Fherys Targaryen

The Dragon Emperor

[fherystargaryen1991]

My Name is Fernando.

I am Mexican.

I am 31 years old.

Gay boy 🏳️‍🌈

Fan of Marvel, DC Cómics and Harry Potter/Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them/Hogwarts Mystery World.

Fan of Game Of Thrones and House Of The Dragón. 🔥 🐉

toast to your health.🫣

[americancowgirl19]

The Resistance Jedi

So! This is the Masterlist for my reader series where the reader is the adoptive child of Han and Leia. They’re Ben’s little sibling. I’ll try not to make it gender specific but if it is I’ll write a female and then a male version.

This will eventually be a Poe Dameron love story! There will be plenty of one shots between the reader and Poe but also plenty more that will focus on just the reader and their story!

I’m still not entirely sure how this will go but right now it’s mainly gonna be a collection of one shots compared to an actual story.

HOWEVER!

Stories marked with *** are stories you I strongly suggest you read BEFORE you read the stories that follow AFTER said one shot!

*** = Important

** = Highly Suggested

* = Recommended

The one shots will be in chronological order and while I’ll try to make most of them stand alones there are some you need to read just to get some specific info since the series will be following the same story line and shit.

I’ll also try to separate the one shots a bit so that you can gage whether you want to read with the reader as a child, teenager, adult, ect.

I’m probably over explaining shit or maybe not explaining it clearly enough. If you have questions just ask! If you want to be tagged just ask! And if you have a request for a specific scene ask!

Also! Reader is Force Sensitive! Eventual Jedi!

Seguir leyendo

[fherystargaryen1991]

LOVE IT 😍❤️

[stillwatervoid]

» This blog is male (bottom) reader centered, mostly self-indulgent, with updates that may be a little (very) inconsistent !

» I do not take requests !

↠ Mark Grayson

Now nothing’s the same (+18, Alternate Mark Grayson x Male reader / Mark Grayson x Male reader): Part 1 | Part 2

Invincible's special healing treatment

Insatiable (+18)

[lazy-ahh]

It would be cool if you wrote something for maskless mark x kryptonian!malereader

(YOU WERE) MY HOME

pairing maskless! mark grayson x (kryptonian) male reader

you memorized the exact shade of brown in mark’s eyes. the way his laugh crinkles his nose. how his hands always tremble after a fight. he memorized the way your body went limp in his arms when the kryptonite hit. how your blood looked smeared across his suit. the exact second your heartbeat stopped. (he’s not your mark. but when he kisses you like he’s drowning, you let him.)

taglist @hhoneylemon , @queermaeda , @yujensstuff , @thebatsgreatestfailure , @roryroro

your earliest memory is fire—not the gentle kind, not the warm glow of a hearth, but the violent, screaming kind. the kind that eats metal and flesh alike as your family’s ship tore itself apart in earth’s atmosphere, the heat so intense you could feel it searing your skin even through your crash harness. the scent of burning circuits and something darker, something organic—your parents, still strapped into their seats, their bodies limp and wrong in ways your child-mind couldn’t name but understood instinctively. you remember the way your throat burned from screaming, the way your fingers trembled as you clawed through twisted wreckage, your tiny hands slick with ash and something wet that wasn’t yours. then—cold grass beneath your palms, the shock of it against your skin as you collapsed in a stranger’s backyard, the night air biting at your tear-streaked face. you didn’t know where you were. you didn’t know if you were dying. you just knew you were alone.

until you weren’t.

a boy—messy-haired, pajama-clad, eyes wide with curiosity instead of fear—peered down at you like you were the most incredible thing he’d ever seen. "whoa," mark whispered, voice hushed with awe, as if you were a fallen star instead of something broken. "are you an alien?" you didn’t answer. you couldn’t. your voice was lost somewhere between the wreckage and the weight pressing against your chest, but it didn’t matter because mark didn’t wait for one. he just reached out, small fingers brushing your arm like you were something precious, and you shattered. you clung to him, shaking, gasping, and he held you back without hesitation, his arms tight around your shoulders like he already knew you needed to be held together. neither of you understood what had happened—you were both just kids, too young for death, too young for the weight of the universe—but mark didn’t need to understand to be kind. he whispered soft, clumsy reassurances against your hair, rubbed your back in slow circles the way his mother did for him when he cried, his voice wobbling but determined. "it’s okay," he kept saying, even though it wasn’t, even though it would never be okay again. "i got you."

mark always had good intentions.

after that night, you were never alone again. the grayson household wrapped around you like a second skin—debbie’s gentle hands guiding you through human meals that tasted too rich, too warm compared to the nutrient packs from your ship. nolan’s steady voice explaining earth’s customs with patient amusement when you stared too long at things like skyscrapers or television. and mark—always mark—dragging you into his world with both hands, insisting you share his bed when the unfamiliar silence of your new room kept you awake. the mattress was too soft, nothing like the firm sleep-pods you were raised in, but mark’s presence beside you, his quiet snoring, made it feel like home.

cecil came later, all sharp suits and sharper eyes, but his grip on your shoulder was firm, not cruel, when he signed the adoption papers. you even remember cecil's expression softening a tiny bit when you finally mustered up the courage to look up at him. "you’re special, kid. you could do a lot of good in this world." he’d said, and you didn’t realize then how much that would cost you. the training was brutal—learning to control the way your fists could shatter concrete, how your vision blurred red-gold when anger spiked too hot in your chest—but you endured it. not because you cared about being a hero, but because nolan had quietly told both you and mark that he would inherit powers one day. and mark? mark already dreamed of it. of soaring through skies, of saving people with that bright, fearless grin of his. "we’ll be unstoppable," he’d say, bumping his shoulder against yours, and you’d nod, because all you ever wanted was to stand beside him.

you remember the little things most: the way mark split his peanut butter sandwiches with you in the cafeteria when you couldn’t stomach the school’s mystery meat. how he’d sneak you onto the roof at night, pointing out constellations he’d misname on purpose just to hear you laugh and correct him. the winter your fingers went numb during a snowball fight, and mark—without hesitation—pulled off his gloves and pressed your hands between his own, blowing warm air onto your skin until the feeling returned. "better?" he’d asked, cheeks pink from cold, breath fogging between you. you lied and said yes, even though your chest ached in a way that had nothing to do with the weather.

and then there were the bigger moments: the first time you flew together, mark whooping as he clung to your back, his laughter vibrating against your spine. the way he’d look at you after messy, early missions—bloodied but triumphant, grinning like you’d hung the stars yourselves.

somewhere between stolen lunches and whispered secrets, between scraped knees and shared victories, you fell in love. not all at once, but slowly, inevitably, like gravity pulling you into orbit around him—helpless, hopeless, a collision course written in the stars. and the cruelest part? you never even tried to stop it.

you memorized the shape of his name like a prayer, the syllables curling soft and reverent against your tongue every time you almost said it: i love you, i love you, i love you. it lingered in the spaces between your ribs, ached behind your teeth, spilled into every quiet gesture you couldn’t stop yourself from making. the way you’d fix his suit after battles, fingers lingering a second too long on the fabric stretched over his shoulders. how you’d always bring him his favorite snack after patrol, even when he forgot to ask. the nights you stayed up late just to listen to him ramble about his day, your chest so full it threatened to crack open.

you were brave in every way that mattered—except one. the words never made it past your lips, because you knew. you knew. mark liked girls. loved them, even. the way his eyes followed amber in the hallways, the soft, dazed smile he’d get when eve laughed. you watched it all with a hollow kind of hunger, wondering if maybe—maybe—you could be the exception. if his hands, so careful when they patched up your wounds, might one day cradle your face instead. if his laughter, bright and endless, might one day be yours in a way that wasn’t just friendship.

(you remember one night, the two of you tangled together on the couch after a movie, his head lolling sleepily against your shoulder. your breath caught, heart pounding so loud you were sure he could hear it. this is enough, you told yourself. this has to be enough. but then he shifted, his lips brushing accidentally against the curve of your neck, and for one delirious second, you let yourself hope.

he didn’t even notice. just yawned and mumbled, "g’night, dude," like you hadn’t just short-circuited entirely.)

you never overstepped. never pushed. you loved him too much for that. so you stayed—always giving, always there, hands outstretched but never grasping. and mark? mark never pulled away. never acted uncomfortable. just smiled at you like you were his favorite person in the world (and you were, just not in the way you wanted).

sometimes, you wondered if that was worse.

but of course, ever the giver, you stayed. continued to pour yourself into the spaces between his broken pieces after nolan left him shattered across that mountain. held ice packs to his bruises when his healing factor was too slow, stayed awake through his nightmares when the memories of his father's fists became too loud. every life he couldn't save weighed on him like stones in his pockets, and you? you became the water that buoyed him up, whispering "it wasn't your fault" into the hollow of his collarbone when he shook apart in your arms. and when he'd look at you afterward—eyes wet with gratitude and something unreadable but familiar, mouth soft with something you didn't dare name—you let yourself pretend, just for a second, that it meant more.

but then the drift began. slow, like the tide pulling back from shore—that subtle, inevitable retreat you didn't notice until you were already standing on damp sand, wondering when the water had gotten so far away. you told yourself it was fine. normal. that this was just what happened when two people grew up and became heroes, when the weight of the world settled across their shoulders like second capes. mark was drowning in responsibilities, just like you were—global crises that left blood under your fingernails for days, collateral damage measured in broken buildings and broken families, cecil's ever-growing demands that came with that particular tilt of his head that meant refusal wasn't an option.

you'd see mark across crowded briefing rooms, the shadows under his eyes darker each time, his shoulders tensed like he was still bracing for his father's blows. sometimes your fingers would twitch with the memory of how easily they used to fit between his shoulder blades, how he'd lean into your touch like a sunflower chasing light. but in the rare moments he surfaced for air—between missions, during stolen minutes in the guardians' lounge—he never reached for you. not like before. not with that easy, unconscious trust that used to have him slinging an arm around your neck before he'd even finished saying hello.

instead, there were new distances measured in centimeters of couch space between you, in conversations that ended just a beat too soon, in the way he'd sometimes look at you like he was trying to solve an equation written just behind your eyes. you told yourself it was the exhaustion. the trauma. the growing up. you told yourself it didn't feel like losing something you'd never really had in the first place.

(you remember that particular tuesday night with crystal clarity—the way the dim lamplight caught the exhaustion in the slope of mark's shoulders as amber's name flashed across his phone screen again, the third time in forty-seven minutes. the couch cushions dipped under his weight as he slumped against you, his forehead pressing into the junction of your neck and shoulder like he was trying to fuse himself there. you could feel the frustrated heat of his skin through your shirt, could count each uneven breath that gusted against your collarbone. "she says i'm never present," he muttered, the words cracking open like overripe fruit, all sticky vulnerability. your fingers spasmed against his back, nails leaving half-moon indents in your own palms as you fought the urge to fist your hands in his shirt and scream i'm here, i'm always here, why can't you see me? instead, you traced the familiar topography of his spine through thin fabric, your palm skating over the knobs of vertebrae you'd set back in place after countless battles. "then be present, mark," you whispered, the advice settling like powdered glass between your teeth. he never knew you'd rehearsed those exact words in your bathroom mirror that morning, watching your reflection mouth them until your expression stopped twisting into something ugly. never knew you kept a mental tally of all the times you'd talked him through his relationship problems like some masochistic saint.)

you were stupid. selfish. a fraud wearing a martyr's skin. because when mark and amber finally shattered apart—when you found him sitting on your roof outside your bedroom window in the rain, his hands shaking around a lukewarm cup of coffee you'd made him just how he liked—your grief came in layers. the first was genuine: the way your throat closed at his red-rimmed eyes, the immediate urge to fix what you couldn't. but beneath that? something rotten and hungry uncurling in your ribcage, whispering maybe now. maybe me. the shame hit like a solar flare, burning through your veins hotter than any kryptonian heat vision ever could—because even as you pulled him into a hug, even as you let him stain your shirt with tears, some treacherous part of you was already calculating if this pain of his might finally turn his gaze your way.

and then—

the words hit like a kryptonite blade between your ribs, delivered with that familiar, awkward scratch at the back of his neck that you'd always found endearing. "hey, so. eve and i. we're, uh. together." mark's grin was bashful in the way that made his left dimple appear, afternoon sunlight gilding the curve of his cheek like he was something holy. your fingers spasmed around the coffee cup—the one you'd brought him back from that paris mission last year—and you took a hurried gulp, letting the near-boiling liquid scald your tongue raw. the pain was a welcome distraction from the way your vision blurred. "that's great, man," you managed, the lie sticking like wet sand in your throat. you'd gotten good at this, at stitching your voice into something steady when everything inside you was collapsing.

he didn't notice. of course he didn't. mark never saw the way your breath hitched when he touched you, never caught you staring at the place where his t-shirt rode up when he stretched. now he was practically vibrating with the need to share, knees bouncing as he leaned forward. "she kissed me after the downtown mission," he confessed, voice dropping like you were co-conspirators in this joy. "like, right in the middle of all the rubble? and her laugh—" his fingers fluttered over his sternum, mapping the phantom flip of his heart, and you thought distantly that you could chart every fracture spreading through your own chest in real time. the ceramic mug creaked ominously in your grip, but you couldn't feel the heat anymore, couldn't feel anything except the terrible, perfect clarity of this moment: mark, glowing with happiness that wasn't yours to claim, and you, committing every detail to memory like a masochist preserving their own ruin.

