setting up a pace that gives the both of you time to indulge in each other. You are snug around his dick as he fucks you, slick heat that makes his skin tingle and his breath stutter. The remnants of a southern gentleman in him know that he shouldn’t compare, but no other woman has ever made him unravel so much during sex, has ever made him feel so powerful and powerless in bed. 

“Tell me who this pussy belongs to,” he demands to regain some form of control, staring down at your face contorted with pleasure. 

“You,” you gasp feebly, “It’s yours.”

When he fucks you like this, you are his. He doesn’t need to second guess this fact, knows it just from the way your bodies are connected like they know it too. 

He reaches for your thighs, his knuckles going white as he lifts them onto his hips. You lock around him by instinct and force him forward, so he has to brace himself with a hand beside your head. The angle makes him go deeper, the thick head of his cock kissing at your cervix and your greedy cunt flutters like it wants to do the impossible and pull him further in. 

“Look at me,” he says in a voice that reveals just how good you feel to him, watches the way your tits bounce with each thrust, “Say it like you mean it.”

You stare up into his eyes, your brows furrowed as the tip of his cock drags along the front of your walls. He is in there deep, focused on coming just where it matters. Meanwhile, you have to concentrate on forming words, needing to start over several times with how close you are to babbling.

“It’s– ah, fuck. It’s your pussy, Joel. I’m yours,” you cry for him, your pitch close to, but not quite, the one of a wounded animal. The difference is the lack of hesitation; you are both so sure of each other that it makes him ache all over and ignore the sweaty strain on his old back. 

Your hands scramble to touch him but you make a noise of complaint when his chest is covered by his shirt, the barrier a nuisance when you want all of him. He shed the flannel earlier along with his jacket, but right now, it is the soft fabric of his t-shirt that you’re pulling at to get to his skin. 

He dips down to let you pull it over his head, it slipping down his arm unceremoniously until he can grab it with his fist and toss it over his back. Your trembling hands find his skin immediately and it makes you sigh with relief. Your nails drag through the hairs on his chest, leaving red streaks in their wake until you grab the flesh of his sides. 

He sees how your eyes roam over his torso, where scars tell stories of a life much more complicated than this. You have loved each one of them so many times that he doesn’t feel insecure about them anymore, have traced them with your fingers and kissed them enough to get him to believe that he is more than the events that brought them. 

“You’re so beautiful,” you say softly and settle a hand at the back of his neck, drawing him into your arms. He braces himself on his forearms, kisses you like he isn’t inside of you, and has missed you for a weeklong patrol, still taken aback when you say things like that. 

“Sweet girl,” he whispers against your lips and you whimper as his cock pulses inside of your body. You look at him with fiery love and lust, the stare so intense he knows that this will be over soon because he can’t hold back anymore. 

His next thrusts are slower but rougher, harder and insistent in touching the parts inside you that make you barrel towards the edge. He can feel the difference between all the other times he’s been buried in your cunt to the hilt and this time. While the air is still thick with labored breaths and whispered cries for a higher power he doesn’t know if he believes, this is not just sex; this is about taking the very best parts of you and mixing them with the leftover parts of him that he has found aren’t fatally broken because of you. 

The sound of his name pulls him back to you. His pelvis has aligned with yours with each rock of his hips, the spot just above the base of his cock grinding into your twitching clit. 

“I’m gonna— fuck, I’m gonna come,“ you choke on air, “Please, Joel. Don’t stop, baby.”

“I know, honey,” he moans at the way you flutter around his length, voice cracking at how you feel better than a Texan summer. You’re so wet it sounds filthy when he fucks you, barely pulling out anymore and letting you soak his dick while he switches to simply grinding. For a moment, he is even scared that it’ll set him off before you’ve had your second fill, “Jesus, yeah, I can feel it.” 

Your orgasm hits like a runaway train. The hand resting on the back of his neck slides down to squeeze his shoulder, fingers denting his skin as you seek something to cling onto in your state of ecstasy. You come so hard that air is knocked out of him from how tightly your cunt grips him, his whole body shuddering like he’s the one losing it.

He presses a lingering kiss to your gorgeous neck while your head is thrown back, feeling the rapid beats of your heart under his lips. Your free hand cradles him like you’re meant to be a mother already, making it irresistible for him not to inhale your scent of lavender from the spot where your neck meets your shoulder.  

“You feel too good, baby, ’m not gonna last,” he grits out against your sweat-slicked skin, his cock throbbing in time with his heartbeat. 

“Don’t want you to last, want you to put a baby in me. Gimme a baby, Joel,” you beg him and bury your nose in his temple. You squeeze him tighter in your arms, whining from oversensitivity as his thrusts start to intensify toward the end, “Wanna make you a daddy, baby, please, I’m ready.”

Daddy. The word coming from your mouth makes Joel snap. He pushes his hips against yours and comes with a groan, the head of his cock flush against the very back of your cunt. In his life, he has witnessed wildfires and his climax spreads through his lower belly just as fast. His breath is stuck in his lungs as he fills you to the brim, his tongue wanting to say filth but only your name comes out. It’s good enough to make a grown man tremble without remorse in the embrace of his woman. 

After a beat, his body sags from exhaustion. When you let go of his shoulder to run your hand over your hair, your nails have created little crescent marks on his body. He grunts as he rolls off of you in fear of crushing you underneath his weight. You whimper at the loss, a few heavy drops of his seed landing on the pillow still beneath your hips. 

“C’mere,” he murmurs as a haze settles over the both of you, the sweat on his skin turning slightly chilly. He holds his arm out to invite you into the space that always holds you perfectly and you oblige without a word. He’d lay here forever with you if he had to, would embrace being trapped here with you until they had to send out a search party. 

He is still breathing hard when you lay your head on his chest, draping your arm across his body whose stamina isn’t what it used to be. You don’t comment on it though, simply hold him while the sheets get dirty again from the mess between your thighs. While the world fades away around you, Joel decides that he’ll help you do the extra load of laundry. 

Without thinking, his fingers absentmindedly start tracing up and down your forearm in a soothing motion. You swing a tired leg over his body in response, attempting to get impossibly closer despite already practically melting together with him in the post-orgasmic heat you share. 

Outside, a young child shrieks with excited laughter and Joel nearly tears up from how new the sound seems even though it is a daily occurrence in the little town. He must know if you feel the same. 

“What’s on your mind?” He asks and breaks the quiet, still caressing your arm gently. 

“Just thinking,” you reply and splay your hand on his chest, brushing your thumb over his nipple without thinking. You kiss him where you can reach. 

“About?” He pushes, looking down at the top of your head as if he can read your emotions like that. You probably could with him. 

You crane your neck to stare at him with a little tired smile, “Babies. You. How much I love you. I love you.”

“I know,” he answers smugly, arching an eyebrow with a smile. He thinks another confession of his devotion might set his chest alight and right now, you don’t deserve to have his guilt winning.

“You asshole,” you dissolve into a burst of laughter while his smile turns wolfish, your body curling in on itself on top of his chest. He loves your laugh, the way you nearly snort and feel embarrassed by it. It makes him settle a hand on the base of your skull and drag you into the sort of kiss from a person who’s learning to trust joy again.

.

.

If you would like to follow my writing then go follow @notjustjavierpena-fics and turn on notifications 💖❤️

[vinnyvamppp]

Two and a Half Graysons

Note: Trust and believe I'm using that horny ass line you ended with as a plot device too. LMFAO. @hhoneylemon

Synopsis: You're not officially a parent, but you might as well be. You're not officially married, but everyone seems to think you are. Between shirtless mornings, grocery store tension, and baby carrier missions, the line between “dating Mark” and “co-raising a purple alien infant with Mark” gets blurrier by the day. But it’s fine. You’re emotionally stable. Probably.

Warnings: Mild Sexual Tension (NO SMUT), Coping With Parenthood, Mild Swearing, Off-screen Canon-level Violence, Found Family & Co-parenting, fluff galour. (Original Request Link: https://www.tumblr.com/vinnyvamppp/783842276548952064/i-have-a-vision-ive-been-thinking-about-when) PART 2 HERE

Mark Grayson (+ Baby Oliver!) x GN!Reader

WC: 1.2k (so cute)

Mark doesn’t ask you to move in. He just starts making space, a shelf here, a drawer cleared there. By the time Oliver starts teething, you’re already brushing your teeth in his bathroom every morning and waking up with a foot in your ribs that definitely doesn’t belong to Mark.

You weren’t expecting him to drop out. No one was. Debbie had offered to help, of course—offered like it was the easiest thing in the world to raise a baby that wasn’t hers, born from a man who had already broken the whole family once. And Mark had just said: “I can’t ask her to do this. He’s my responsibility, my… brother.”

Then he’d looked at you. Like he was bracing for something. For the inevitable pulling away. The “I’m not ready for this” talk. But you’d just nodded. Said: “Okay. We’ll figure it out.” We. His shoulder slumped with a sigh of relief. And that’s how it starts.

It’s not glamorous. Mark’s working two jobs between diaper runs. You’re picking up shifts, catching Oliver when he won’t stop crying, and Mark looks like he hasn’t slept in a week. Some nights, the exhaustion settles over the house like fog, thick and still. Then there’s moments where Oliver laughs or falls asleep on your chest like he knows exactly where he belongs. And everything feels lighter—softer, just right.

Mark negotiated with Cecil… Kind of—out of desperation, moreover. After bringing Oliver back, Mark tried to keep up with college, parenting, and being Earth's part-time savior. It lasted about two weeks. He was late to a Kaiju fight because Oliver had a fever. Left a lab evacuation halfway through to pick him up from your job because the sitter bailed. Cecil nearly had a stroke when Mark fought a teleporting assassin with baby wipes in his pocket.

“I can’t do this full-time. He’s a baby. He’s my responsibility. I’m not leaving him with my mom again and I’m not dragging him into a war zone unless the world’s literally ending.”

Cecil—being a professional manipulator and also somehow slightly terrified of Oliver’s explosive bowel habits, reluctantly agreed. Now, Mark handles non-lethal, low-stakes missions like alien negotiations and minor emergencies.

He takes himself off the active-duty roster unless it’s a Level Red situation, and Cecil sends backup or Eve when something big hits. Mark still trains—still reports in, but often while bouncing a baby on his chest or feeding him yogurt off-camera. So what happens day to day? He flashes by your job to drop off Oliver. Literally, he’ll appear mid-conversation, hair a mess, onesie on backward.

“Hey babe, sorry—can you watch him for like two hours? There's a tidal wave hitting France. Be back by lunch. Probably.” Kisses you mid-chaos, and vanishes in a loud boom. Sometimes he leaves you with a half-full bottle and a sticky pacifier and expects you to just vibe.

If that isn't an option, he wears a baby carrier during missions. Look, not for the big ones. But if the threat is “giant sewer rat” or “angry alien ambassador who doesn’t understand doors,” Oliver is strapped to his chest like a tiny judgmental but giggly backpack with earmuffs. You even designed him a superhero onesie that says, "Invinci-baby," and yes—he wears it at every outing.

“You’re bringing a baby?”

“He likes the wind.”

“He’s drooling on your comm.”

“He’s observing diplomacy.”

Cecil threatens to fire him weekly. Debbie sighs deeply every time she sees the footage on GDA security—just to check in when needing Cecil to make sense of this. All the while watching Doc Seismic scream “IS THAT A CHILD?!” mid-monologue. Today, you didn’t realize how dangerous this grocery trip is going to be until Mark lifts the baby carrier with one arm like it’s nothing. He’s Invincible—what did you expect? His gray t-shirt rides up just enough to make your soul flicker out of your body like a dying TV screen. Focus on the produce section. Innocent terrain, right? You grab a head of lettuce. You do not look at the way Mark bounces Oliver gently while scanning for cereal. You are a good person, a person with restraint. He’s doing that thing again—being effortlessly domestic. Like, hot dad energy turned up to eleven. Every time he reads a nutrition label or wipes drool off Oliver’s chin, your brain short-circuits a little more.

You used to flirt shamelessly. Make out in supply closets, pull him into his room by the collar. But now? Now you’re in aisle six, arguing about formula brands, and trying not to climb him in front of a shelf of canned peas.

“I think we should get the oatmeal-based one,” Mark says, turning towards you. And there it is: that low voice, as he leaned in slightly. The focus with that soft-eyed, fully attentive attitude. You blink at him, trying to play it cool as you bite your tongue. “Whatever keeps his poop neutral. I'm not reliving last week.” Mark gave a crooked grin, brow raised, his shoulder hitching, “The explosion?”

“Don’t—” you groan, covering Oliver’s ear. “Don’t traumatize him again. We had to hose down the high chair, Mark.” A grin tugged at the corners of your lips. He laughs under his breath and sets the formula in the cart. You watch the muscles in his forearm flex as he pushes it forward. You’re sweating now—It’s winter. “Why do you look tense?” he asks. You gesture around helplessly. “Because this is basically foreplay, and there’s a baby in the cart.”

Mark chokes on a laugh, reaching instinctively to cover Oliver’s ears. “You can’t say stuff like that while I’m holding our son.” You freeze. “Our son?” His eyes widen a little. The cart keeps rolling. The baby stares up at the ceiling fan, utterly indifferent to the life-changing moment. “…I mean,” Mark starts, fumbling now, “he’s not yours, but like—well, he kind of—”

“Mark.” You step in close, dropping your voice. “If you keep talking in that voice and calling him our son, I swear to God, I will embarrass us in this store.” Mark’s eyes flick to your mouth, then back to Oliver. His jaw flexes with blotches of pink creeping up his neck. “I hate that we can’t do anything about this.” You both stare at each other for a second too long. Then Oliver lets out a dramatic sneeze that breaks the tension like a rock through a window. You sigh. “We’re in hell.” Mark leans over and kisses your temple. “At least we’re in hell together.” You glance at the shopping list and mutter, “Add wine.” He stares at you in bewildered silence— “For Ms. Grayson.”

You find yourself thinking about stupid things. Like the taste of oatmeal lingering on your tongue. Like whether you’ll need a bigger place. Like whose last name Oliver will have. Like if Mark knows he hums when he’s rocking the baby to sleep, tuneless and low, and how your whole chest aches every time you hear it. You’d marry him. That thought hits you while Mark is on the floor of the living room, one sock on, hair a mess, cooing nonsense while Oliver grabs at his nose. You’d marry him tomorrow. Or bend him or let him bend you over the desk right now. Whichever happens first.