(≧∇≦)ﾉ☆

the sky isn't just red—it's hemorrhaging, great arterial sprays of crimson light pulsing behind thick, choking clouds that don't move like normal clouds should. below you, the streets gape open in jagged wounds, asphalt peeling back like the skin of some massive creature trying to escape its own bones. the air isn't just smoky—it's alive with the taste of burning copper and molten steel, each breath scraping your throat raw with the ghosts of a thousand shattered lives. your cape snaps violently behind you, a desperate thing trying to flee the carnage, while your heart jackhammers against your sternum with such force you're half-afraid it'll crack through and go tumbling down into the ruins below.

chicago isn't just burning.

it's being unmade.

again.

you've seen this city broken more times than you can count—watched it crumble under alien invasions, superpowered brawls, the careless collateral damage of beings who called themselves heroes. you know the drill by now: the screaming, the sirens, the way the news cameras always zoom in too close on crying children. you've memorized earth's sick little dance of destruction and rebirth, how it always stitches itself back together with temporary scaffolds and hollow promises of "never again."

but this?

this is different.

because the figures streaking through the carnage below—the ones reducing buildings to dust and civilians and heroes alike to red smears on concrete—they all wear his face. his jawline. his messy dark hair. they move with his fighting style, shout with his voice, even bleed the same shade of red. but their eyes? their eyes are all wrong. cold and chaotic where his are warm, empty where his always held that stubborn spark of hope.

none of them are your mark.

the sky weeps fire around you as you hover above the carnage, the acrid smoke stinging your eyes worse than the truth ever could. somewhere in this nightmare of broken concrete and broken bodies, the real mark fights for his life—while you're trapped here, your lungs burning with the cruel joke of it all. that in this city of a thousand twisted copies wearing his face, the most unbearable pain wouldn't be failing to find him... but reaching for him only to grasp another hollow imitation.

you don't know where your mark is. he's probably halfway across the world by now, his arm slung protectively around eve's waist as they fight back-to-back like some perfect, seamless team. while you? you're knee-deep in rubble, using your body as a human shield between collapsing buildings and innocent civilians—always the bridesmaid, never the groom. or something like that.

the irony tastes like blood in your mouth—metallic and thick, the kind that lingers after a punch to the jaw. you’d stood like this days ago in the guardians’ headquarters, your trembling fingers digging into your palms hard enough to leave crescent-shaped indents, half-moons of desperation carved into your skin. mark had been gearing up for another mission with her, his suit clinging to his shoulders in that way that always made your throat tight. his gloves smelled like ozone and sweat when you grabbed his wrist, stopping him mid-motion as he reached for his mask. your grip was too tight, your pulse too loud in your ears.

"you're always with her," you’d choked out, the words scraping your throat raw, tearing free like shrapnel. your voice fractured like the sidewalk now splitting beneath your feet, each crack exposing years of buried longing.

it all came tumbling out then—how you’d memorized the exact shade of brown in his eyes (warm, like earth after rain), how you’d counted every faint freckle scattered across his nose like constellations. how you’d give up your powers, your legacy, your name if it meant he’d look at you just once the way he looked at her—soft and awed, like she’d hung the stars herself. the confession burned worse than kryptonite, searing your tongue, leaving your mouth tasting like smoke and regret.

for one suspended second, mark’s face did something complicated—his lips parted like you’d punched the air from his lungs, his pupils blowing wide, dark with something unreadable before his gaze dropped to your mouth. your heart stuttered, a trapped bird slamming against your ribs.

you didn’t know why you’d said it. maybe it was the alcohol rex had shoved into your hands earlier, his smirk sharp as he’d muttered, "drink up, superboy. maybe it’ll make you stop staring at him like a kicked puppy." you’d swallowed it all down—the bitter drink, the bitter truth—and now here you were, spilling your guts like some pathetic, lovesick fool, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes.

mark had frozen like you’d hit him with kryptonite, his hands suspended in air, fingers still curled around the edge of his half-raised mask. the familiar crease between his brows deepened, his lips parting slightly—not in anger, but in dawning, terrifying comprehension. "what?" he breathed, voice barely above a whisper, and you saw it then—the exact moment realization struck. his breath hitched, his pulse visible in the jump of his throat, his gaze dropping to your mouth one again for one electrifying second before snapping back up, wide and startled.

in that suspended heartbeat between confession and consequence, you could have sworn something shifted behind his eyes—something warm and terrified and impossibly, dangerously like reciprocation. like maybe, just maybe, he’d been waiting for this too.

then the comms crackled to life with eve’s voice, bright and urgent, and whatever fragile moment existed between you shattered like the storefront windows now raining glass down around you. "mark? you there?"

he flinched like you'd caught him with his hands in the fire, his mask slipping into place with a sound that felt too final—like a coffin lid sealing shut. "we'll talk later," he muttered, but the words came out all wrong, cracked down the middle like his voice was splitting apart the same way your ribs were. you saw everything in painful clarity: the tremor in his fingers as they fumbled with his mask's edge, the way his adam's apple bobbed like he was swallowing back something thick and unsaid. then he was gone in a streak of blue and yellow, leaving you standing there with your heart ripped clean from your chest, still beating raw in your palms. you wondered if this was how icarus felt—watching the sun flee from him, knowing he'd flown too close.

you became a hero for him. learned to fly not because the sky called to you, but because it was where he lived. trained your fists to break bones only so you could be the one to set his afterwards. stood beside him through every battle, every loss, every quiet midnight where the weight of the world pressed too hard against his shoulders. always beside him. never with him. never the way you truly wanted—fingers laced together, mouths sharing breath instead of battlefield strategies.

now, as you wrench a sobbing child from collapsing rubble, their tiny fingers clutching at your collar like you're the only solid thing left in this nightmare, you wonder if that hesitation in his eyes meant he felt it too—that inexorable pull between you two, like twin stars caught in each other's gravity. or if you'd just shattered the best thing in your life for nothing more than a maybe.

a building groans nearby, its steel skeleton screaming as concrete rains down in deadly chunks. you move before you think, your body slamming into the structure with enough force to crack your spine. the impact knocks the air from your lungs, but you hold firm, muscles burning as you lower the crumbling mass inch by agonizing inch. people scramble free beneath you, their screams mixing with the distant wail of sirens. you don't have time to gasp before the shockwave hits—another explosion ripping through the street, sending you skidding backward through debris. smoke fills your mouth, your nose, your pores, but all you can taste is the ghost of his name.

that’s when you see him.

floating there like some half-remembered dream, blood painting abstract patterns across his cheekbones. but—no mask. no goggles. nothing to hide the way his face transforms when he sees you, his eyes widening like you’re the first real thing he’s seen in years. the moment his gaze lands on you, something fractures deep in your chest—not the clean break of a bone, but the slow, seismic splitting of tectonic plates—only to knit itself back together with golden thread when his lips part in quiet awe.

this mark looks at you like you’re the answer to a question he’s been asking his whole life. like you’re water after decades of drought, like you’re the first star he’s seen after being trapped in an endless night. his eyes trace your face like he’s memorizing it, like he’s trying to drink you in before you disappear again—and oh, god, the way his expression softens when he realizes it’s really you, like his entire body sighs in relief.

then he’s moving, closing the distance between you in a heartbeat, his hands coming up to cradle your face before stopping just short, trembling in the air like he’s afraid you’ll vanish once again if he touches you. "hey," he murmurs, his voice so tender it aches, the sound wrapping around you like sunlight. "it’s okay. i got you."

and suddenly you’re seven years old again, trembling in the wreckage of your pod, your tiny fingers clutching at the grass as the world spins too fast around you. you remember the warmth of mark’s small body pressing against yours, his arms tight around your shoulders like he could shield you from the entire universe if he just held on hard enough. the way he whispered, "it’s okay, it’s okay," into your hair like a prayer, his voice wobbling but sure.

this mark is looking at you with that same fierce protectiveness, that same unwavering devotion—but now it’s layered with something deeper, something older. something that makes your breath catch. he looks at you like you’re the axis his world spins around, like every scar on your body is a constellation he wants to worship. like he’s loved you in every lifetime, and will love you in every one to come.

a sob claws its way up your throat, raw and broken, because this—this is how you’ve always wanted to be seen. not as a sidekick, not as a best friend, but as the living, breathing center of someone’s universe. and here, in the middle of a burning city, with a version of mark who wears his heart as openly as he wears his scars, you finally are.

you let him carry you in his arms, let his fingers curl protectively around the back of your head as he tucks your face against the warm hollow of his neck. the wind screams past your ears as he takes off, but you don’t fight it—don’t even tense. your mission brief echoes dimly in your mind (neutralize all variants, show no mercy) but it feels distant now, drowned out by the steady thump of his pulse beneath your lips. let them see, you think hazily. let the whole world watch as he flies you away like something precious.

next thing you know, you’re perched on the edge of your bathroom sink, his hips slotting between your knees as he patches you up with practiced hands. he’d flown you high enough earlier that the sun could kiss your wounds closed, but he still fusses—dabbing antiseptic over the cuts that haven’t quite healed, his touch feather-light when you flinch. "still hurts here?" he murmurs, fingers hovering over your ribs. you nod, and he makes a soft, wounded noise in his throat before reaching for the salve.

you watch, hypnotized, as he cups the salve between his palms—the same way you've done for yourself a thousand lonely nights—letting his body heat soften it before spreading it across your aching skin. his fingers move with practiced ease, tracing the map of your wounds like he's reading braille, like every bruise and cut tells a story only he understands. "you know my place better than i do," you murmur, voice scraped raw from smoke and unshed tears.

his hands freeze mid-motion. when he lifts his gaze, his eyes are bottomless pools of ink in the dim bathroom light, swirling with emotions too complex to name. "of course i do," he breathes, the words spilling out like a confession dragged from his chest. his thumb finds the sharp angle of your hipbone, brushing once—a fleeting touch that burns hotter than any solar flare. "how could i not when i spent most of my life with you?" his voice drops to a whisper, cracking open like an eggshell. "when i spent years memorizing the way you breathe when you're hurting? the way you grit your teeth slightly when you're lying?"

the air between you grows thick, charged like the moment before lightning strikes. you can feel his pulse where his fingertips rest against your skin, rapid as a hummingbird's wings. the mirror fogs with your shared breath, obscuring your reflections until it's just this—just his hands on your body, his truths in your mouth, this fragile thing you've both been too afraid to name.

the confession lingers in the humid air between you, delicate as the steam spiraling from the faucet, as transient as the condensation tracing paths down the mirror. you ache to ask—how many realities exist where your fingers intertwine as more than friends? how many versions of himself experienced this moment with you? but then his calloused palm rises to frame your jaw, his thumb sweeping salve across your cheekbone with a tenderness that steals your voice. the medicine stings, but you'd endure a thousand cuts just to keep his hands this close.

"there," he murmurs, his breath ghosting over your skin like a summer breeze through open curtains. the scent of him—ozone and the faint metallic tang of blood—mixes with the antiseptic's sharpness. "good as new."

except you're anything but. you're a constellation of fresh wounds and ancient scars, your pulse fluttering wildly beneath your skin where your bodies press together. yet as his forehead comes to rest against yours, as his lashes brush your cheek when he blinks, the familiar ache in your chest doesn't feel like shattering.

it feels like dawn after endless night. like gravity finally pulling you into orbit. like the first full breath after years of drowning.

it feels like every cliché about home you ever rolled your eyes at—because home was never a place. it's the boy who learned your pain before he learned your favorite color, who carries the shape of your wounds in his hands like something precious.

the warmth of his hands on your skin feels like sunrise after decades of darkness—like finally breathing after being submerged too long. for one heartbeat, two, you let yourself drown in it, this dizzying sensation of being cherished, of being truly seen for the first time in your life. then reality comes crashing back like a fist to the gut, bitter and violent. this isn't your mark. can't be your mark. this is one of the invaders, the destroyers, the monsters who painted chicago's streets red with innocent blood. his hands may cradle you with familiar tenderness, but you saw what the other versons of him did to the city. what he's done too.

your muscles tense, fingers curling into fists at your sides. you should attack. should drive your fist through his chest the way cecil trained you to. should make him pay for all the lives lost today.

but then—

his lips quirk in that lopsided smile you've traced in your dreams a thousand times, the one that makes his left dimple appear just so. his eyes crinkle at the corners in that way you could recognize blindfolded, but there's something shattered in his gaze now, something ancient and grieving. "god, i missed you," he breathes, voice cracking like dry earth in a drought, like the words have been clawing their way up his throat for years. the sound of it—so raw, so painfully familiar—makes your traitorous heart stutter behind your ribs.

your breath catches. "what happened..." you swallow hard, fingers twitching at your sides. "to the me in your world?"

his face does something complicated. for a second, he just looks at you, his gaze tracing your features like he’s trying to commit them to memory all over again. then, softly: "we were together. properly, i mean." his thumb brushes your cheekbone, hesitant. "confessed to each other a year before i got my powers. it was... stupidly awkward. i tripped over my own feet trying to kiss you." a wet laugh escapes him, his eyes shining. "you laughed at me. then pulled me in by my shirt."

the image blooms in your mind—mark, younger, softer, his face burning red as he fumbles through a love confession. you can almost see it.

his expression darkens. "then the invasion happened. you fought—of course you did. even when that bastard pulled out the kryptonite." his voice cracks. "i was too hurt to move. could barely breathe. but you—you looked at me, right before..." he chokes, his hands tightening around yours. "you smiled. like you weren’t scared at all."

the sob tears through you like a supernova—violent, uncontrollable, leaving you trembling in its aftermath. before you can think, you're clutching at him with desperate hands, fingers twisting into the frayed fabric of his suit as if you could somehow stitch reality back together through sheer will alone. your knuckles press white against his ribs, nails biting into your own palms, but you can't loosen your grip. you'd crawl between dimensions yourself if it meant bringing his version of you home. because seeing him so broken like this... it just. hurts so fucking bad.

he collapses into you like a dying star, his arms locking around your waist with bruising intensity. his face presses hot and wet against the curve of your neck, his tears searing your skin as his shoulders shudder against yours. you feel the exact moment his knees give out, how his weight sinks into you—the great invincible mark grayson, brought to his knees by grief.

"we lose you... in every other dimension," he chokes out between ragged breaths, the words fracturing as they leave his lips. his fingers scramble across your back like he's memorizing your pulse points, your scars, the way your lungs expand with each shaky inhale. "and i feel so god damn jealous of the versions of me who didn't-" his voice shatters completely then, dissolving into something raw and wounded.

instinct takes over. your hands find their way into his hair, cradling his head as your thumbs sweep across his damp cheeks. "shhh, i've got you," you murmur into his temple, the same words he once whispered to a scared alien boy in his backyard. the irony tastes bitter on your tongue—how after all these years, you're still comforting each other through losses that never seem to end.

the salt on your lips could be from his tears or yours. you've lost track of who's breaking apart more violently, whose grief runs deeper. are you mourning the you he watched die? the mark who will never look at you this way in your own world? or simply the cruel joke the universe keeps playing—that in every reality, one of you is always left holding the pieces?