You’ve seen this man explode aliens. Why is him wearing low-slung sweatpants more threatening to your mental health than intergalactic war? But you don’t tell him that. You just hand him the bottle, brush your fingers against his, and whisper, “You’re doing okay.” Mark looks up at you—tired and worn down, but smiling. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” A/N: Literally kicking my feet as I write this, I will forever love your big, beautiful brain. Hopefully, this was decent, my friend. :)

Part 2: Our Son, Apparently

MasterList ོ༘₊⁺☀︎₊⁺⋆.˚

[bonsubear]

You're Dead Everywhere But Here │ Invincible Variants x Female! Reader x Mainstream Invincible │#2

#1, #2, #3

tysm for the comments on the previous post, it was a blast seeing the traction it got !! I hope update is satisfactory, decided to make this a full fic series so more to come

CW: OOC Cecil(?), mention/talks of suicide, violence, slight freakiness but eh not really

WC: 6,7k

@weaponxgames, @martinys-world, @lagataprrr, @lizurich, @katsukiswiife, @oxymorondemon, @sweetb3rry, @ashleeytrx, @pixviee, @pookiei-bookie, @cheesycheddarr

Cecil approached the big screens, his hands in his suit pockets as he narrowed his eyes. "Donald, what is this? What going on with now?" He asked, his voice stern but confused. The dots on the map indicate that multiple Invincible variants were gathered at one place—and you were smacked in the middle of it.

He had given orders to throw you out there in hopes to help the war effort, strapping you with an electric dog collar with a tracker embedded into it. With Evil Invincibles causing havoc all over the world, everything was getting stretched thin. He needed more manpower to pour into this war, and he wasn't against using a criminal to achieve that.

Cecil had seen multiple times you hold your own against their Invincible, hell, even had the upper hand a couple of times with how you left Invincible riddled with injuries.

Whatever reason why you chose to injure him than kill him wasn't something Cecil was going to do gymnastics to understand. Donald's running theory was that you more so enjoyed causing destruction than killing anyone. There's been times where you have, but they were so rare it's been assumed to be more of a 'last resort' thing for you when cornered.

Honestly, all of that didn't matter to him, you were still a destructive piece of shit at the end of the day.

But having collected data about you, he was confident that you could at least remove one or two of the evil variants when push came to shove. The 'shove' being a shock collar and the threat of never seeing daylight again.

Though it appears you were surrounded by four variants, and while you were one tough cookie, you should certainly be dead. There was one of you and four of them, it was a no brainer to guess who would lose. However, the blinking green dot on the screen indicated you were alive and well.

"It seems like they're not fighting her. She's been more of the aggressor so far, actually." Donald noted, pushing his glasses up. "She was fighting this one," He pointed at a red dot on the screen, "then these three showed up." His finger drifted to the other circles.

"Pull up the cameras around there." Cecil ordered, and Donald's fingers were quick on the keyboard to pull up the surveillance around the area.

A window appeared on the screen, and while the lens was cracked it was clear to see that you were surprisingly not beaten up and battered as he would expect. He watched you leap into the air, bolting through the sky and an Invincible dressed in a white uniform followed suit, the two of you becoming a blur in the distance.

An Invincible dressed in a similar fashion as Omni-man crossed his arms, speaking to the others. Whatever he said made the others upset, the one with a fully covered black mask shaking his head while the variant with the mohawk rolled his eyes as he stomped his foot.

"Is there no audio on this thing?"

"Nope."

"Great." Cecil popped his lips, his grainy voice filled with sarcasm. He continued to observe the three variants—they obviously didn't like each other, their body language tense and ready to pounce if one of them moved yet held the conversation anyway.

He squinted, trying to decipher what they could be discussing about. The men would occasionally glance over at the direction you had sped off to.

Donald spoke up. "I think they're discussing (Y/N)."

"(Y/N)?"

"(Y/N) (L/N) is Vandal's real name." Donald mentioned, looking over at Cecil. Vandal had become your nickname since you never proclaimed a villain identity for yourself. From the heaps of destruction and damage you caused to property before your capture, it was a fitting name. Albeit a little lazy.

He let out a sigh, turning around to step away. His mind was turning gears as he thought about you, his mind drifting to Mark who was still by Eve's bed side.

What he was thinking of was an... odd idea, but it couldn't hurt to give it a shot. Mark Grayson always held this odd air towards you. It was hard to not notice how he practically jumped at the chance to be the first to respond to a scene that had something to do with you, always butting heads with other superheroes that tried to respond first.

The weird behavior was subtle, but Cecil noted a few things.

Whatever harm that he'd inflicted would conveniently be places where it wouldn't hurt too badly.

You would always somehow end up escaping from his grasp after each fight. Even with how Mark had improved, you always seemed to run off.

When you were finally captured thanks to a G.D.A agent, Mark threw quite a fit.

"I had it all under control!" He yelled, glaring at Cecil with so much anger. Possessiveness seeped into his voice as he spat his words, and Cecil was taken aback with how worked up he was over you. "You guys didn't have to step in like that."

"Talking to her, throwing a couple of punches and letting her escape each time is not you having it 'under control,' Mark." Cecil rebutted. "She needed to be contained, and you were doing a lousy job at doing that."

"I was gonna—"

"If I had let this ridiculous method of yours play out, she would've continued to destroy more property. That means more tax dollars are being poured into rebuilding the constant messes she leaves behind." Cecil lectured, stern and logical. Not giving him a moment to defend himself. "That money is better off spent on better things, not Little Miss Vandalism."

His logic and common sense only seemed to fuel Mark's anger. Cecil paused, before releasing an exhausted sigh as he flickered his gaze away from Mark to stare at a wall.

He needed to calm him down, having him upset would get in the way of calling him for help. Cecil's eyes flickered back to Mark.

"Kid, she'll be in jail at the G.D.A. Fed, clothed, and away from being a menace." He continued, and he noticed how Mark seemed to become calm about you being fed and clothed than the fact your destructive habits would now come to a halt. "You can... even visit her."

"... I can?"

He was a little too happy to hear that, his anger completely evaporated.

"Yeah. After we deal with everything first, I'll authorize how many visits you want."

"I'm going to pay a visit to Mark. I'm sure he'd love to hear what his favorite villain is up to." Cecil turned his head to Donald who only stared, clear he didn't understand what telling Mark about this would achieve.

Without elaborating, he teleported with a flash of blue.

You took another glance behind you, the wind rushing past you. It howled in your ear as you met the intense stare of the evil variant in white. His features were unmoving as the wind pushed his hair and his eyes hard.

"Take a picture, it'll last longer!" You shouted. His eyes were unblinking as he was unresponsive to your words, and you just rolled your eyes as you tore your eyes off him.

Even though you would love to continue being in the air for longer, if you do it was evident he would catch up to you. With each glance he was inching closer and closer, and there were a number of things that would go against your favor if this White Invincible got ahold of you in the air.

You scanned up ahead, seeing a large building. The path you were on currently would've made you slam your head against a solid wall. Shifting to the right, you brought your arms to your head as you braced for impact.

The glass window immediately shattered as you rammed through it, different sizes of glass shards falling. You dodged the walls of the office floor, breaking through windows and passing by cubicles.

Breaking out of the other side of the building, the sunlight basked on you as you pushed yourself to be above the building. Not a minute later, the building vibrated widely as the sound of walls breaking filled the air.

You let out an amused scoff. He continued the flight path you were previously on and busted through the walls.

The white variant broke through the final wall, leaving a gaping hole on the side of the building. He looked to the left and right of him, searching for a sign in which direction you went.

"Up here!" You sang out, diving down with your hands raised together and joined together to make a ball. You brought it down, sending him flying downwards to the road. The Invincible's reflex was incredible, his arms quickly rising to protect his head before being slammed to the ground.

The harsh impact made a big crater on the ground, with him in the middle. The abandoned cars near the crash site began blaring, the headlights flashing crazy.

"You're strong." He flatly commented, his eyes gazing up at you as the dust settled. With Mohawk, his laugh lines were prominent and bold. Yet with this variant, his face was completely smooth with no form of wrinkles in sight.

His arms tingled from your attack, and he tilted his head. A corner of his lip raised slightly. "You were never strong in my dimension."

"Does that burst your bubble, Whitey?" You fake whined, copying the tilt of his head as you stared down at him. "Disappointed I'm not a damsel in distress? Not the perfect little girlfriend for you?"

"I'm not disappointed." He shook his head. "You were always perfect, (Y/N). Perfect for me and I made Viltrum perfect for you. You're still perfect, no matter the differences across universes." He replied, hovering towards you. There was a deep-rooted longing in his eyes.

You gritted your teeth as you heard his monologue. You hated how he was speaking to you as if you were the version he knew personally. It was already becoming insufferable.

"I've missed you, my wife. The spot I carved out for you remains empty since the day I lost you." He whispered, looking like a battered dog lost without its owner. "You miss me too."

"Is that a question or a command?" You rolled your eyes. "I'm not her. Do you hear yourself?"

"You are her."

"I'm not. And I'm going to put that through that thick skull of yours." You didn't hesitate to dash towards him, your hand grabbing a hold of the top of his head as you slammed it down—the back of his head hitting the cracked concrete of the crater.

You dug your nails inside his scalp, lifting it and smashing it back down repeatedly. The hole inside the ground deepened as you continued.

Viltrumite Mark let his head be slammed against the pavement, your fingernails digging inside his scalp. The dulling pain at the back of his head ached at him, but he didn’t care. How long has it been since he last felt your touch? How long has it been since you committed suicide? How many long nights did he go without you?

It’s been so long since he felt your fingers through his hair. The throbbing pain didn’t mean anything with the sensation of your hand holding him. It was always blissful when he would come back to you after having to deal with the responsibilities of the Viltrum Empire, welcoming him home with open arms.

Oh, how he loved laying his head on your stomach while you massaged his head—running your delicate fingers through his hair as you asked all sorts of questions. Usually about what he did, Viltrum, and what was happening outside the walls of the home you two shared. Mark didn’t like to think about the outside world when he was inside the haven of the bedroom, but indulging in your curiosity was always cute and made you happy.

You were also eager, albeit more than he liked, to learn any updates about Earth. Even if it was something minor, you always liked hearing about the planet you once lived on. Sometimes you'd ask if you could "finally go out" and be somewhere else on Viltrum beside the house, even hinting the idea to go visit Earth—but Mark always shot it down.

He guessed he understood in some capacity why you would ask that, it was natural for any species to think about home and long to go back to it. Though, that doesn't mean Mark didn't find it ridiculous—you shouldn't want to go back to Earth even for a visit. Viltrum is your home now and a much better suited place for you because he was here.

Mark would've granted permission for you to walk around Viltrum alone, but when you had first arrived at this planet you had such antsy feet. You would go run off, trying to escape from the planet and it was always a hassle to bring you back. You could've gotten into danger and if he hadn't been alerted each time you ran off and arrived at the nick of time. You could've hurt yourself.

You cried, you begged, and you pleaded whenever you were caught. It hurt to see you like that, he couldn't bare for those situations to happen anymore so he had momentarily removed those privileges.

He was going to give them back, he swore he would've at one point. However, he hadn't noticed so much time had passed.

For him, it seemed so short—while for you it had been excruciating years. You couldn't take it anymore; Mark's monopolization was suffocating.

So, one day when Mark arrived back home after a mission, your lifeless boy awaited him. Pale, empty, and unresponsive—but free.

For what happened, Viltrum Mark will let you hurt him as punishment for being such a neglectful husband. Being pummeled was what he deserved for being forgetful.

You go of your hold of the white variant's head, snatching a hold of his arm and standing up. You lifted him off the ground only using the arm you had just grabbed, throwing him at the loud line of cars. During the process you had twisted his arm, causing him to wince as he felt his bone dislocate before he collided with the line of blaring vehicles.

The obnoxious honks stopped, and you huffed as you straightened your back. You sneered in disgust as you realized a small smear of blood that made its way to your fingertips, being quick to wipe it on your clothes.

However, in the blink of an eye, a white flash appeared before you. Arms wrapped around your torso, and you were shoved into a wall.

As soon as your back hit the wall, you grunted, the wind being knocked out of you. You felt the Invincible nestle his face to your stomach, his arms tightening around you and you shrieked.

Even though there was a clothing barrier between your bare skin and his face thanks to the prison uniform the G.D.A had you worn, it was thin. This act was clearly intimate, and you flushed in anger as he was taking an opportunity to feel you?

“Get off of me you bastard!” You demanded, using your elbow to dig inside his back, striking down rapidly.

His grip loosened with each hit but would recover, returned to holding you. With how hard you were hitting, it was a guarantee there would be multiple splotches of bruises stretched along his back, the muscles soon to have developing colors of purple.

You repositioned your elbow that was nearest to his twisted shoulder, slamming it. A grunt howled from the variant’s throat, his arms untangling from your waist. He fell to the ground, on his knees as he hurriedly grabbed his shoulder—popping the dislocated shoulder back in place.

He picked himself up, swiping at your shin. Caught off guard, you wobbled and the viltrumite didn't waste time to place your leg on his shoulder—the one that he had corrected the displacement of the bone—and leaned forward to you.

Being off balanced and your leg being pushed up with your back against the cracked wall, you slid down. His height towered over you as you were in a compromising position. You cursed, your hands reaching behind you to grip the wall.

"That was enough to atone for my neglectful mind. Your death alone already served as punishment for how blind I was towards time." He spoke, staring down at you. A small line of blood traveled from his scalp to the back of his neck. "I'll be a much better husband for you, I swear to it, (Y/N)." the Invincible breathed out, turning his head to your leg that was lifted to his shoulder.

Even though his voice was monotonous, there was a scratch of pleading behind his voice. He said it in hopes you'll believe it and in turn that he himself would believe he'll actually be better towards you.

It wasn't hard to piece together that whatever happened to his version of you, you had died, and he played a role in it.

He exhaled; his lips parted slightly as they were just centimeters away from your leg.

“You can’t be a better one if she’s dead.”

“Don’t say that.” He snapped, pushing your leg further up, making you suck in a breath. “You’re right here. Even if you don’t remember me that doesn't mean you can't be my wife once again.“ The grip he had on your raised leg was firm, and his hand snaked up to your knee.

His hand squeezed, feeling the muscles and bone. "I'll take you back home. Back to Viltrum. Back with me."

Your breath hitched, the mention of being taken to another place caused goosebumps to crawl all over your skin. The fully masked Invincible had mentioned something about bringing you 'home’ as well, and now this one mentioned taking you somewhere else too.

Something nagged at you that this would be a pattern among the other copies—and your survival instincts screamed at you to not let any of them take you. You were better off dead than with any of them.

"I will rather die like her than ever go anywhere with you." You spat; venom laced with each word. "Whatever way she went was probably a blessing in disguise." You smirked, watching how his eyes dulled at your taunt.

Clenching your jaw, you wheeled your head forward and then slammed it behind you. The building shook behind you, cracks branching out from the point of origin. You used the back of your head to hit it once more, pooling all your strength together.

The thick wall crumbled, and no longer being shoved against a wall you wrapped the leg that was on his shoulder around his neck and your other leg around his torso, seizing his whole body and throwing him over you.