"please..." his voice cracks like a breaking spine as he drifts closer, hands hovering near your face but not daring to touch. his breathing comes in ragged bursts, lips trembling around each word. "come home with me." the raw need in his tone makes your stomach flip. "my dimension—it's quiet there, baby, so quiet. just us. no eve, no cecil, no him." his fingers finally brush your cheek, sticky with blood and tears. "we'll disappear somewhere where no one knows us. i'll build us a house with my bare hands. you'll plant those stupid flowers you love. we can even take a bunch of cats with us. i'll—fuck—i'll worship you like you deserve. please."

you want to. god, you want to. your traitorous body already leans into his touch, craving more of the warmth you've been starving for.

but—

"mark," you whisper, heart shattering at how his face lights up just hearing his name from your lips. "you've... you've killed people. innocent people."

he doesn't flinch. doesn't hesitate. just leans in until his forehead rests against yours, his breath coming in ragged, uneven puffs that ghost across your lips. you can smell the blood and smoke clinging to him, can feel the way his pulse races where your skin touches. "yeah," he admits, voice rough like gravel, thick with something desperate between shame and worship. "but i'd burn a thousand worlds to ashes before i let anything hurt you again." his hands slide down your sides, fingers digging into the curve of your waist hard enough to bruise as he yanks you flush against him. you can feel every hard line of his body, the way his heart hammers against his ribs where your chests press together. "i'm already damned," he murmurs, lips brushing yours with every word. "let me be damned with you."

you wince, hands coming up to push weakly at his chest. "mark, you're not mine—"

"i know," he interrupts, pressing his forehead harder against yours like he's trying to fuse your thoughts together. his voice drops to a whisper, raw and broken. "but i could be."

around you, the city burns. the air is thick with the stench of melting metal and charred flesh, the distant screams of the dying swallowed by the roar of collapsing buildings. somewhere beyond the smoke and ruin, your mark is fighting—whole, unbroken, untouched by the kind of grief that twists this version of him into something sharp and feral. somewhere, he's pulling eve close, whispering promises against her lips that taste like forever.

and here you are.

letting a ghost hold you.

this mark—this broken, beautiful monster—is on his knees for you.

you swallow hard around the lump in your throat. because despite the blood on his hands and the fire in the distance, you already know your answer.

oh my god, 6.1k words of pure, unfiltered angst and i am unwell over it. this one-shot clawed its way out of my soul like a demon possessed and i blacked out only to wake up with this masterpiece of pain?? i was absolutely feral writing this, fueled by spite, sleep deprivation, and the haunting echo of "what if mark loved him back but in the worst way possible? what if he did love him but never realised he did (but he did realise this in every other dimension except this one)?" and now here we are. sobbing. you probably thought this would be cute or wholesome. you probably thought, "oh, maskless mark? hot." AND THEN I HIT YOU WITH THE EMOTIONAL WAR CRIMES. but come on, it’s maskless mark—did you really expect anything less than soul-crushing, heart-stabbing, tear-your-ribs-open angst? be so for real. anyway, enjoy the suffering. i sure did. 😭💔

[fherystargaryen1991]

😍

[rayslittlekitten]

“Crush” Universe

A/N: I decided to call this whole thing the “Crush” universe because it’s really where Frankie and reader’s relationship/situation/whatever it is starts even though “Truth Is” was the first fic I wrote from this universe. Also, all the fics are written with a fem reader in mind, but because of wording, some of these fics can be read as GN!reader. Fics are listed in chronological order.

- BFF Benny (no smut, Benny Miller & GN!Reader) - Hot Ones (no smut, Benny Miller & GN!Reader) - Ain’t Got No Time For Part-Time Loving (no smut, Benny Miller & GN!Reader) - All I Have To Give (no smut, Benny Miller & GN!Reader) - Pals Before Gals (no smut, Will “Ironhead” Miller x GN!reader) - Three Strikes and You’re In (Benny Miller x OFC, Will “Ironhead” Miller x F!reader) - No Brownie Points (no smut, Will “Ironhead” Miller x GN!reader) - Crush (no smut, Frankie “Catfish” Morales x F!reader) - Punch, Drunk, Cry (no smut, Frankie “Catfish” Morales x GN!reader) - Truth Is (no smut, Frankie “Catfish” Morales x GN!reader) - Empty Space (no smut, Frankie “Catfish” Morales x F!reader) - Control (Frankie “Catfish” Morales x F!reader)

[rayslittlekitten]

Are you taking requests rn? Just came off a very trauma-filled 6 months and feel very numb and scared for the future, and kind of dreading a lonely upcoming bday. Could really use some fluffy Will x Reader if you’re able, but if not, that’s totally ok. Just thought I’d ask.

Hi I'm sort of taking requests. It's more on a case by case basis. I'm sorry you've been having a hard time the last six months and hope things are looking up for you. I wasn't exactly sure what you were looking for and honestly was going to turn down your request but then this week's @writer-wednesday prompt was released and it inspired something. I hope this brings you some comfort. 💖

A Few of My Favorite Things

A/N: This was inspired by this week's @writer-wednesday prompt to go along with the request above. As always, thank you @lovebarefootblonde for looking at this for me.

Rating: G

Word Count: ~1,260

Pairing: Will "Ironhead" Miller x GN!Reader

Plot: You planned on spending your birthday alone, but you get an unexpected guest.

Warnings: some anxiety feels?

Photo prompt:

It's gloomy and dark outside, which is apt considering that's how you feel inside. There had been a lot going on in your life these last few months and it feels a bit strange that it's all sort of behind you now. You don't know how to feel. You had been on autopilot and now, you feel nothing. At the same time, you feel a bit relieved yet also scared about what lies ahead of you. The unknown is scary. At least before, you had expectations, even if the situation wasn't ideal. Before you were scared of what you knew was coming and now you're scared of not knowing. You’re hoping for the better, but it’s still frightening nonetheless.

It's your birthday today, but you have no one to celebrate it with. It's quite alright though, because you're not in a celebratory mood anyways. Earlier, you took a stroll in the rain and then treated yourself to your favorite meal. You passed by the pastry shop on the way home and decided to pick up a little something for your birthday, but they were out of your favorite so you settled for your second.

Now, you sit down by the large window in your living room, on a blanket and pillows with a worn out book you’ve read many times before. You had intended to get lost in another familiar world for a few hours, but instead you swipe the condensation off the pane with your hand and press your forehead against the cold glass to look down at the people outside going about their day. You welcome the cool dampness against your skin as the cloudy sky casts shadows of raindrops onto your face. The traffic lights and car lights glow down below. Ocean of umbrellas crowd the sidewalks, creating a giant covering for the pedestrians. Hearing the droplets pelting against the window soothes you. The dull thuds drown out the thoughts in your head and the anxiety inside your gut.

Suddenly, you're interrupted by a knock at your door. You turn away from the street and look towards your front door. You're not expecting anyone today. You get up from your little makeshift cozy corner and rub the cold off your forehead as you reach the door. You open it up and are surprised to see your next door neighbor who is drenched from head to toe.

You chat with your favorite neighbor often, especially whenever you run into each other. The two of you started becoming friends after too many package delivery and mail mishaps, although there have been times you've thought about wanting to be more than just friendly neighbors.

"Hi, Will," you greet him. “Looks like you got caught in the rain.”

"Yeah, a little bit. My umbrella was useless,” he chuckles. “How are you?" He flashes a small smile as he pulls his jacket hood off his mostly dry blonde hair.

"I'm okay, how are you?"

"I'm doing good," he nods. "I uh, heard you coming in a little earlier. I had to run some errands but hoped you were still here when I got back. I hope I'm not interrupting anything."

"No, I was just... " you glance over at your corner. "I was just kind of lounging around. What's up?" You turn back to him and cross your arms over your chest.

"Well, I had remembered you mentioned that today is your birthday from when we bumped into each other in the hallway last week and I thought maybe I'd drop by to celebrate?" Will brings up a really wet plastic bag in his hands.

"Oh." This is definitely not what you expected. "You, you don't have to--"

"I want to," Will interrupts. "That is, if you want to too. I don't want to intrude if--"

"No, please, come in. I, I just wasn't expecting anyone today so I'm not really dressed for guests," you tell him.

"You look beautiful, just like you always do," Will's eyes soften and his smile widens.

You flash him a weak smile.

"I'm sorry, did I make you uncomfortable?" Will asks, concerned.

"No, not at all," you shake your head. "Come on in." You step aside to let your guest in.

“Let me take your jacket,” you offer.

“Thank you.” Will peels his soaked jacket off and daintily hands it to you. You shake it off a bit before hanging it on one of the hooks by the front door.

"I know you mentioned at some point that strawberry shortcake is your favorite, right?" Will asks as he puts the bag down on your kitchen counter.

"You remembered?" you ask, quite impressed.

“Yeah. Specifically from that bakery at the corner of Main and First, right?” Will starts to take the pastry box out of the bag. “I was able to nab the last one.”

He opens up the box and it has “Happy Birthday” piped on with frosting. Your eyes start to water as you watch him stick a few candles in it and light them up. It sounds silly, but this might be the highlight of your year so far. It’s just a cake and your neighbor, but with everything you’ve been dealing with, this simple gesture has you feeling a bit overwhelmed.

Will starts singing “Happy Birthday” and you feel a tear fall down your face. You immediately wipe it, hoping he didn’t see it. You feel so embarrassed, but he doesn’t make you feel silly. He just continues singing til the very end of the song and even does a little clap.

“It’s time to make a wish. Make it count,” Will adds.

You close your eyes and think about what you want to wish for before making it. Then you open them back up and blow out the candles. You look up at Will and see his eyes on you.

“What?” you ask.

“Nothing,” he shakes his head with a smirk. “I just like seeing you smile.”

Your smile widens and you let out a chuckle. It feels so good to be able to share a genuine moment of joy with someone and your heart is just about to burst.

“Here, you get to cut into it first since it’s your day,” Will hands you over the knife.

You take the knife from him and slice the cake down the middle. You cut two pieces and serve both you and Will. He offers you a fork and you take it from him. As you take a bite of your sweet treat, you close your eyes and hum. Your taste buds are very much enjoying this. Your eyes shoot open when you feel something touch the corner of your mouth. You see Will dabbing you with a napkin.

“You got a little cream on there,” he tells you. Your eyes lock for a second and you swallow your bite.

“What are you doing tonight?” Will asks. “Are you doing anything else for your birthday?”

“No, I was just going to stay in and maybe read or watch a movie. Just a quiet birthday evening,” you reply then look down at your plate and push the cake around with your fork.

“Well, I don’t have any plans and if you’d like some company, I’d love to join you in your quiet birthday evening,” he smirks. “I promise not to be too loud. Not like the guy upstairs.” He points to the ceiling and winks.

You laugh and Will’s smile reaches his blue eyes again.

“Thank you, I’d like that very much,” you tell him.

[delusionalwritingsofagay]

Could I request (if you are still taking them) a fluff fic with Archie Andrews x male reader, where they are baking together (or at least trying to) and while reader is actually trying to make something edible, Archie is being a menace in the kitchen, still trying to help, but definitely a menace.

Quality Control

Pairing : Archie Andrew x Male reader Tags : Established relationship, Fluff, himbo Archie, soft Archie Word count : 1267

The Andrews' kitchen, normally a manageable level of messy thanks to Mary Andrews' diligent cleaning habits, was currently teetering on the brink of disaster. A fine dusting of flour coated every surface – the counters, the cabinets, even the red-and-black checkered floor tiles. The cloying sweetness of sugar hung heavy in the air, a testament to Y/N's valiant, if currently failing, attempt to bake chocolate chip cookies.

Archie, God bless his himbo heart, was the catalyst for the chaos. He was, supposedly, helping. But in reality, he was a walking, talking, ridiculously distracting presence. His presence alone was enough to derail any concentration.

Y/N meticulously measured flour, carefully leveling off the measuring cup with the back of a knife. "Archie, seriously, try not to breathe directly into the flour. Or any of the ingredients, for that matter." He spoke without malice, more of playful scolding.

Archie, who was leaning against the counter a little too closely for Y/N’s flour-covered comfort, chuckled, his warm breath tickling Y/N's ear. "Sorry, babe. Just admiring the, uh, focus. You look, like, super concentrated. It's cute." He grinned, flashing that charmingly crooked smile that always made Y/N's heart skip a beat, despite himself.

Y/N sighed dramatically, turning around, leaving a faint dusting of flour on his own cheek. Archie's expression softened instantly, that familiar, tender smile playing on his lips. He reached out, his large, calloused hand gently brushing the flour away.

“You got a little… here.” Archie trailed off, his thumb lingering on Y/N’s soft skin. He can't help but admire you, as much he can't help the utter chaos he creates.

Y/N took a half-step back, fighting to regain his composure. "Thanks. Now, if you could maybe *not* admire my concentration quite so intensely, I might actually get these cookies in the oven before Jughead finishes his next novel."

"Alright, alright." Archie held up his hands in a gesture of mock surrender. He knew Y/N was trying to be serious, but he couldn't help himself. Being near him, watching him do… well, anything, really… made him feel ridiculously happy. And overwhelmingly, almost embarrassingly, affectionate. "But I'm allowed to taste-test, right? Quality control is important."

"After they're baked, Archie. That's, you know, the whole point of cookies." Y/N said, his voice laced with playful sarcasm.

Archie's brow furrowed slightly, his expression earnest. "But what if they're… bad? We can't have you eating bad cookies. I need to make sure they're good for you. For, like, safety reasons."

Y/N rolled his eyes, but a smile tugged at the corner of his lips. He knew Archie's "safety inspections" were just a thinly veiled excuse to steal bites of dough, but he found it endearing nonetheless. "Fine. But only one. And *no* double-dipping. Got it?"

Archie's grin widened, and he reached for the bowl of dough, already mixed and waiting for its turn in the oven. He scooped up a generous portion with his finger, and Y/N's eyes widened in mock horror.

"Archie!"

He popped it into his mouth, savoring the taste with a satisfied hum. "Mmm, definitely safe. But… I think they need a little more… chocolate. For extra safety." He winked, reaching for the half opened bag of chocolate chips.

Y/N snatched the bag away, holding it out of Archie's reach. "No more chocolate chips! We've already used half the bag, Mr. 'Extra Safety'!"

"Hey! I'm a *helpful* menace," Archie protested, wrapping his arms around Y/N from behind, resting his chin on his shoulder. "And a handsome one. Don't forget that part."

Y/N leaned back into his embrace, momentarily forgetting all about cookies. He loved these moments of quiet intimacy, the solid warmth of Archie's body against his, the feeling of his strong arms wrapped securely around him. "You are pretty handsome," he admitted softly, finally. It was rare he admitted, but Archie deserved praise when needed.

"Only pretty?" Archie nuzzled Y/N's neck, and he shivered slightly. "I thought I was, like, Riverdale's resident Adonis."

"Okay, *very* handsome," Y/N conceded, his voice slightly breathless. "Now, can we *please* get back to the cookies before you completely derail my baking endeavors?"