The viltrumite burst through the multitude of walls, making the building unstable. Sounds of the building cracking and falling apart filled the air, the structure collapsing. You scrambled to run, the building collapsing in your direction. Though your foot slipped on a piece of debris, causing you to trip onto the ground.

Whoosh!

The office building collapsed, and you blinked. You were looking down at the collapsed structure that once stood tall now closer to the ground than ever.

Your legs dangled in the air, and your eyes traveled to your chest as there was an arm was slung underneath your breasts—holding you loosely.

"Ha! Now that was a funny sight to watch. You really got some sweet upgrades to you—fun." He commented, pointing out the superhuman strength you possessed, a dangerous edge embedded with his words. You whipped your head around, an Invincible with a black and yellow suit grinned wildly at you.

Sinister Mark looked deeply in your eyes as he used his exceptional hearing to focus on your heart. He had memorized the way your heartbeat, pumping blood through your system. It was a window for him to decipher how you really felt at any given moment, and listening to the beating organ was like music to his ears.

He hated how he missed it. He hated how he immediately recognized it from a miles away. He hated how his ears subconsciously trained itself to zone in on that beautiful beating heart of yours, your heart so distinct that it was a melody that drew him out.

He hated that he came as quickly as he can at the first beat, knowing that it was you. This dimension's version of you, anyway.

"Another one?" You snarled, not happy to see another variant.

This dimension's version of you was feisty, just like his—though more powerful considering you did some damage to Viltrum Mark having watched from afar. Though he didn't pay much attention to that guy, more swooped up on the fact he was on cloud nine with how he was able to hold you like this again.

He let out a deranged laugh, throwing his head back. "Ha! Ha-ha! I forgot how much better you felt with your flesh still intact." He laughed, rearing his head back to shove his face to your cheek. "Soft, squishy—so much more different compared to your skeleton."

... Skeleton?

"Jesus, I went insane after I killed you." He took a large exhale, the memories of the temper tantrum he made after accidentally going too rough on you, breaking you, resurfacing.

Everyone and everything weren’t safe from his rampage, the rampage fueled with the rage of killing you. "I kept your body, watched the stages of your corpse bloat then decay—leaving the dry remains of your skeleton behind." He spoke of it with a smile on his face, but you felt the hand that was wrapped around you flinch, tightening.

"It wasn't as fun when you were alive, but it was still you, so I made do." He vaguely referenced, and your skin crawled at what he could possibly be implying. All sort of things popped in your head, and whatever you brain conjured may have been tamer than whatever this... thing did to his alternate version of you—dead or alive.

"I don’t have to know more to know you're a sick fuck."

"And I made you like it." He hissed, his hot breath hitting your skin. He tilted his head away, his eyes wandering to the electric collar around your neck. Cecil throwing you in this war and forcing you to work for him meant you were tough, and Mark was excited to see how exactly tough you were. "And I can do it again. Just this time, you won't be so easy to break.”

Cecil sighed as his eyes fell upon Mark Grayson still near Eve's bedside, having not moved an inch since the last time he saw him. Both of his hands were cupped onto Eve's hand that lay motionless on the bed.

"What do you want, Cecil?" His tired voice called out, not having to turn around to know that the old man was behind him. "I told you I wasn't working with you ever again."

"I heard that loud and clear, Mark." Cecil continued, "I figured you weren't against updates, though."

The young man merely stayed silent, his whole body language screaming that he didn't want to hear him speak anymore. Cecil grimaced, biting the inside of his cheek. The idea he had seemed like it wasn't going to work, only made up with a few clues then and there, but he was already here so it would be a waste to not try it.

"There's a lot happening out there. It's difficult to keep up with everything."

Mark stayed silent, unresponsive as his eyes were staring only at Eve.

Cecil carried on, "I had to come up with creative solutions to the issues of not having resources, people, superheroes to go out there and protect the world."

Mark stayed unmoving, not reacting an inch.

"Do you remember the criminal you helped capture? Vandal? —"

"It's (Y/N)." Grayson jolted, turning to look at Cecil with stern eyes. His hands were still on Eve's, though he noted the small pull away. "Her name is (Y/N)."

"That's interesting, I didn't find out until today that was their actual name." The older man was quick to point out, raising a brow. "How did you know that? Didn't care to share with the rest of us?"

Mark hesitated, his eyes flickering away from Cecil. "She told me it the first time we fought. Must've slipped my mind." He vaguely dismissed, clearing his throat.

He had accidentally crossed your path when he first started out his journey as Invincible. He was still getting a hang on things, training to be a great hero just like his dad.

It took him a little bit too long to register that you were a villain—a criminal that he should've jumped to stop as soon as his eyes laid on the path of destruction you caused without a care of who you hurt.

Then it took him even longer to move from his spot with how strangely enamored he was with you. Mark was overcome by this rush of attraction that he had subconsciously held his breath. If it weren't for his viltrumite make up, he would've passed out with how much oxygen he deprived from his lungs.

Did villains usually have this effect on heroes? Fascinated, interested, curious, enamored? (Mark later found out that no, villains did not have this effect—for whatever reason, it was only you).

Once he finally snapped out of it, he was quick to try and stop you. Though with how inexperienced he was with fighting and your brawniness, you won. Beaten to a pulp, his body was sore and tired as he laid on the ground, groaning from the punches.

"Ah—shit." A whine escaped his throat. Was being a superhero going to be this painful?

You crouched down to his level, eyeing his costume that hugged his body. "It isn't a good idea to jump at a girl wrecking the place while being a baby super." You commented, your eyes filled with pity. You didn't take amusement in practically beating up an infant. "Downright idiotic."

"Idiotic and invincible shares the same starting letter," he coughed, shifting to look at you but a sharp pain jolted up his spine. "Ah, that hurts—so I guess they go hand in hand." He let out a nervous smile, giddiness budding at the pit of his stomach as he wiped off the blood that had dried out his upper lip.

It's wrong to feel so... so excitedly nervous about how close you were. Sure okay, you got close so you could punch and throw him around while you two fought—but right now Mark had the time to take you in fully.

You snorted, a giggle jumping out your lips. You weren't expecting him to crack a joke like that while he was beaten to a pulp and wow—that giggle of yours was beautiful. That made his heart dance and his stomach sick with how many butterflies there were.

You quickly covered your laughter, rubbing a hand over your mouth. "Invincible is a stupid name."

"What's yours? We can compare."

"… I earned the name Vandal, it's a stupid name too." You shrugged, pushing yourself to stand.

He tried to sit up, though shots of pain riddled him to fall. He didn't want you to leave so quickly—not out of fear you would go back to destroying stuff but out of fear he may not ever see you again.

"Is there another name I can call you? I-I mean, I would like the villain who beat me up to at least like their name." Mark stuttered out, a strained smile on his face.

You eyed him, raising a brow. Unimpressed at his lame reasoning. "What kind of reason is that?"

"Uh, I—well you know, erm—" His cheeks flushed a baby pink.

You sighed, finding yourself pitying the new hero. "Fine." You’ll humor this. Giving you his name wouldn't hurt, besides even if he told others, it wasn't enough to track you down. “It’s (Y/N).”

"Hm. Okay. Moving on." Cecil hummed, not convinced. “I had her be taken out of her cell. She's out on the field."

Now that got a response out of Mark. He let go of Eve's hand, his body moving in the blink of an eye as he appeared in front of Cecil. It caught the older man by surprise, taking a hurried step back.

“What do you mean out in the field? She shouldn’t be out there. She’s supposed to be in a prison cell. She’s supposed to be safe. I remember you saying that she will be!”

“That was after this shitshow started. Prior arrangements had to be moved around and changed.” He defended himself, narrowing his eyes at how quick he was to anger when you were handled in a manner he disagreed with. This pattern of possessiveness he had over a criminal was wrong.

Cecil had chosen to ignore this, chalking it up to some petty rivalry over the fact you had beaten him a couple of times—but now it was clear as day that it was definitely way more than that.

Just how much more was what Cecil was curious about. He needed to see exactly what you meant to him and if he could use that for his own gain. “If she can handle fighting against you, then hell, she can certainly handle herself against one of those variants. I needed all the manpower I can get, and she was the perfect option.”

“That still gave you no right!” He screamed.

“It does when the guy who can go head to toe with those invaders out there won’t leave this goddamn room.” Cecil retorted.

“So—So what?! She can die, Cecil.” He huffed, his fists clenching at the idea you were out there in harm’s way.

“Why does that matter so much to you, Mark? What exactly is she to you for you to be worked over this? I don’t have to omnipotent to know she doesn’t give a damn about you—not a single thought. Yet you’re here caring for her as if you’re her friend.” He paused, “Are you?”

Mark hitched breath, a lump in his throat as he brought his hands to hold onto his face.

He hadn’t been able to stop thinking about you, and he knew that he shouldn’t be thinking about you as much as he should, but he couldn’t stop. His mind always wandered. Day and night without fail at some point his thoughts would be consumed by you, someone he barely knew anything about—someone that he shouldn’t be thinking of.

Mark tried to stay away from you—at least that’s what he told himself to make him feel better. He always jumped at the chance to go to you whenever you were back on your rampaging antics. Other heroes noticed, offering to take his place instead but he sternly refused.

He was territorial about being the one to stop you, being the one to fight you, being the one to be with you.

Mark told himself that he thought about you so frequently because of that pitiful ‘kindness’ you showed him at your guys’ first encounter. From that, you must be much better being a reformed criminal than a villain who took pleasure in seeing destruction.

 So, he tried to convince you to change your ways.

That’s what a superhero does, right? Not just help distressed citizens but everyone, even villains. He offered to help you lead a better life than the one you are right now, guide you how to use your powers for good rather than bad.

He also offered you companionship, friendship—a chance to have a deeper relationship than the close to nothing relationship you two currently had.

Though he was hurt every time you rejected him. Not hurt from the fact you rejected turning a new leaf but hurt that you rejected his friendship. Fine, you turned down being a good guy, but why turn him down?

Couldn’t you see that Mark ran to you each time? Couldn’t you see that he had got stronger, faster, better, each time you fought just to impress you? Couldn’t you see that he craved to know you more, the girl who he knew nothing about yet haunts him every day?

The bruises that you left on his body were the only thing you gave him that held a part of you—and he would stare at them in the mirror as he traced over them remembering the fists he came to memorize.

The bruises were the only thing you didn’t reject to give, and he hoped they never faded so he can carry the ghost of your touch on his body.

Mark Grayson tried to drop it—drop you. He was driving himself crazy over a stranger that wanted nothing to do with him. He tried tearing himself away from the idea of you, but he came back running whenever he heard you were out there.

Cecil voice snapped him out of his thoughts. “Well, Mark, are you?”

“No, we’re not friends.” He responded, his torn voice muffled by his hands.

“Then what is it? What is it ‘cause with how I’m seeing things no one should be caring about a stranger as much as much as you are right now.” Cecil bombarded, continuing to pile more questions on him relentlessly, pushing the boy’s buttons.

The half-viltrumite ran his hands to his hair, his fingers intertwining with his black locks as he let out an exhausted groan.

“Mark, say something. Say something Mark. For the love of God, fucking say something—”

“No! No, I don’t know her at all, I don’t mean anything to her! I’m not her friend. I’m nothing.” He snapped, his voice raised and shouting, his mouth running wild.  “That doesn’t mean that I don’t want her safe! That doesn’t mean I don’t care about her! That doesn’t mean I don’t want her.”

A tense silence fell on the room, the only sound was of the machines next to Eve’s bed.

“So that’s it. Your whipped for (Y/N).” Cecil finally broke the silence, scoffing in disbelief at what he had just discovered. “What twisted fascination do you have with her? A villain who never gave you the light of day, yet you hold this …” His face contorted, looking away from Mark. “I don’t even know what to call this. Sick? Twisted? Pathetic?”

“… Shut up. Just shut up.”

“Can’t do that because I’m not done talking.” He side eyed, “Your little crush is being jumped by multiple variants. Last I checked she ran, but got a suspicion it won’t be easy for her to get rid of them.”

Cecil felt himself slammed to the wall, the white collar of his shirt being tightly gripped. “What? Why didn’t you lead with that!”

“Sorry, kid, didn’t expect your type to be bad girls.” He grunted, staring into Mark’s brown eyes.

“Just tell me where she is.”

“Thinking of joining the fight now? Don’t want to stay here by Eve anymore? All I had to do was dangle something you can never have in front of your face to finally leave this room?”

Mark raised a fist and hit the wall behind the man he had pinned. “Tell me where (Y/N) is.”

Cecil dug his hand into his suit pocket, pushing an earpiece to his chest which Mark quickly caught. “Plug that in and Donald will tell you.” He stated. The grip Mark had on his collar loosened, pushing him aside as he went to grab his mask from the end of the bed.

As always, he comes running when he hears you’re out there.

"I am having a blast," This sinister version of Invincible smirked, his breathing heavy as he had you pinned to the ground. You made him work up quite a sweat, and he was getting quite thirsty. "You're so new, so fun, so entertaining, so enticing. I'm working up an appetite."

It felt like it has been ages since you were stuck fighting for your life against this man, but it has been only a couple of minutes.

Your face distorted in disgust. A hand of his was holding your two legs together so that you couldn't kick him away even though you were desperately trying to squirm your legs away from his tight grasp.

"Eat shit." You cursed, collecting the saliva that accumulated in your mouth and spitting it to his face—the wad of spit hitting the corner of his lips.

His smile faltered, before grinning again as he cooed at you. "That bitch of a mouth of yours needs work, though." Sinister Invincible parted his lips, his tongue licking the side of his face, collecting the saliva you had thrown at him and swallowing.

"You gross sick fu—hhmp!" You quickly got muffled as he had snaked his gloved fingers inside your mouth with his free hand, the taste of rubber filling your taste buds as you thrashed under his hold. You used your hands to scratch and slap his face, though that seemed to only entertain him further.

His fingers moved to feel your teeth, your tongue that tried to escape the taste of his gloves, and the soft as well as hard palate. You yelled muffled profanities, biting down on his fingers.

Your canine fangs broke through the rubber material of the glove, and he let out a small—was that fucking moan?—sound as that only served to give him more reason to push his fingers deeper down your mouth, his fingertips scooting to the entrance of your throat.

"Bite harder, cunt." He demanded, and you instinctively listened.

Your teeth pressed down on his skin, the bite breaking it as a metallic taste seeped into your taste buds joining the taste of the rubber gloves.

"Ouggh my god." Sinister Mark moaned; the pain brought by your fangs serving to be pleasurable. That hand he used to hold down your legs he shifted over to one, squeezing hard against the muscles and into the bone.

Crack!

"HHMP!" Your scream muffled into his glove, and you gagged soon after from his fingers hitting the back of your throat. The scratch and hits to his head were doing nothing to him, and you grimaced as your eyes darted around to find any way to get out of this.