Archie reluctantly unwound his arms. "Okay, okay. But if you need any… muscle… to stir the dough, you know who to call." He flexed his bicep, and Y/N couldn't help but laugh, the sound light and genuine.

The rest of the baking process continued in much the same vein. Archie would attempt to "help," usually resulting in more mess and distraction, Y/N would try to maintain some semblance of order, and they would both end up laughing and stealing quick kisses every few minutes.

At one point, Archie decided that Y/N needed to be serenaded while he rolled out the dough. He grabbed an invisible microphone (okay, fine, it was a wooden spoon) and launched into a completely off-key, yet undeniably enthusiastic, rendition of "Sugar, Sugar."

Y/N, covered in flour up to his elbows, couldn't stop laughing. "Archie, *please*! My ears are begging for mercy."

Archie just grinned, belting out the chorus even louder. 

Eventually, after what felt like an eternity, the cookies were finally ready for the oven. Y/N carefully arranged them on a baking sheet, trying his best to ignore the small, slightly burnt pile of dough that had fallen victim to Archie's "quality control."

"Alright," Y/N announced, wiping his forehead with the back of his hand, leaving a smudge of flour on his skin. "Time for the oven. And hopefully, no lurking cookie monsters."

As he reached for the oven door, Archie stepped in front of him, taking the baking sheet from his hands. "I got it. You've done enough. Let me handle the dangerous part."

Y/N raised an eyebrow, a playful smirk on his face. "Putting cookies in the oven is dangerous now?"

Archie shrugged, his expression earnest. "You never know. Could be, like, extreme heat involved. Gotta protect you."

Y/N shook his head, still smiling. It was amazing how Archie's sweet nature made even the most mundane activities feel special. "You're ridiculous. I love spending time with you, Archie," Y/N said, squeezing his hands. "Even when you’re being a total menace."

Archie beamed, his eyes sparkling. "So, you’re saying I’m officially *your* menace?"

"Officially and irrevocably," Y/N confirmed, laughing.

Archie leaned in, his lips brushing against Y/N’s. "Good. Because I don’t plan on going anywhere."

The kiss was soft, sweet, and filled with a warmth that had absolutely nothing to do with the preheated oven. It was a kiss that spoke of comfort, of trust, of a love that had weathered more than its fair share of Riverdale-sized storms and emerged stronger for it.

They pulled apart, both smiling. "So," Y/N said, gesturing towards the oven. "Now we wait. And try not to burn down the house."

Waiting, however, was most definitely *not* Archie’s strong suit. He paced around the kitchen, peering into the oven every few seconds, as if trying to will the cookies to bake faster with sheer force of will.

"Archie, relax," Y/N said, leaning against the counter, arms crossed. "They'll be done when they're done. You’re gonna wear a hole in the linoleum."

"But I'm hungry!" Archie whined dramatically, clutching his stomach. "And I wanna taste *your* cookies! Are you sure we put enough chocolate chips in them? Maybe we should add more… like, sprinkle them on top, after they're baked?"

Y/N laughed, shaking his head. "No, Archie. We are *not* adding more chocolate chips. And you can wait like a normal, non-cookie-obsessed person."

"Fine," Archie grumbled, but he couldn't resist leaning in and stealing another quick kiss. "But you owe me extra cookies for all this suffering."

Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, the cookies were done. Y/N carefully pulled them out of the oven, the aroma of warm chocolate filling the kitchen, making it feel even more homey and inviting.

He placed the baking sheet on the counter, and Archie was immediately at his side, practically vibrating with anticipation.

"Okay, okay," Y/N said, chuckling. "Calm down, golden retriever. Let them cool for, you know, five seconds, tops."

Archie, however, had zero patience for cooling. He grabbed a cookie, burning his tongue in the process, winced for a split second, and then grinned triumphantly.

"Worth it," he declared through a slightly burnt tongue. "These are amazing. Best cookies ever."

Y/N scoffed playfully, pleased by the compliment. "Thanks. You helped a little."

"I did," Archie said, puffing out his chest slightly. "I provided moral support. And quality control. I was crucial to this operation."

They spent the next hour eating cookies, laughing, and cleaning up the kitchen, a task that was made significantly more enjoyable by the fact that they were doing it together, side-by-side, under the warm glow of the kitchen light.

As the last of the dishes were drying, Archie wrapped his arms around Y/N again, burying his face in his hair.

"This was fun," he murmured, his voice muffled.

"It was," Y/N agreed, leaning back into his embrace. "We should do it again sometime. Maybe try a cake next time?"

"Definitely," Archie said. "But next time, I'm in charge of the music. And maybe…we can build a fort?"

Y/N groaned, rolling his eyes. "Oh, please no. My ears can't take another ballad. And are we five?"

Archie just laughed, nuzzling his neck. "Don't worry, I’ll pick something… romantic. And forts are *always* a good idea. "

Y/N rolled his eyes, but he couldn't help but smile. "Shut up." He bumped Archie playfully with his hip. "And thanks for the help, you big dork."

[stillwatervoid]

Now nothing’s the same | Alternate!Mark Grayson x Male!Reader

Summary: You know it isn't your Mark the moment he steps into your room. The blood on his suit isn't his. The way he looks at you isn't right. The things he whispers aren't things your Mark would ever say. Yet, you let him stay. And more.

Pairing: Alternate!Mark Grayson x Male!Reader

Warnings: 18+, explicit sexual content, frottage, overstimulation, rimming (R receiving), belly bulging, unprotected sex, spit as lube.

Tags: any Mark variant, Reader is lowkey not okay, and he’s a virgin (so prob unrealistic sex?), Unrequited love (for original Mark), Top!Mark, Bottom!Reader.

w.c: 12.2k  |  a/n: English isn’t my first language. This is the first time I write smut so it probably sucks, but hey, I wrote 12k? How did that happen? Yikes… Feedback is appreciated—as longs as is respectful. Also, I wrote this with no particular Mark in mind, so feel free to imagine your favorite variant! The only exception is Mohawk Mark, since his unique hairstyle would immediately reveal he's not the mainstream version at the very beginning (unless you prefer to imagine the reader being dense and oblivious to that glaring detail...).I guess it doesn’t really matter. IMAGINE ANY MARK! And enjoy!!!

Ever since the news broke about cities around the world being destroyed by multiple versions of Invincible, you’ve been hiding. It’s the only logical thing to do—for someone powerless like you, there’s nothing else to do. You can only wait for the nightmare to end, for the heroes to rise victorious. For Mark to rise victorious.

So you stay in your home, clutching your phone, waiting for something—anything—to change. A day passes, and Mark still hasn’t answered your messages. He’s busy, you tell yourself, burying your face in your pillow to stifle the ache in your chest. Of course he’s busy. How could he not be? His hands are full with the weight of the world on his shoulders—fighting, saving, surviving. The news keeps reporting on the Invincibles’ rampage, updating the world daily. A stupid text message—of course Mark doesn’t have time to reply.

(You try not to think about how Mark has been pulling away from you, slowly but surely. How, ever since you confessed your feelings and ruined everything, he hasn’t looked at you the same. How you should’ve kept your heart locked tight, your love buried deep, just so you could keep him close. But you didn’t, and now nothing’s the same.)

So you wait, trapped within your four walls, your chest heavy with worry for your friends—your hero friends—who are out there risking their lives. You cling to the news like a lifeline, watching as the Invincibles tear through city after city, leaving thousands dead, all while they smile like it’s a game.

So you wait, and pray. Anxiety coils tight in your chest, pressing against your ribs until it feels like you might burst. But eventually, hunger forces you to move. You drag yourself to the kitchen, hands trembling as you fumble with the bread. You barely register the motion, your mind drifting to every terrible, unlikely scenario where Mark—your Mark—doesn’t make it. The thought alone makes your throat tighten.

It’s not good. You shouldn’t be this negative. But there are so many Invincibles, and if they’re anything like the Mark you know, then even the strongest heroes must be struggling. People will die. People you care about. And you try—God, you try—not to think about who, who, who.

Maybe that’s why you don’t hear him.

Not that there’s any particular sound to warn you. No footsteps, no creak of the floorboards. Just the faint hum of the refrigerator and the occasional rustle of the curtains by the open window.

One second, your eyes are on the bread on the counter, and the next, an unexpected voice brushes against your ear.

“Found you,” he whispers.

Your heart leaps into your throat, and you freeze, the knife slipping from your hand and clattering to the counter. Your breath hitches as you turn your head slowly.

(Vaguely, you think about Mark fussing over you like a mother hen, that familiar crease forming between his brows. “You really shouldn’t leave your window open like that,” he’d chide, voice laced with exasperation. “Anyone could get in.”

But you’d just laugh, brushing off his concern. “It’s a sixth floor, Mark. And you’re the only weirdo who does.”

I’ll always leave my window open for you, you wouldn’t say.

I’ll always be waiting for you to come, you couldn’t say.)

And then, there he is.

“Mark?” you breathe, relief crashing over you in an overwhelming wave. You don’t notice the differences—how his suit is wrong, smeared with fresh blood and viscera that drip onto your clean floor. How his eyes are too wide, too unblinking, something wild lurking behind them. You don’t see any of it. All you see is Mark standing there, safe, alive. “Oh my god, Mark.”

You rush to him without hesitation, arms outstretched, wrapping him up in a desperate embrace. You’ve been so worried, so consumed by the gnawing anxiety of losing him, that just hearing his voice, just seeing him, shatters any rational thought.

For a moment, he stiffens against you. But then, his arms lock around you with a force that nearly knocks the breath from your lungs. It’s too tight, too much, an intensity Mark has never held you with before. That should have been your first warning. But as soon as he hides his face in the crook of your neck, his breath warm against your sensitive skin, you forget about everything that seems wrong. You forget about the blood, the wild look in his eyes, the way his grip feels almost possessive. All you can focus on is the way he inhales deeply, as if he’s been starved of this—of you.

You shudder, heart pounding for reasons you can’t quite explain, and then he sighs, low and satisfied, the sound vibrating against your skin.

(“You smell really good,” Mark would murmur, crowding into your space, his nose nearly brushing your neck as he inhaled deeply. “Like, really good.”

You’d shove at his chest, face flaming despite yourself. “Christ, Grayson, you’re not a dog. Back off.”

He’d laugh—that stupid, sunshine-bright laugh that always made your pulse stutter—and lean against the lockers with infuriating ease. “Just being honest… Hey, you could tell me what perfume you use. Maybe then Amber would actually like me on our next date.”

Your chest would tighten, eyebrows knitting together before you could stop them.

“Can’t help you there, pretty boy,” you’d say, slamming your locker shut harder than necessary. When he raised an eyebrow at you, you’d flash a razor-thin smile. “Turns out it’s natural. One hundred percent me.”) 

“It’s you…” Mark whispers, his lips brushing against your neck. You hold your breath, trying to suppress the goosebumps rising on your skin, but it’s futile. His voice is low, almost reverent, and it sends a shiver down your spine. He squeezes you tighter, his arms like steel bands around you. “Oh, it’s you.” 

“Mark?” you ask hesitantly, confusion laced in your voice. “What is it? Are you hurt?” 

You try to push yourself away, hands pressing against his shoulders to create some space—because you can’t do this. You can’t handle him holding you like this, his voice hoarse and low against your neck, his breath hot enough to make you weak. You’re friends. Only friends. He’s made that much clear, and this—this isn’t fair.

But you barely manage to put a few inches between you before he whines, a sound so raw and desperate it catches you off guard. In an instant, he pulls you back in, burying his face deeper into the crook of your neck, his grip unyielding.

“Mark?” you whisper again, voice trembling.

“Not yet,” he replies, his tone pleading. “Let me hold you one more minute.” 

And you don’t have the strength to refuse him.

Yet, as the seconds tick by and he keeps clinging to you like a child afraid to let go, you can’t help but notice the things you’ve been ignoring.

Why is Mark here? Why would he suddenly show up at your apartment when he’s supposed to be out there, saving the world? Why would Mark—the same Mark who’s been keeping you in this strange, distant limbo for weeks, who barely speaks to you beyond polite conversation, who’s been looking at you with a mix of discomfort, guilt, and something else you can’t quite place—be holding you so desperately right now?

Then your attention drifts to his clothes. His suit, but not really his suit. The blood—the thick, dark blood that, now that you’re truly paying attention, doesn’t belong to him. And it’s a lot, pooling around your feet, staining your floor, soaking your clothes.

A sickening weight settles in your stomach, curling, twisting, nagging at the back of your mind. Your arms go slightly limp around him, hesitation creeping in where relief had been just moments ago. Your brain, which had felt so light, so grateful just a minute ago at the sight of him safe, suddenly flashes back to the news. The destruction. The Invincibles terrorizing the world.

And you wonder.

Finally, he exhales—a slow, steady breath, like someone bracing themselves. Then, he lets go, his hands lingering on your arms as if he’s reluctant to break contact entirely.

“Y/N…” he whispers, a wide grin stretching across his face. It’s an unusual smile, unnatural, amused when it shouldn’t. “Here’s where you’ve been hiding, huh?”

“Hiding?” you ask, unsure. “Well—I can’t really do anything else, can I?”

Mark smiles spreads. But his eyes—there’s something in them you hadn’t noticed before. Wide, almost frantic, something raw burning behind them. The dark circles under them make him look exhausted. His hair is a mess. And yet, his expression softens as he studies you, gaze tracing over every feature like he’s trying to memorize you. It’s so intense, so intimate, it nearly steals your breath away.

“What—What are you doing here?” you ask, glancing away, flustered. “Is it—is it over? The fight?”

He coos, a gloveless hand reaching for your chin to tilt it back toward him with a grip that’s firm, almost possessive. “Oh, it’s over. There’s nothing to worry about anymore,” he says, voice light, too light, too nonchalant for someone who just came from a battle. Mark doesn’t speak like this after a fight—he’s never so casual, so detached.

(Mark’s hands would dig into his hair, shoulders slumping in defeat. “I’m just—I keep fucking up.”

“You’re not,” you’d tell him, hand pressing warm circles between his shoulder blades. “You save people, Mark. Every single day—”

“Bullshit!” He’d jerk upright so fast you’d recoil, chair screeching against the floor. “More people die than I save!” He’d pace, fingers twisting in his hair. “Stop—just stop telling me I’m not fucking up! Stop trying to—to make me feel better! You don’t understand how I feel!”

Your chest would tighten, fingers curling into empty air where he’d been. “I know I don’t.”

“Then stop!”

“However—” you’d stand up as well, eyes locking onto his as you caught his face in your hands, palms pressing gently against his cheeks. Mark would freeze, his breath hitching, wide eyes locked onto yours. “However, I know the world would be worse without you in it. Just thinking about the possibility of not having Invincible on our side—it scares me. Because you’re the only one strong enough to protect us. The only one who can stand up to the worst threats.”

Your thumb would brush over his cheekbone, touch impossibly gentle.

“And I’m sorry you have to carry that responsibility, Mark. But you’re not failing. Not to me.”

His expression would crumble, his eyes glistening with unshed tears before he’d pull you close, burying his face in your shoulder. His breath would shake, and you’d feel his fingers dig into the fabric of your shirt.

Your cheeks would burn, heart stuttering, but you'd swallow your feelings and offer only the comfort a friend should.

“I’m sorry,” he’d murmur, voice thick. “I’m sorry.”

You’d breathe in, closing your eyes. “Don’t be.”)

Your cheeks burn as he tugs you closer by the chin, forcing you to look straight at him. Your hand instinctively reaches for his wrist, but you don’t pull away. You should. But you don’t. Yet, you can’t stand the weight of his stare, so intense, so close, it feels like it’s peeling back layers of you, exposing everything you’ve tried to suppress.

“Nothing to worry about?” you force the words out, trying to ignore the heat flooding your face and the fluttering sensation in your stomach. “You sure?”

“I’m sure,” he nods, his voice low and steady. Then, without warning, he leans closer again, his face burying into the crook of your neck, inhaling deeply like he just couldn’t get enough. “Oh, shit. How I missed this.”

“Mark?” you ask quietly, voice trembling despite your efforts to steady it. His breath is hot and electric against your skin. The warmth blooming in your face spreads down, coiling through your body. “What are you doing? Jesus—this isn’t like you.”

“Oh, really?” he hums, lips ghosting over your pulse. The brush of them—so soft, so deliberate—makes you shudder. “Not even a little?”

“No…” you exhale, shivering when his arms snake around your waist, squeezing hard enough to make you squirm. “No. Mark. What—what are you doing?”

Your hands reach for the counter behind you, gripping the edge tightly, desperate for something to anchor you. But Mark—his scent, his body pressed so tightly against yours, his breath burning against the most sensitive part of your throat—makes it impossible to focus, impossible to think. It’s like everything around you is spinning, and you can’t make sense of any of it.

“What do you think I’m doing?” he asks, his tone amused and teasing, like this is all some game to him.

And that finally makes you scowl, the heat in your cheeks now burning with a mix of anger and humiliation. You inhale sharply, trying to regain your senses, but an ugly feeling of shame and hurt settles heavily in your chest.

You lift a hand and push him, or at least try to, your strength no match for his. Still, he complies, pulling away with a reluctant sigh, an annoyed expression flickering across his face as he finally tears himself from you.

“This isn’t funny, Mark,” you say, glancing away, unable to bear the intensity of his stare. “Stop it.” 

“Stop what?” he complains, his fingers digging into your waist as if he’s reluctant to let you go entirely.

“That,” you snap, gripping his wrists and prying his hands off. “You can’t just—just ignore me for weeks and then suddenly show up and treat me this way. It’s—it messes with my head! It’s not fair, Mark!” your breath comes heavy, your chest rising and falling as you struggle to form the words. Your eyes drop to the floor, and you add quietly, “Just stop.” 

He’s silent for a moment, and you can feel his gaze burning into you, searching, analyzing. His head tilts slightly, as if he’s trying to piece something together.

“We’re not… together?” he asks after a beat, his voice incredulous, like the idea is absurd.

The question makes you flinch, and a fresh wave of anger surges through you.

(“I’m sorry,” Mark would mutter, his hand awkwardly rubbing the back of his neck, his eyes avoiding yours. “I just—don’t see you that way.”

You’d glance away, your lips pressed together in a tight line, trying to hold back the sting of rejection. “I’m sorry too.”

“It’s just—there’s someone else I wanna try it with.”

“I get it.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I know,” you sigh, wanting Earth to swallow you whole and disappear forever. But this is Mark, and you couldn’t bear living without Mark. “We’re still friends, right? This doesn’t have to change anything.”

He’d smile at you, his eyes creasing at the edges in the way you adored. “Yeah—Friends!”)

“Of course not!” you snap, voice rising. “You made it very clear you—you love someone else!”

You scoff, crossing your arms over your chest as you take a step back, putting some much-needed distance between you and his overwhelming presence. Was he mocking you? Playing some cruel joke?

But then again, as you pace around the kitchen, trying to hold yourself together, your eyes flicker to his odd suit, to the blood clinging to him, to the confused, almost baffled look on his face. And you think again—why is Mark here? Why, really?

Is he even Mark—

“But Y/N—” he whines, trailing after you like a lost puppy, his voice pleading, “—I would never, and I mean never look at anyone else but you!”

You frown, shaking your head. “I can’t even believe you’re saying this to me right now,” you mutter, trying to keep your voice steady. “Did you hit your head too hard fighting those lunatics?”

You don’t notice the way he tilts his head at your words, don’t catch the way his eyes darken, flashing with something unreadable.

“If you don’t have anything better to do, then just leave,” you huff, bitterness lacing your tone. “I don’t wanna—humiliate myself any more than I already have. You had your fun. So go away.”

You turn on your heel, heart pounding as you stride toward your bedroom where your phone is charging. There’s a gut feeling gnawing at you, a sensation you can’t shake, and you need confirmation. You need reassurance.

Is the Mark standing behind you even your Mark at all?

Your gut twists violently, but you can’t shake it. The second you step into your bedroom, your hand fishes for your phone, fingers trembling as you scroll through your contacts and press the button.

But Mark hasn’t left. He follows right after you, moving with an easy, unhurried stride, and when he realizes what you’re doing, a slow, knowing smile spreads across his face.

“O-ho?” he hums, amusement dripping from his voice. “My, my, Y/N, why’re you calling me?” 

His hand moves, effortlessly covering yours, fingers warm and firm over your knuckles. The phone rings—once, twice—and Mark leans in, his breath brushing against your ear, voice low, teasing.

“I’m right here, sweetheart,” he murmurs. “You don’t need anyone else.” 

Your breath hitches. The sound of the third ring barely registers before he plucks the phone from your grasp with unnerving ease. You don’t even resist—your fingers tremble as they slip away from the device. Not that it would have done anything, anyway. The fifth ring echoes into silence, then clicks to Mark’s familiar voicemail. Useless.

The air in the room shifts, heavy and overwhelming. You watch, frozen, as he casually places your phone on your desk, just far enough out of reach.

Then, the moment your eyes meet his, you know.

This isn’t the Mark you know and love.

Mark hums, content, utterly unbothered as he slides back into your arms like it’s the most natural thing in the world. He sighs, pleased, like he belongs there, like nothing’s wrong.

Maybe you’re in shock. Maybe it’s fear, or disbelief, or survival instincts.

Because you let him.

Your arms fall open, letting him settle more comfortably against you, his weight pressing into you as he nuzzles closer. His warmth, his scent, the way he holds you tight—it’s all too much. And you—weak-kneed, breath unsteady—let him.

“Are you going to kill me?” you can’t help but ask eventually, voice quiet, barely a whisper.

He makes a confused sound in his throat, the vibration brushing against your skin and sending a shiver down your spine. “Hmm—not yet.”

Not yet. You should be terrified. Every nerve in your body should be screaming for you to run, to fight, to do something other than stand there, frozen, pliant in his grip. You know he’s dangerous. You know he could snap your neck without a second thought.

Yet—a curious thing happens in your brain.

You’re not afraid. You can’t be.

Because when your eyes settle on this Mark—and he looks exactly like the Mark you know, the Mark you have feelings for—something just… doesn’t click the way it should. Fear doesn’t come. Disgust doesn’t rise in your throat. Dread doesn’t tighten its grip around your chest.

Because he looks so much like Mark. And duh—he is Mark. But not yours, and that alone should be enough to make you want to bolt. Yet—as he nuzzles into your neck, his hot breath tingling against your skin, his solid body pressing into yours with a firmness that feels both grounding and overwhelming, and the way he called you ‘sweetheart’—it all makes you want to give in to him.

The feelings you’ve buried—the ones you’ve shoved down since the day Mark rejected you, since the day you forced yourself to be okay with just being friends—are clawing their way back to the surface, stronger, faster, more consuming than ever.

“Oh yeah, you don’t have to worry though,” he says, his lips brushing against your pulse in a way that feels deliberate, calculated. “It’d be such a waste to kill you so fast. I came here for you, after all.”

His lips trail along your neck, slow and purposeful, and despite everything—despite knowing this isn’t right—you sigh, shivering at the unfamiliar, intoxicating affection. He moves upward, lips ghosting over your skin until he reaches your ear, nipping at your earlobe.

“Mark…” you breathe, eyes fluttering shut, body melting under his touch.

“Ohh, I know, baby,” he mutters, voice thick with amusement, dripping with smug satisfaction. You can feel the smirk curving against your skin. “I know everything you like. I know every inch of you. Let me show you.”

Your body betrays you.

Your mind knows better—knows that this Mark isn’t yours, that the weight of his body pressing into yours should send alarms blaring through your head. But when his fingers skim your waist, when his breath fans hot against your skin, when he sighs like he belongs here—your body doesn’t fight him.

It welcomes him.

Your hands twitch at your sides, uncertain, but you don’t push him away.

“I can’t believe this universe’s Mark wouldn’t date you,” he muses, fingers wandering, exploring, curling behind your back before cupping your ass and squeezing. A choked sound catches in your throat as heat floods through you, your knees nearly giving out. “I mean—look at you.” His voice dips, teasing, triumphant. “Barely resisting.”

You bite your lip, swallowing a sound you refuse to let escape.

He laughs then—open, mocking, and so, so cocky. “And here I thought I’d have to fight this Mark over you, but—” his grin widens, wicked and pleased. “I don’t think I have any competition, sweetheart.” His lips brush against your jaw, his grip tightening possessively. “You’re all mine.”

He starts to push against you, forcing you to walk backward until the back of your knees hit the edge of your mattress. You fall onto the bed, breathless, your heart racing as he looms over you, his eyes dark and hungry.

“Just mine, okay?” he growls, his voice low and dripping with possessiveness. “I wouldn’t let anyone else touch you—not even him. Not even this universe’s pathetic version of me.” He scoffs, his hands gripping the hem of your t-shirt and tugging it off with a harsh, almost desperate motion. “Loving someone else? When I have you? He’s a fool. He doesn’t know what he’s missing. Y/N—you have no idea how much I’ve missed you, how much I’ve—” 

He groans, biting his lip hard enough to leave a mark, his eyes raking over your exposed skin like he’s starving and you’re the only thing that can satisfy him. You shiver, a deep blush spreading across your face. It’s too much, too fast, and you feel utterly exposed as his gaze devours every inch of you. His expression twists, a mix of desperation and adoration, as if he’s memorizing every detail of your body, committing it to memory so he’ll never forget. His fingers twitch, hovering over your skin but not touching, like he’s savoring the moment, stretching it out just to make you squirm.

It’s too intimate, too intense, and for a fleeting second, you forget that he’s dangerous.

“Stop staring,” you weakly complain, turning your face away.

“Oooh, oh-ho-ho, yeah, baby, you’re just like I remember...” he laughs, his breathing uneven, his voice shaking with a wild, almost manic energy. “Yeah—I’ll never let him have you. Never let anyone else even look at you. You’re just mine—holy shit.” 

And then he dives.

His lips crash into yours, claiming rather than kissing, his entire body pressing you down into the mattress, forcing your legs open. It’s desperate, feverish—starving. His tongue pushes past your lips, stealing your breath, and you moan into his mouth, eyes squeezing shut as you struggle to keep up with his messy, frantic rhythm. He kisses you with a ferocity that leaves you dizzy. He groans and growls against your lips as his hands roam your body, gripping and groping every inch of exposed skin. His fingers brush against your nipples, teasing and possessive, and you can only take it, breathless and overwhelmed, your mind spinning as he claims you in every way he can.

“Yeah, baby, keep making those sounds for me,” he murmurs against your lips before diving in again, swallowing every breath, every whimper like it fuels him. “So, so good. Fuck, you have no idea—it keeps me going.”

Your breath stutters as his fingers pinch your nipple, hard enough to make your back arch, a sharp gasp escaping your lips. His free hand fists in your hair, yanking your head back to expose your throat as he grinds his hips down. Your legs part without a second thought, welcoming him, urging him closer until he’s right there, pressing into you, slotting himself between your thighs.

“That’s it, spread wider for me,” he pants, voice dripping with dark approval. “You’re still so good, fuck.”

Your lips burn, swollen and tingling from his kisses, and when you blink up at him through your lashes, you catch the glint in his eyes. His pupils are blown wide, the usual warm brown of his eyes swallowed by something feral. That smirk—all sharp teeth and predatory hunger—should terrify you. Because the Mark you know has never looked like this before. This unhinged and unsteady. It’s a sharp, gut-wrenching reminder—this isn’t your Mark. This isn’t the sweet, awkward Mark who you fell for, the one you trusted. This Mark is wrong, a twisted mirror image, and you should be fighting him, shoving him away, clawing your way out even if it’s futile—

But then he leans down and presses the softest, faintest kiss to the tip of your nose.

And your mind blanks.

Because holy shit—Mark, the man you’ve been pining over for months, years, is kissing you. And it feels so good, so intoxicating, it messes with your head, scrambles your thoughts into something dangerous.

You know it’s wrong. You know this isn’t him. It’s like pouring your feelings into a stranger, a shadow wearing his face. But fuck—this Mark grinds against you, slow and deliberate, and you feel him, the hard press of him against you, thick and aching with want.

You gasp, body tensing, startled by how badly he wants you.

“Ohh, baby,” he whines, voice thick with desperate need, like he’s been starving for this moment for lifetimes. His fingers dig into your hips hard enough to leave bruises, marking you as his. “Let me—” His hips roll again, dragging his thick length against your own, and you choke on air. “Let me make you feel good. Let me make you come, please, baby, please.”

Teeth scrape along your jaw before finding that sweet spot beneath your ear—the one you didn’t even know was sensitive—and you arch off the bed with a broken moan when he sucks harshly at the skin. His lips, his tongue, his teeth—he maps every inch of you like he’s memorized you, like he already knows every single weak spot before you even realize them yourself.

“Please? Please?” he keeps begging, voice so raw, so desperate, so utterly pathetic it makes you dizzy.

And you—you’re still too caught off guard to react properly. Because Mark—your Mark—never looked at you like this. Never even wanted you like this. But this Mark? He’s rutting against you like an animal in heat, his massive cock straining against his suit as he whimpers your name, making your head spin.