You noticed how your broken leg wasn't immediately healing, like how it should be, and your eyes widen as you remembered the collar the G.D.A had placed around your neck. You had forgotten about it, and you closed your eyes as you knew what to do.

Your hands reached eagerly to the shock collar, digging your fingers between the metal and your neck as you began to tear away at it. It instantly began sending electricity through your body, riddling your body to the seizing and overwhelming pain that resembled the same sensation when you were hit with that gun. Your eyes opened, rolling to the back of your skull from the intensity.

You clenched your jaw as you continued to rip it from your neck, trying to keep your eyes open and not lose consciousness as the metal began to rip apart—the wires being revealed.

Whatever was sending the electricity was no longer contained to just your body, zapping in the air and reaching to the black and yellow Invincible that was on top of you.

The electrifying pain met him too, and he yanked his digits out of your mouth as the bolts traveled up to his entire body. You felt his weight lift off as you ripped the collar in two, gasping for air and rolling to your side.

Your body twitched as there was still electricity coursing through your body—and you felt an intense wave of exhaustion flood you.

No, I can't pass out, I need to get out of here. No, no—

You tried to resist, though black spots were already filling your vision as shapes and colors became a blur. Even then, you tried to crawl to distance yourself from the Invincible, but a sudden tight grip to your hair pulled you toward his direction.

"You disobedient bitch. Who told you to do that?" You heard a growl, the pull of your hair making you whine.

Your hair was suddenly released, feeling a strong gust of wind behind you as Sinister’s Mark voice off to the distance. You didn’t care to look back, trying to squint to see what was ahead of you.

Although your vision became increasingly blurry and you gagged from having his hand shoved down your throat a few seconds ago. You tried to sit up but failed, you head feeling heavy as it hit the ground.

You internally screamed to stay awake, but darkness hugged you. Before that however, you felt someone crouch next to you, a hand draped over your forehead as they said something to you. Whatever they said, you couldn’t tell, and you just prayed they were more of a friend than a foe another crazy Invincible.

sorry if this was boring, wanted to focus on Mainstream Mark in this one :P !!

Am I cray cray to think Sinister Mark loves dishing out and receiving pain

UMM anyway, we ignore how you can tell I’m new to writing action scenes tyyy 🫣🙈 oh also the plot holes shh

-bonsubear

[ari-ana-bel-la]

Imagine Carlos Sainz's daughter as a girl (4/5 years old), she first met Lando and loved him but then Carlos went to Ferrari and her daughter runs away just to go see Lando at McLaren (the engineers already know her) At first she didn't like Ferrari but then Carlos's daughter became fond of Ferrari and now McLaren and Ferrari in an eternal war to see who could give Carlos's daughter more merchandise (Lando arguing his right of seniority😭)

Rosso Corsa or Papaya?

The paddock had always been a second home to Yn. Ever since she could remember, she'd been in the middle of the F1 world, running through garages, charming engineers, and curling up in her Papá’s arms during press conferences. But for most of her life—well, the three and a half years that truly mattered—her home had been the McLaren garage.

That was where her Tío Lando always had time to play, where his funny friend Max would pull faces to make her giggle, and where Zak, the nice boss, would let her sit on his desk and pretend to make very important decisions. The McLaren people adored her. They called her Mini Sainz, let her play with the wheel guns, and even gave her tiny ear protectors in papaya colors.

But now, Papá was with Ferrari.

And Yn did not understand.

Ferrari was red. Ferrari was loud. Ferrari had lots of serious people who spoke fast in a language she didn’t fully understand yet. And worst of all—Ferrari was not McLaren.

So naturally, the moment she arrived at the paddock for the new season, she ran straight past the red garage and straight into the open arms of her real home.

“TÍO LANDO!” she squealed, launching herself at the British driver.

Lando caught her mid-air, spinning her around dramatically before setting her on his hip. “My darling! What are you doing here? I thought you belonged to the red people now.”

Yn pouted, resting her head on his shoulder. “No. I don’t like the red people. I like you.”

Daniel, who had been watching with an amused grin, clutched his chest. “Oh, I might cry. That’s the sweetest thing I’ve ever heard.”

Zak approached, his ever-present grin widening. “Mini Sainz, welcome home. Have the red people treated you poorly? Do we need to steal you back?”

Yn nodded seriously. “They have no ice cream.”

A collective gasp echoed through the garage.

“No ice cream?” Daniel repeated, eyes wide with exaggerated horror. “Lando, this is unacceptable.”

Lando nodded solemnly. “We have to fix this.”

And that was how Yn ended up perched on Lando’s lap, being hand-fed ice cream like a tiny princess while Daniel performed an over-the-top puppet show with two papaya-colored stuffed animals.

Meanwhile, in the Ferrari garage, Carlos was rubbing his temples.

“Where’s Yn?” Charles asked, glancing around.

Carlos sighed, pointing toward the McLaren garage, where his daughter was currently kicking her legs happily while Lando wiped a smudge of ice cream off her cheek. “Where do you think?”

Charles frowned. “Why does she keep going there? We’re her team.”

“Not yet,” Carlos corrected. “She’s still used to McLaren.”

“Well, we can’t have that.” Charles set his jaw, determined. “We’ll just have to make her love Ferrari more.”

Mattia, who had been listening from his office, walked over with a smirk. “Then we better start winning her over.”

And so, the war for Yn began.

It started small.

The Ferrari mechanics let Yn sit in Carlos’ car, letting her touch all the buttons (except the important ones) while they explained how fast her Papá could go. She was hesitant at first, but soon her tiny hands were gripping the wheel, a serious expression on her face as she pretended to drive.

Charles, the master strategist, took a different approach. He treated her like a princess, carrying her everywhere on his hip and giving her dramatic twirls when she least expected it. Yn adored it, giggling and clapping her hands whenever he spun her around.

The mechanics started playing dolls and cards with her, even going as far as painting Ferrari logos on her drawings. Mattia sealed the deal by giving her Ferrari caps, jackets, and—most importantly—sweet treats.

By the third race of the season, Yn was still running to McLaren, but now she was also allowing Charles to scoop her up and parade her around in Ferrari red.

Lando and Daniel were not pleased.

When McLaren found out about Ferrari’s tactics, they escalated.

Zak made sure she had enough papaya-colored outfits to last her a lifetime. The engineers built her a miniature steering wheel to play with. Daniel started doing magic tricks just to hear her laugh.

But it was Lando who went the furthest.

“Yn,” he said one afternoon, pulling her onto his lap, “you know I’m your godfather, right?”

Yn nodded. “Sí.”

“And you know godfathers are always right?”

Another nod.

“So if I say McLaren is the best, then that means it’s true.”

Yn frowned, considering this. “But Charles said Ferrari is the best.”

Lando gasped. “He lied to you? Yn, I can’t believe this. You have to listen to your godfather.”

Yn tilted her head. “But Charles gives me twirls.”

Lando hesitated, then whispered, “I’ll give you two twirls.”

And so the war raged on.

Each week, the teams tried to outdo each other. McLaren had toys, games, and Lando’s undivided attention. Ferrari had Charles’ affection, sweet treats, and endless fun in the garage.

Carlos, meanwhile, stayed out of it entirely, watching with amusement as his daughter collected gifts and attention from both teams.

“Are you seriously just letting this happen?” Lewis asked one day as they watched the chaos unfold.

Carlos shrugged. “She’s happy. Why would I stop it?”

It all came to a head one afternoon when Lando and Charles were mid-argument over which team Yn loved more.

“She loves McLaren more,” Lando insisted, arms crossed. “She’s literally wearing a papaya hoodie right now.”