It’s wrong. It’s so, so wrong. Because Mark rejected you. Because you told yourself you’d be fine with just being friends. Because this isn’t even him—just the evil, dangerous version of him.

(Mark would slip into your open arms, his body heavy with exhaustion.

“I just—I’m scared,” he’d admit, voice muffled against your shoulder. “Scared of turning into my father. Scared of hurting people. And after everything with Angstrom…” his voice would trail off, fingers twitching against your back like he’s afraid to hold on too tightly.

You’d run a soothing hand along his spine, grounding him. “What do you mean?” you’d ask, gentle, coaxing him to keep talking.

“He—he talked about me like I was a monster,” Mark would whisper, voice tight. “Like there’s a version of me out there who destroyed everything. A version of me who’d kill everyone I love. A version of me who’d… destroy you.”

A slow, quiet exhale would leave your lips. “But you’re this Mark,” you’d remind him. “You’re my best friend. And you’d never do that.”

There’s a beat of silence. Then, slowly, Mark would sags against you, burying himself deeper into your warmth.

“Yeah,” he’d murmur, barely more than a breath. “Never.”)

But when you move—when you grind up into him, your body answering before your mind can stop it—he makes a noise, something between a groan and a sob, and it’s so wrecked, so full of relief it makes your stomach twist.

Your arms loop around his neck, dragging him closer, pressing your bodies so tight together you can feel his heartbeat hammering against your own. And when his teeth sink into your throat, sucking so hard you know it’s going to bruise, a sharp, broken sound escapes your lips.

The room burns around you, filled with the obscene sounds of his desperate whines and your shaky gasps, the slick friction of fabric between your joined bodies.

“Yeah—” you gasp, nails raking down his back as pleasure coils tight in your gut. “Fuck, Mark, just—Do it. Do it.”

He groans, deep and guttural, a sound so full of possession it sends a sharp pulse of heat down your spine. Then his teeth sink into your neck again—hard enough that you know he’s breaking skin. And when his tongue licks the wound, sucking the blood like he owns you—you know he’s got you.

Your mind fractures into white-hot static as every rational thought—the blood crusted on his suit, the madness in his eyes, the thousands he’s slaughtered, the fact this isn’t your Mark—dissolves into primal need. Nothing exists but the electric pleasure coiling tighter in your gut with each desperate grind of his hips.

“Mark,” you sob, voice breaking as your body arches against him of its own volition. Your fingers twist in his hair, pulling him closer. “Oh god, Mark. Fuck. Mark.”

A guttural snarl vibrates against your throat as he claims your mouth again, his tongue pushing past your lips in a violent mimicry of what his hips are doing against yours. The growing dampness between your thighs should shame you, but all you can focus on is the delicious friction, the way his teeth scrape your bottom lip when you moan too loud.

But it’s still not enough.

Not with these fucking clothes between you, not with the way you’re both rutting against each other like wild animals, frantic and insatiable. It’s maddening. You need more.

Your nails claw at his back, at his suit, needing to feel his skin the way he’s feeling yours.

“Get it off,” you manage to gasp between feverish kisses. “Please, Mark.”

With a dark chuckle that sends shivers down your spine, he rears back just enough to grip his suit’s collar. The fabric shreds like tissue paper beneath his strength, revealing sweat-slick skin you immediately map with trembling fingers. His pupils blow wider at your touch, chest heaving as he crushes you back into the mattress.

“Oh yeah, Y/N...” he purrs, his voice thick with satisfaction as his fingertips trace the dark marks blooming across your neck like bruises. Proof that you belong to him. “Bet this universe’s Mark never made you feel this way, did he? Never touched you like this?” his grip tightens suddenly, making you gasp. “I’m the first, aren’t I? The only one who’s ever had you like this?”

You whimper, nodding without thinking, legs locking tight around his waist, keeping him close, keeping him there.

His grin stretches, wild and triumphant. “He doesn’t know what he’s missing,” he murmurs, his hand trailing down with agonizing slowness—down your neck, across your heaving chest, brushing over your sensitive nipples, gliding down your stomach... Until, finally, his fingers settle between your legs, pressing against the thick, aching bulge in your sweatpants, squeezing just enough to rip a needy moan from your lips. “Look at you,” he breathes, eyes wild with possessive hunger. “So fucking perfect for me. So ready to be mine. Does your Mark know what a desperate little thing you are? How easily you fall apart under my hands?”

His smile tilts, both awestruck and predatory. Then, he leans in until his lips brush yours, his hand working you through the fabric with rough, perfect strokes that have you trembling.

“So hard just for me,” he murmurs against your mouth. “He could never make you feel like this. Never touch you like I do.” His teeth graze your bottom lip. “He could never compare. I’m better, I’m stronger—”

He peppers kisses along the corner of your mouth, your flushed cheeks, tender and teasing, a sharp contrast to the way his pace quickens—faster, rougher.

“—I could make you feel even better,” he purrs, pressing his lips against your ear, voice so low, so filthy it makes you shudder. “Make you scream my name, so loud and clear, maybe the other Mark could even hear you.”

Your breath stutters, a deep moan slipping from your lips, body twisting under his touch.

“Ohh, you’d love that, wouldn’t you?” he chuckles, breath warm against your neck, teasing, taunting. “You’d love to let him watch. Love to let him see you break for me. Let him realize what he’s lost—what he’ll never have again.”

His voice dips lower, sinking into something darker, something twisted.

“You’d let me fuck you in front of him, wouldn’t you?”

Your body jolts, heat flashing through you in a violent rush, shame curling in your stomach like a vice.

“N-no—!” you gasp, eyes squeezing shut, face burning with humiliation. “No, I wouldn’t—”

But your body betrays you. Trembling, surrendering, completely giving in—your hips rut desperately against his hand, your pre-cum soaking through the fabric, staining it.

“Liar,” Mark breathes against your swollen lips before crushing them again in a kiss that’s hot, rough, and bruising. “I can feel how much you want it. How much you need it.”

His thumb presses cruelly against the head of your cock, rubbing slow, torturous circles through the fabric, making you see stars. Your whole body jolts, a strangled gasp tearing from your throat.

“Maybe I should drag him here,” he whispers, grinning against your lips. “Make him watch as I fuck you so good, you forget he’s your Mark Grayson. Make him see how perfectly you take me—how you were always meant to be... ours.”

You shake your head frantically, words lost between your ragged gasps. “No—”

But your back arches, cock throbbing obscenely against his palm. The more he whispers these filthy fantasies, the harder you get, hips stuttering, desperate and eager, seeking more, more, more, as his words sink deep into your brain, filling you with something forbidden, something wrong—something you like.

The pressure builds unbearable. His fingers move with ruthless precision, stroking, squeezing, dragging you to the edge, pulling sounds from you that should be humiliating—but you can’t stop.

Then you think about it. About your Mark. The one who’s still out there, fighting, struggling, exhausted and worn down. You think about what would he think. What would he do if he saw you like this. You imagine your Mark’s confused face watching—the horror in his eyes as he sees you come apart under his doppelgänger’s touch, moaning and whimpering like some cheap slut desperate for any version of him.

“Mark,” you sob as waves of shame and pleasure crash over you. “Mark, Mark—”

Mark exhales a breathy chuckle, eyes dark with fascination. “Oh-ho-ho. That’s it, baby. I’m here. I’m right here.”

And then it hits you.

White-hot pleasure blinds you completely as you spill in your sweatpants like some untouched virgin, his name tumbling from your lips in a broken prayer. Your body arches violently, convulsing as your legs clamp around his waist like a vice. Your hands claw at his shoulders, anchoring yourself to him, to this moment, to reality itself.

“Jesus…” he exhales, almost in awe, his grip tightening possessively. “My god… so perfect.”

You’re reduced to a trembling, gasping mess—shaky legs, toes curling, vision whiting out as the aftershocks rip through you. Mark watches it all with a smug, hungry smirk, his eyes locked onto your face, drinking in every twitch, every quiver like he’s trying to memorize it, to brand it into his mind.

“Yeah—let it out, Y/N,” he whispers, voice thick with satisfaction. “I did this to you. I made you feel this good.”

(“Does that feel good?” Mark would mutter into your ear, his hands still working awkwardly at the knots in your back.

You’d groan, face mushed into the pillow. ”Yup. Feels good. Really good.”

“I still can’t believe you’re making me do this,” he’d grumble, brows pinching together.

You’d stifle a laugh, eyes fluttering shut. ”You lost the bet, Grayson. Now keep massaging my back. My muscles are still wrecked from all the damn work you put me through covering you at Uni.”

“William never complains.”

“Because William sucks at covering! The only reason you’re not suspended is because I’m just too good at lying—Oh! Yeah! Right there, don’t stop,” you’d sigh, melting into the mattress. ”Oh my god, yes…”

His hands would freeze, fingers pressing hesitantly into your skin. ”…Can you stop making those sounds?”

“What sounds?” you’d murmur, half-dazed.

Mark would be quiet for a beat, then resume with a sigh. “Never mind. How about this? Does that feel good?”

“Mmmh, holy shit—yes!”)

Finally, you sink into the mattress, chest rising and falling in desperate, uneven breaths as your climax wears off. Your head falls back against the pillows, glazed eyes barely tracking Mark’s movements. His fingers leave the bulge in your sweatpants, moving to your waistband, fumbling briefly before tugging your sweatpants and underwear down, inch by inch.

“Just let me take care of you,” he mumbles, dazed. “Always gonna take care of you.”

The cold air bites at your oversensitive cock as he yanks it free, his pupils blown wide as he stares at what’s his. Before you can even process the exposure, Mark flashes you a wicked grin before his lips wrap around your cock, hot and wet and devastating. Your hips jolt, body convulsing at the sensation. His tongue swirls, savoring, exploring, a deep groan rumbling in his throat as he tastes you. The overstimulation is unbearable, electric. A strangled, pathetic cry rips from your throat as your hands fly to his head, fingers tangling in his hair, trying—failing—to push him away.

“Mark!” you jolt, thighs snapping shut around his head, trembling, squeezing, clutching. “Oh my god. Oh my god—oh my god. No—”

A deep, satisfied groan rumbles through him, vibrating against your cock and making you yelp. His hands pin your thrashing hips down, holding you there, making sure you take it.

“Mark—”

“Mine,” he snarls between filthy, wet sucks. “Gonna taste every fucking drop.”

The overstimulation borders on painful as he works you ruthlessly through your sensitivity, your cries growing increasingly broken. And yet, somewhere beneath the overwhelming pleasure, a traitorous part of you preens at being so desperately wanted.

Wanted. By Mark. Not your Mark, not the one who’d gently rejected you, but a Mark all the same. A version from some twisted reality who’d torn through dimensions just to claim you. And it sickens you—the satisfaction curling in your gut, the twisted pleasure of knowing that somewhere, in some reality, Mark has always wanted you. Craved you. And if he’s here, willing to ruin you, to unravel you with nothing but his mouth, then who are you to stop him?

His tongue works you over with filthy precision, hot and wet and perfect in ways you’d never dared fantasize about. You writhe beneath him, sheets twisting in your fists, as your gaze drops to where he’s sucking you off—Mark Grayson, on his knees for you, eyes close in joy. The sight alone punches a broken noise from your throat.

“F-fuck—!” you arch violently, tears spilling as pleasure crests into near-pain. “Fuck, I can’t—Mark, please, I can’t—!”

Finally, he lets you go with a slick, obscene ‘pop.’ He pants, breath heavy, lips red and wet as he leans over you. You’re gasping too, your chest rising and falling in erratic bursts, your body trembling like you’ve run yourself into the ground.

Mark watches you, gaze trailing over your flushed skin, your wrecked, tear-streaked face. And then he grins.

“I love you like this,” he murmurs, voice rough. His thumb swipes at the wetness on your cheek. “Love it when you cry.”

(“I hate when you cry,” Mark would say, his thumb brushing a tear from your cheek. ”I hate it even more when it’s me who made you cry.”

You’d slap his hand away, face twisting into a scowl. ”Shut up, Grayson. How dare you—how dare you act upset.” Your voice would shake, anger sharpening every word. ”You can’t even say sorry. Can’t even fake an excuse for why you’ve treated me like this, ignoring me for months… And don’t try to deny it—William noticed too!”

He’d wince, eyes darting away. ”I can’t—I can’t say it.”

“That you’re sorry?” you’d scoff, disbelief dripping from the words.

Mark would bite his lip, shaking his head desperately. ”No! Of course not. It’s—the reason.”

“The reason you’ve been pulling away?” you’d snap, swiping the back of your hand across your wet cheek. Then, it would hit you—heart lurching. ”Is it… because I confessed? I thought we were past that. That we’d still be friends no matter what…”

Your voice would crack, gaze dropping to the floor.

Mark would flinch, shoulders slumping in defeat. ”It’s part of the reason.”

“I don’t understand,” you’d murmur, voice breaking. ”You said it didn’t matter. You promised it wouldn’t change anything.”

“I don’t understand either,” he’d admit, hand scrubbing roughly through his hair. ”Just—just give me time. I need to… figure some things out.”

“You won’t even tell me?”

Mark would press his lips into a tight line, guilt flashing across his face as his gaze caught on your tear-streaked cheeks. ”I can’t.”)

A helpless sob rips from your throat as he surges forward, capturing your bruised lips in a desperate, feverish kiss. He moans into your mouth, deep and needy, and you can taste yourself on his tongue—hot, salty, intoxicating. The realization only makes you burn hotter.

Then, a moan rattles in your chest as his free hand trails lower, fingers teasing where you’re most sensitive. Your gasp is sharp when one presses against your entrance.

“W-wait—” you huff, shaky hands pressing against his broad shoulders. “No… I’ve never—never done this…”

Mark freezes, his expression shifting from surprise to something terrifyingly euphoric. “Oohh, Y/N can you get any more perfect for me? My god—not even in my universe were you a virgin.” He chuckles, low and dark. “Were you saving yourself for him? Hoping he’d finally see you the way I do? He’s such a fool—But I will make you feel good. I’ll make you feel so good.”

As he speaks, his hands roam, gripping your thighs with an iron hold before pushing them up—forcing you open, leaving you vulnerable beneath him. Your face flushes with embarrassment and arousal, your hands instinctively gripping the sheets tightly at the sheer obscenity of the position. He flashes a playful grin, his breath warm against your ass, causing you to gasp and breathe unevenly.

“What— What are you doing?” you stammer weakly, squirming uncomfortably, peering down with shame as Mark leans over your hole, a wide smirk across his face. You realize a second too late was he’s up to. “Wait, wait—Oh my god!”

Your back arches, mouth letting go a deep, throaty groan and your eyes rolling back when Mark inserts his tongue, licking and lapping at the inner walls of your hole, sucking and nibling and kissing. Your head throws back against the pillows, skin burning so hot you swear you’ll melt into the sheets. The sensation is overwhelming—Mark’s hot tongue delves between your cheeks with shameless enthusiasm, licking and probing with obscenely wet sounds that make you squirm uncontrollably. You writhe in delicious contradiction, torn between pulling away and pressing deeper into his merciless mouth.

“Mmh, look at you—” Mark pants between greedy licks, his voice thick with arousal. “That’s it. Let me hear how good I make you feel.”

You’re beyond responding, your hips stuttering and your asshole clenching and unclenching with the unfamiliar, yet intoxicating sensation. The pleasure is so intense you bite your lip raw trying to contain the filthy sounds fighting to escape. It’s useless, though, because Mark keeps eating you out and it only takes a few minutes of this sweet torture until you start whimpering and mewling like a little whore.

“F-fuck—!” the curse tears from your throat as your toes curl and back arches off the bed. Your cock stirs back to full hardness, dripping pathetically against your stomach. “Fuck—Mark, my god! Don’t stop, fuck—Oh my god—”

You’ve never been touched like this before—it never even crossed your mind, not even in your wildest fantasies. But damn, it’s the best thing that’s ever happened to you. Who would have thought that being pleasured like this could feel so incredibly good? You might just climax right then and there with Mark’s warm, skilled tongue working its magic, and you’d die happily. Your erection is unbelievably hard, leaking pre-cum onto your stomach, but you don’t dare touch yourself because you’re too busy gripping the sheets for stability.

But then Mark pulls away, and you moan and whimper with need, trying to tighten around him in an attempt to draw him back.

Mark smirks and chuckles, and you feel your cheeks heat up in embarrassment at your own lewdness.

“God, baby, you’re so perfect for me,” Mark rasps, pulling back just enough to loom over you. His lips glisten with your taste, his breath coming in ragged bursts. “Look at you—already falling apart just from my mouth. Think you’re ready to take me, sweetheart? Think that pretty little hole can handle my cock?”

You hadn’t noticed before, too lost in the haze of pleasure—but Mark’s hips have been moving restlessly the whole time, fucking the air with desperate, instinctive thrusts as he devoured you. Now, as he looms over you, you can feel him, hot and throbbing, grinding against your thighs through the thin fabric of his suit. And fuck—he’s massive. Even through the material, you can feel the sheer size of him, the way he twitches with every needy thrust. And yeah—his mouth has left you slick, loose, ready to be filled—but shit. Viltrumites have monster cocks, and it scares you.

And yet—and yet, as Mark moves against you, teasing, testing, making sure you feel the sheer girth of him even through fabric, all you can feel is hunger, a desperate need.

So, huskily, with glazed eyes, you whisper, “Yes, Mark. Yes.”

He doesn’t make you beg twice. One hand tears the remaining suit away like tissue paper, his cock springing free—thick, veiny, and already leaking. The flushed tip bobs against your thigh, leaving a sticky trail as your breath catches.

“Fuck, Y/N—” Mark’s voice breaks as he strokes himself, his wild eyes drinking in every tremble of your body. “You have no idea how long I’ve waited for this. How many nights I dreamed of this moment. You—here, with me again.” His breath shudders, his grip tightening. “Had to find you. Had to make you mine again. I missed you. I missed you.”

His feverish rambling sends your pulse into overdrive, and for one fleeting moment, you wonder about that other life—what version of you could make a man this desperate, this feral with need? What was their relationship like? How did it end? How did Mark end up here, in your universe, searching for you? But then Mark’s strong hands are spreading your thighs wide, his body settling heavily between them, and all coherent thought evaporates in a rush of dizzying arousal.

Shit, shit—Mark Grayson, the boy you’ve been in love with since eighth grade, is about to fuck you. And shit—that thought alone makes your cock ache, your hole clench with anticipation, even as your mind screams that this isn’t your Mark. Your real Mark is probably fighting for his life somewhere. Maybe even dying. And here you are, letting his evil counterpart have you—willingly.

That makes you a horrible friend. You’re disgusting. A traitor. You’re giving in to every dirty fantasy you’ve ever had, every longing you’ve buried for years, all because this Mark—the wrong Mark—looks at you with the hunger you’ve always dreamed of seeing in your Mark’s eyes.

It’s sick. It’s twisted. You’ll never be able to look your Mark in the eye again. Guilt twists in your gut, heavy and suffocating.

You should stop.

You should have never let it go this far.

But then—

“Shh, baby, I got you,” this Mark whispers, shattering your spiraling thoughts. His voice is soft, almost reverent, as he lines himself up. “I got you. Gonna make you feel so good.”

You shiver, heat flushing your skin as his cock presses against your entrance, thick and hard and real. Instinctively, your legs wrap around his waist, locking behind him, pulling him in.

Mark groans, deep and satisfied, his fingers pressing into your thighs as he grins down at you.

“Fuck, yes,” he hums appreciatively, running possessive hands along your trembling thighs. “You’re so good, Y/N. So good.”

His fingers dig deep enough to leave bruises as he drinks down every gasp, every shudder of your oversensitive body like a man starved. And just when desperation coils in your gut—when the teasing pressure at your entrance becomes unbearable—Mark sheathes himself inside you in one brutal thrust.

“Fuck—!” your cry shatters the air as your body bows taut, back arching off the bed. The stretch burns, his thickness forcing you open in ways that make your vision whiten at the edges. “Fuck, fuck, fuck—”

He’s massive, painfully so. You can feel every ridge, every vein as your body struggles to accommodate him. It’s too much—you’re certain he’ll split you in two.

And yet... The fullness is intoxicating. It burns. It aches. But it also satisfies something deep within you, a primal need you hadn’t even realized was there. Tears prickle at your eyes as you clench the sheets, overwhelmed by the sheer reality of Mark Grayson buried inside you.

“Fuck...” Mark’s voice is guttural, dripping with satisfaction as he bottoms out. “God, you’re tight.” His hips grind deeper, wringing a broken whimper from your throat. “Taking me so perfect—fuck, you feel incredible. Like you were waiting just for me.”

And then, slowly, oh so fucking slowly, he begins to pull back out, dragging a wrecked moan from your lips. Your fingers clutch at his shoulders, desperate for something solid, something to hold onto as he sets a rhythm, each movement sending heat curling through your veins.

“That’s it,” Mark pants against your neck, his breath scalding as he inhales your scent like an addict. “Just like that… you’re perfect. Nobody else could take me like this.” His teeth graze your pulse point possessively. “Only you. Only mine.”

The next thrust is deeper than the last, stealing the breath from your lungs and making your hips jolt up instinctively, a surprised sound catching in your throat.

“Oh god, Mark,” you whine, nails digging into his back, voice breaking on a breathy moan. “Ah—ngh—fuck—”

The agonizingly slow drag of his cock has your vision swimming, pain and pleasure blurring into one overwhelming sensation. He’s so thick, so long, so heavy inside you. Every time he pushes in, it feels impossibly deeper, stretching you, filling you—until it makes your stomach bulge slightly, a small bump appearing in the flat plane of your abdomen.

Mark groans, eyes going wide, his hand settling at the base of your belly. “God, look at you,” he breathes, awed. His fingers press into the bulge, tracing the outline of himself inside you. “Fuck, I’m buried so deep in you. Right here, Y/N—you feel that? That’s me claiming you. Oh-ho-ho, goddamn, look what I do to you.”

His dark chuckle vibrates against your skin even as awe colors his voice. He punctuates each word with a punishing thrust, fingers digging into the visible outline of himself inside you like he wants to brand the shape of his possession into your flesh. And you can’t look away either—because holy shit, this is the first time you’ve ever felt anything like this, and it’s almost too much. Too intense. Too consuming.

Tears streak down your flushed cheeks as your legs tremble violently. The initial pain has melted into overwhelming pleasure, your body adjusting to his impossible size with desperate, shameful eagerness.

“More,” you rasp between gasps, arching up shamelessly. “Faster. Harder. Please—”

Mark chuckles darkly, burying his face in the crook of your neck, inhaling deep. “Yeah, sweetheart,” he murmurs, voice thick with hunger. “Gonna make you feel good. Gonna ruin you for anyone else.”

The dark promise in his words should terrify you. Instead, it sends another pulse of white-hot pleasure straight to your aching cock. Then he moves—harder, faster—tearing the air from your lungs, leaving you breathless and reeling. Your body clenches around him, every nerve alight as a broken whimper escapes your lips.

“Mark—Mark—” you mumble his name between gasps, unable to form anything else. “Mark, ah—Mark—mmh—fuck—”

A sharp cry rips from your throat as Mark shifts his angle, hitting a spot inside you that sends a violent shudder through your entire body. Heat surges down your spine, forcing you to arch off the bed, toes curling, every nerve alight with raw, electric pleasure.

“Fuck! There! Mark—ngh—fuck!” you moan, biting down on your lip so hard you taste the faint tang of blood. Mark growls, his movements deep and unrelenting, each thrust pressing you further into the mattress. The bed creaks beneath the force, your skin burning where his grip tightens. “There! Keep going! Fuck, it feels so good—Mark!”

Then—through the haze of heat, through the sinful sounds of skin against skin, of your wrecked moans and his low, animalistic groans—something intrudes. A sharp, buzzing vibration. Your ringtone.

Your eyes flutter open, hazy and unfocused, flickering toward your desk—just a few feet away, where Mark tossed your phone. You’re aware the screen glows, the sound ringing in the background, before another brutal thrust wipes all coherent thought away. Let it ring. Nothing matters except the way Mark’s splitting you apart, remaking you as his with every snap of his hips.

The phone rings and rings… then stops. And you don’t even notice when it goes silent, too preoccupied with the drag of Mark’s cock inside you, the way your nails sink into the broad expanse of his back, leaving behind deep, angry marks.

“Perfect,” Mark rasps against your ear, his voice wrecked and reverent, “Taking me so fucking good, Y/N. Made for this. Made for me.”

Your thighs shake violently around him, toes curling as his filthy praise reduces you to nothing but lustful moans and pleading whimpers.

Then—your phone starts ringing again.

This time, Mark notices.

He stills inside you with a low snarl, his body tensing as he straightens slightly, casting an annoyed glance toward the device. But when he reaches for it—his cock still buried deep inside you, making you whimper—his expression darkens with wicked amusement as he reads the caller ID.

“Well, well,” he purrs, looming over you once more, planting one hand beside your head while the other dangles the phone just inches from your flushed, dazed face. “Take a look at this.”

Your stomach drops at the familiar name flashing on screen. It’s Mark—your Mark—calling you.

“Should we answer it, baby?” he muses, tilting his head as his lips curl into a smirk. “Let him hear what you sound like when you’re properly fucked?”

“No—!” you gasp, wrecked and breathless, your heart hammering against your ribs as you reach for the phone, desperate to snatch it from his grasp. “Mark—”

But he’s quicker.

“Ah, ah,” he tuts, lifting a single finger in mock reprimand, effortlessly keeping the phone out of reach. His other hand tightens around your hip, keeping you pinned. “You need to get your shit together first, Y/N. Wouldn’t want him to know what you’re doing, now would you?” His eyes gleam with wicked delight. “With that pornographic little voice of yours—so wrecked, so needy for my cock…” He leans in, his breath fanning over your ear. “I bet he’d figure it out immediately.”

A shudder rips through you.

Your vision blurs—tears welling at the edges, cold fear twisting deep in your gut. But worse—worse—is the way your body betrays you. The way you clench around him involuntarily at the thought. At the sheer humiliation of it.

Of your Mark listening on the other end. Unaware. Oblivious. As his variant fucks and ruins you.

“See? I know you,” he murmurs, his voice syrup-thick with satisfaction as he strokes your cheek with unnerving tenderness. His free hand cups your face, his thumb dragging over your lips. “I know exactly what kind of fucked-up little thing you are.”

His grin widens as he watches your lips tremble, your breath coming in quick, uneven pants.

“I’m glad you’re the same here as you were in my universe, Y/N. I adore you like this.” Then, his tone dips lower, velvet wrapped around something dangerous. “Now—try to keep him distracted while I take my time with you, yeah?”

Before you can react, he thrusts—sharp and sudden—just once, but it’s enough to steal the air from your lungs. A strangled gasp escapes you, body reacting on instinct, pulse hammering as he stills once more.

Mark leans in, his breath hot against your parted lips, his amusement dripping with warning. “Otherwise, he’ll keep calling,” he murmurs. “And I don’t want him interrupting us.”

Your stomach twists in knots of anticipation and dread. The phone is still ringing, still just out of reach—Mark’s name flashing on the screen, a second away from being answered. And all the while, this Mark remains inside you—hot, solid, pressing deeper with each second of silence.

“Okay...” you breathe, forcing air into your lungs. “Okay.”

Mark’s smirk turns predatory as he brushes a featherlight kiss to your nose before tapping the answer button, offering you the phone back—and as soon as you grab it and press it to your ear, he immediately resumes his slow, deliberate thrusts that make your toes curl.

“Y/N? Y/N!” The real Mark’s voice—familiar, concerned, kind—crackles through the speaker. He sounds breathless, frantic. “Are you okay? You called and I couldn’t answer but then—but then I called back and you didn’t pick up, and I’m—I’m worried—”

You squeeze your eyes shut, teeth sinking into your lip, fighting so hard to keep quiet. But the Mark above you doesn’t make it easy, his hips moving with cruel precision, his smirk deepening as he watches you struggle.

“…Y/N?”

“I’m here,” you choke out, voice miraculously steady despite the way your body arches into each thrust. The not-yours-Mark’s eyes glint with dark amusement as he increases his pace. “I’m... okay.”

Your voice wavers. You can’t help it. A shaky sigh escapes when he ducks his head to nip at your throat, his hot breath raising goosebumps across your oversensitive skin.

“Thank God,” your actual Mark exhales, the relief in his voice almost painful to hear. “Listen, Cecil just— he lost track of a variant. Said he was heading your way, Y/N.”

The not-yours-Mark stills inside you, his expression shifting to something dangerously intrigued. “Oh?” he murmurs against your pulse.

“Y-yeah?” you blurt too loudly, praying the real Mark didn’t hear him.