Charles huffed. “She has a Ferrari cap on. That proves she loves Ferrari more.”

“She likes McLaren more.”

“She likes Ferrari more.”

The McLaren and Ferrari garages were backing up their drivers, throwing in their own arguments, when suddenly, Carlos, who had been watching silently, let out a sharp whistle.

Everyone turned to see what had caught his attention.

Yn was walking toward them, holding someone’s hand.

It wasn’t Lando. It wasn’t Charles.

It was Toto.

And on her head sat a Mercedes cap.

The paddock went silent.

“Papá, Toto says Mercedes has a dog,” Yn announced happily. “His name is Roscoe.”

Toto, ever the businessman, smirked. “And I told her she could meet him.”

Carlos, struggling not to laugh, just nodded. “Well, that’s it then. We all lose.”

Yn, oblivious to the existential crisis happening around her, looked up at Toto. “Can we go see Roscoe now?”

Toto chuckled. “Of course, Schatz.”

And just like that, the war was over.

Mercedes had won.

♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♥︎♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡

Authors Note: Hey loves. A little plot twist at the end. I hope you enjoyed reading this story. My requests are always open for you.

-💙🦋

[kxsagi]

can you write something with the blue lock boys where the reader just tackles them in a hug, giving them a quick big squeeze before running away giggling to themselves

“𝐜𝐚𝐮𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐥𝐚𝐜𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐠 (𝐢𝐧 𝐡𝐮𝐠𝐬)”

a/n: THE FLUFF I NEEDED

ft. itoshi rin, isagi yoichi, itoshi sae, nagi seishiro, mikage reo, chigiri hyoma, bachira meguru, kaiser michael, ness alexis, shidou ryusei, karasu tabito, otoya eita, yukimiya kenyu

itoshi rin

you tackle-hug him from the side and he just freezes like a cat that got surprised. 

“... what was that?” 

he watches you run away and roll around giggling like a gremlin and just blinks. 

pretends it didn’t affect him. but he’s dead silent for the next ten minutes with ears red and a hand over the place you hugged. 

texts you later like: don’t do that in public again. but you can do it again later. privately. maybe. 

(he secretly loved it.) 

isagi yoichi

bro malfunctions. 

like you tackle-hug him and he just short circuits, arms frozen mid-air, eyes wide. 

“huh? wait, hey! where are you going?!” 

he starts laughing halfway through the sentence because your giggles are contagious. 

ends up chasing you around like it’s tag. the moment he catches you, he returns the hug, but longer, tighter. 

“you think you can just do that and run off?” 

yes. yes you do. and you’ll do it again. 

itoshi sae

he’s scrolling on his phone, completely unsuspecting. you hug-slam him and bolt. 

he almost drops his phone. 

“... you’re so weird.” 

but he’s smiling. real soft. real fond. 

instead of chasing you, he just walks over, catches you effortlessly mid-giggle, and holds you hostage in a calm, smug hug. 

“you thought you were fast, huh?” 

you are. just not faster than sae “calm menace” itoshi. 

nagi seishiro

you run at him and squish him in a big hug and then disappear in a blur of laughter. 

he stands there with his hair flopped over his face like ??? 

“huh… was that a dream?” 

slowly turns his head and watches you wheeze in the corner. 

doesn’t say anything, just shuffles over like a lazy zombie and collapses on you with his version of a tackle-hug. 

“my turn. you woke me up for this, might as well finish it.” 

mikage reo

squealed. actually squealed. 

“babe!! what?!” 

you zoom off before he can recover, and he’s left giggling with his whole face lit up. 

immediately starts planning revenge (but like, romantic revenge. think rose petals and counter-hugs.) 

posts a blurry selfie of you running away with the caption: my heart can’t take this kind of sneak attack 😭💜 

you’re now banned from hugging him without a warning. he says this while opening his arms anyway. 

chigiri hyoma

you charge and hug-tackle him and he stumbles a bit, but catches you halfway. 

“what the hell?” 

you sprint off laughing and he just stands there… stunned. 

and then he SMIRKS. 

“alright. you wanna play?” 

you’ve accidentally started a high-speed game of “hug and run” where he catches you every time. 

it ends with both of you rolling around on the floor, laughing and out of breath. 

bachira meguru

he loved it. 

you tackle-hug him and he giggles even louder than you do. 

“wha?! hey! that was so cute, come back!!” 

immediately chases you. you’ve started something you can’t finish. 

when he catches you, it turns into a tickle war or a wrestling match. 

“let’s make it a game. whoever gives the best hug wins.” 

you’ve created a monster. a very affectionate one. 

kaiser michael

you hit him with a surprise hug and he almost trips, dramatic gasp included. 

“gott, schatz, are you trying to kill me with cuteness?” 

he watches you run away laughing and just smirks. 

“fine. you wanna play this game?” 

proceeds to stalk you through the penthouse like a hunter, waiting for his moment. 

when he does catch you, expect a long smug cuddle where you’re not allowed to escape. ever. 

ness alexis

you come flying in like a giggling rocket and tackle-hug him mid-sentence. 

“wah!! wh-what was that for?!” 

arms flail. voice cracks. man is shaken. 

watches you scamper off while wheezing, and just stands there pink in the face, clutching his chest like you stole his soul. 

“you can’t just–! you can’t do that and then RUN!!” 

stumbles after you, muttering about how “his heart can’t handle these kinds of jump scares.” 

once he catches you, he hugs you back ten times tighter and refuses to let go. 

“next time you pull something like that, i’m gluing you to my side.” 

secretly loves it. replaying it in his head for the next 3-5 business days. 

shidou ryusei

you full-on launch yourself into him like a cannonball. 

“OH?!” he catches you with a wide grin, immediately intrigued. 

you giggle and sprint away and he’s instantly chasing after you like it’s a game of tag. 

“YOU WANNA PLAY, BABY? HELL YEAH.” 

accidentally turns it into a wrestling match halfway through. 

you: “it was just a hug!!” 

him: “you touched me first, now i’m feral.” 

ends with him piggybacking you through the house, refusing to let you touch the ground again. 

karasu tabito

you tackle-hug him from behind and he jumps in surprise. 

“yo?! what the hell?” 

turns around to see you giggling and skipping away like you didn’t just send him into cardiac arrest. 

smirks and calls after you: “you better run faster than that, sweetheart.” 

starts following you slowly like a villain in a horror movie. 

finally grabs your wrist with one hand, pulls you back for revenge with a lazy smile. 

“payback’s gonna be fun.” 

otoya eita

oh you hug-tackled the right man. 

he immediately spins around and flirts back like you just proposed. 

“if you wanted to be in my arms that bad, you could’ve just asked, baby.” 

watches you scamper off and laughs to himself, clutching his chest like he’s lovestruck. 

“adorable and bold? dangerous combo, angel.” 

finds you later and sneaks up behind you with a slow, smooth hug. 

“my turn. don’t run this time, yeah?”

yukimiya kenyu

you hug him out of nowhere, and he lets out a soft “ah!” before you disappear like a thief in the night. 

stands there dazed for a second, adjusting his glasses, cheeks flushed pink. 

“that was… very unexpected.” 

lowkey dying inside. you just made his entire week. 

when he sees you again, he gives you a small smile and softly says, “thank you for the hug. i’ll be stealing one back now, if that’s okay.” 

ends up giving you the gentlest yet most heartfelt squeeze ever. 

“next time, maybe stay a little longer.”

© 𝐤𝐱𝐬𝐚𝐠𝐢