Your fingers dig into the sheets as the not-yours-Mark begins moving again with renewed purpose, each thrust calculated to wring helpless sounds from your throat while you struggle to keep your breathing even.

“Yeah,” your actual Mark replies through the phone, his voice strained. “I’ll—I’ll come your way. Or the GDA will pick you up, but—it’s dangerous to stay in your apartment! Please, just—just leave. Right now.”

You choke back another gasp, barely holding yourself together. No—you can’t let Mark come here. You can’t let the GDA get involved either. The humiliation would be unbearable—agents witnessing you like this, being taken apart by the same monster who probably leveled cities and slaughtered thousands before claiming you in your own bed.

“No!” you blurt out, voice cracking under the weight of too many emotions. “No, nngh, fuck—you can’t!”

You’re losing control. This Mark—the wrong Mark—is hitting your prostate with every brutal thrust, his teeth sinking into that sensitive spot on your neck while his fingers twist your nipples mercilessly. Stars explode behind your eyelids as another lewd groan escapes you. Virgin or not, there’s no way you could stay quiet under this assault. You realize with dawning horror that he doesn’t want you quiet—he wants you loud, to moan, to let your Mark hear you. To let him know.

That yeah—he’s here.

And yeah—he’s fucking you.

For a moment, there’s only silence on the other end of the call.

Then finally, Mark speaks again, slower this time. “This—this isn’t negotiable, Y/N,” he says, though there’s something off—a hesitation, a shift in his tone as your breath stutters audibly. “Are you… okay?”

No. You’re not okay. You’re overwhelmed, wrecked by pleasure more intense than anything you’ve ever known, losing your virginity to a twisted version of the man you love. Hot tears of shame spill down your cheeks as a sob tears from your throat.

“...Y/N?” Mark’s voice sounds distant now. You can barely hear him over the rush of blood in your ears, over the slick sound of skin meeting skin, over the obscene, broken whimpers falling from your lips.

“Mmmh, fuck,” you gasp as the pressure builds unbearably inside you. “Fuck—Mark—”

“That’s it, baby,” not-your-Mark whispers in your ear, his voice dripping with dark satisfaction. “You wanna come, don’t you? Wanna scream my name?”

The dam breaks. “Yes! Fuck, yes, yes!” Your voice shatters with each punishing thrust. Dignity forgotten, you arch desperately against him, meeting every movement as you beg mindlessly. “Mark—I can’t—oh god, please, please...!”

The line goes silent for an agonizing moment, the static crackle carrying more weight than words ever could. You squeeze your eyes shut, shame and guilt and disgust warring with the pleasure coiling tight in your belly—but it’s too late now. Far too late.

“Y/N...?” his voice comes through the receiver—your Mark’s voice—strangled and low, thick with realization.

Your stomach drops. He knows. Oh god, he knows. He fucking knows.

Not-your-Mark lets out a pleased hum against your neck, his fingers lazily plucking the phone from your trembling hand while his hips snap forward, forcing a needy moan from your lips. The wet sound of skin on skin is unmistakable. There’s no way your Mark could mistake what’s happening.

Not-your-Mark’s eyes glint with something wicked as he presses the phone to his ear, smirking.

“Too late, dickhead,” he says, just as breathless as you, his voice dripping with smug victory as he punctuates each word with another brutal thrust. “He’s already mine.”

Mark’s furious roar bursts through the speaker. “You—!” you close your eyes, mortified, tears falling down your cheeks because this is the moment Mark realizes you’re a horrible friend. “I’LL FUCKING KILL YO—”

But the sound is cut off with a sickening crunch as not-your-Mark’s fingers tighten, phone shattering, fragments falling like dust.

“Oops,” he pouts mockingly, tilting his head with feigned innocence before his expression darkens. His hand snakes around your throat, not tight enough to hurt but firm enough to claim. “Now where were we, sweetheart?”

When he slams back into you, you arch off the bed with a broken scream, your legs spreading wider of their own volition. He chuckles darkly, hands sliding under your thighs to fold you nearly in half, opening you up so completely that each thrust punches the air from your lungs.

“Fuck,” he growls, pace turning erratic as his control fractures. “Look at you—taking me so perfect. Tell me. Tell me how much you love this. How much you love taking my cock.”

“I love it,” you gasp without thought, your mind obliterated by pleasure. “Fuck—I love it. I love you.”

A deep, guttural moan tears from his throat, his grip on you tightening as he nods frantically. “Yeah? Love me? Fuck— I love you too, baby. I love you so fucking much.”

And you know he’s not your Mark. You know your real Mark is probably flying at full speed right now, minutes, or even seconds from bursting through your window. But Christ—hearing those words, in Mark’s voice, from his lips, with his face twisted in raw, desperate worship—it makes you dizzy. It makes you happy.

“I love you,” you say again, fingers twisting into his dark hair, dragging him down until your panting mouths brush. “I love you. Always have—fuck—since—since before you even got your powers, Mark!”

“Yeah?”

“Yes! Ah—fuck, yes!” The words dissolve into moans as you kiss the corner of his mouth, your lips sliding messily against his. “When you were such--a nerd! Loved you since we were kids. Love you now. I always will—”

He groans, swallowing your words with a feverish kiss, his hands squeezing your cheeks until your mouth falls open, surrendering completely. Tongues tangle, breath mingles, and he moans right into you—

“I love—” he pants, his movements growing erratic. “I love you, Y/N. Fuck—Gonna take you home with me. Gonna keep you forever. Steal you from that idiot...make him see what he threw away—”

Then—suddenly—his hand wraps around your cock.

It’s been untouched this entire time, leaking wildly against your stomach, and the moment his fingers curl around it, a sharp, broken whimper escapes you. Your hips jerk helplessly, legs trembling as pleasure rips through you.

“Fuuuuck,” you sob, shuddering against him. “Don’t stop—don’t stop. I’m gonna—”

“I got you, baby,” he growls, stroking you faster, fucking into you harder. “Gonna make you feel so fucking good. Gonna take you away. Gonna own you!”

And God help you—his words don’t sound like threats when you’re drowning in white-hot ecstasy. In this moment, you’d let him drag you through dimensions, would beg him to claim you completely—because he wants you. He loves you. He craves you in a way you’ve always ached to be craved. And right now—you’d let him take you. You’d let him do whatever the fuck he wanted.

“Ah—ah, Mark—” Your body locks up, stomach tightening, hole clenching around him as the pressure on your cock becomes unbearable. “I’m gonna—fuck—I’m gonna come—”

“Yeah, baby, let it out,” he growls against your lips, his hand working your cock in perfect sync with his punishing thrusts. “Come for me. Now.”

You shatter with a strangled scream, body jerking violently as you spill across your stomach in thick, hot stripes. Your vision whites out, every muscle locking and spasming as pleasure tears through.

Mark groans like a man possessed, his thrusts faltering as your hole flutters and clenches around him. “Fuck—fuck—” He slams into you one final time, burying himself deep, and then he’s coming too, hot and thick, filling you to the brim. His grip tightens as he grinds himself deeper, prolonging every last spurt, wringing every aftershock from you until you’re trembling and spent beneath him.

You can’t move. Can’t speak. All you can do is lie there, trembling, as he keeps pumping into you, dragging out your orgasm until you’re sobbing from oversensitivity. His hips grind against yours, forcing every last drop into you like he’s determined to make sure you remember this.

When he finally pulls out, you whimper at the loss, your body limp and wrecked. Sweat and come cling to your skin, your chest heaving as aftershocks wrack through you. Every inch of you is marked—bruises blooming where his fingers, his teeth, his lips claimed you.

You barely register the mattress dipping as he lays beside you, his arms wrapping around your exhausted frame. A soft, lingering kiss presses to your forehead, his voice a soothing murmur against your damp skin.

“Shh, shh, Y/N,” his fingers trace lazy circles against your back. “Go to sleep. I’ll take care of everything.”

Even in your dazed, post-orgasmic haze, you understand what “everything” means.

It means your Mark—your universe’s Mark—is on his way. It means a fight is inevitable. It means blood, destruction, the clash of two forces that look the same but could never be. And when that moment comes, you’ll have to face him—face the shame that will devour you whole.

Because how dare you?

How dare you moan his name for someone else? Whisper desperate I love yous to the wrong version of him? Come undone beneath a man who wears his face but isn’t him?

And after you told him it was fine—that you were fine—staying just friends. After you swallowed every aching, desperate feeling just to keep him close. But in the end, you gave in. You let temptation pull you under. You let yourself have him—or the closest thing to him. And now, there’s no taking it back.

You know you’re wrong.

You know time is running out.

And you know that when he says he’ll take care of everything, this Mark intends to kill your Mark—just as your Mark wants to kill him.

But your body betrays you—mind foggy, muscles lax with satisfaction, the afterglow pulling you under. As consciousness fades, this not-quite-Mark draws you closer, pressing a gentle kiss to the corner of your mouth. His breathing steadies, his solid frame surrounding you in deceptive safety.

(And vaguely, you think about your Mark. About how he’s been pulling away from you, slowly but surely. How, ever since you confessed your feelings and ruined everything, he hasn’t looked at you the same.

“I promise I’ll tell you,” he’d say, a week ago, his eyes avoiding yours in a way that pains you. “I promise I’ll tell you the truth. All of it. And—”

Then he’d looked up, and something in his gaze pinned you there—fervent, almost feverish.

“I’ll—” he’d stop himself, cheeks coloring faintly, and yet he wouldn’t relent his steady gaze. ”I’ll tell you the reason I’ve been acting like such an asshole to you. And I hope...you can forgive me after.”

“Why not now?” you’d ask, puzzled, fingers curling into your palms. ”Why not when I’m asking you, Mark? Right here, and right now.”

He’d flinch, his eyes closing for a fleeting second before opening them again. ”Just—gimme one more week,” he’d rasped. “One more week and—I promise I’ll tell you everything. I’ll—confess everything.”

And as he’d turn around, his broad back to you as he’d take off—not before glancing at you with troubled eyes, an intensity in his eyes you can’t quite place—you’d only guess he’s gonna say he hates you. That he’s gonna say, now once and for all, he can no longer be your friend.

And how you should’ve kept your heart locked tight, your love buried deep, just so you could keep him close. How you should’ve never, ever opened your big mouth and let your feelings spill out.

But you did, and now nothing’s the same.)

“I’ll take care of it,” Mark murmurs again as you drift away, his voice a dark promise. “Never gonna lose you again. Never.”

The last thing you register before sleep claims you is the steady rhythm of his heart beneath your cheek.

And in the final flicker of consciousness, a single thought drifts through your mind— You wished Mark had told you the reason.

Now, he never might.

[fherystargaryen1991]

😱🌈❤️

[multireese]

Part 4

 After hours of trying to convince Betty and Veronica that hanging out with Malachai wasn't a big deal. Y/N had to also make them promise not to tell Archie, or Jughead who would definitely tell the protective ginger. After dodging that bullet he was able to talk on the phone until they fell asleep that night. Knowing his best friends and neighbors, Archie and Betty, hated Malachai. Y/N has to go to him and be a bit more secretive about their dates. 

 Malachai spent the day making his apartment nice for Y/N, he isn't a complete slob but not exactly the most organized guy either. Malachai never wanted to impress anyone's he dated. It was usually easy or just a quick hookup with some lower Ghoulie throwing themselves at him. He even lit candles, immediately blowing them out realizing Y/N wasn't arriving for hours. 

 Y/N was incredibly excited about their secret date as well. He thought about taking a wine from his parents, it's not as if they would notice, or if he should bring an overnight bag since it was the weekend. Malachai surely isn't a prude but maybe that would be a bit forward. Y/N and Malachai exchanged flirty texts all day, smiling at their phones. Betty, sleuthy as always, noticed Y/N smiling at texts on his phone and checking it constantly. When she asked who he was texted he hesitated and responded with Archie. She was elated to find out Y/N was finally talking to his ex. 

 The doors to Malachai's apartment swung open revealing his boyfriend. He pulled Y/N into the tightest hug wrapping his arms around his waist and bookbag. "You plan to stay, babe?" Malachai had the biggest smile on his face. Y/N answered the question by kissing him. "I know it's not much but I hope you love it". Y/N was actually amazed by the cute date Malachai set up. "This is way more than I ever expected." 

 A few glasses of wine and some dinner later Y/N was straddling Malachai's waist on the sofa."Thank you Mal, for all this. I've never had such a fun thought out date like this." Malachai feigned a gasp. "I can't believe the ginger kid never showed you a good night out," Y/N chuckled at what Malachai said. 

 "He would take me to the Bijou sometimes with friends but we mostly hung out in his garage.He wasn't the date type I guess." A slight pout shown on Y/N's face admitting this. "I promise I'll make every date better than the last if it gets you coming back here. Andrews is crazy to let you get away," Malachai spoke so sincerely it could almost make Y/N cry.

 "Well I do not want to talk about exes anymore or probably ever. I would like to focus on us, Mal." Y/N pecked his boyfriend on the mouth, then went it for another kiss this time biting Malachai's bottom lip. He pulled away with a shocked but happy look on his face, if Malachai wasn't sure before now he knew he was in love with Y/N. 

"How can you go from being so cute to sexy that fast?" Malachai wondered aloud.

"You make it easy, Mally.That's another thing I need to talk to you about."

 Earlier that day Betty saw Archie after her class with Y/N. When she asked about them texting, he had no clue what she was talking about. Betty decided to come clean about Malachai dropping Y/N off at his house. Archie was pissed off, especially since he still loved Y/N and wanted so badly to work things out. Y/N had been avoiding his calls and taking a long way home to avoid walking past his house, now he knew why. Of course it's okay for Y/N to move on. Who is he kidding he could never be cool with that but Malachai was a bad guy who hated serpents and northsiders. Malachai was obviously going to use Y/N to hurt him. 

 Archie sped to his ex boyfriend's house after his extra tutoring was done frantically knocking as he needed to speak to Y/N who would have been home for hours by now. Y/N was sort of a loner before he dumped Archie but his only friend's were Betty, Kevin, Veronica, and Josie. The bad news came when Y/N's mom told Archie, he had gone to a new friend's house. Archie knew exactly where to find Malachai from their last run in.

 He was on a mission to save his ex. Archie pulled up to where the Ghoulie king lives and heard loud groans of pain from out the door. It was clearly Y/N. He stepped back and ran his shoulder into the door knocking it open. The sight in the room was gut-wrenching. Archie felt sick to his stomach. Malachai laying back on the sofa looking smug, clearly satisfied with himself, while Y/N straddled him. Just his luck, he thought. Y/N just lost his virginity in front of his ex. 

If I write another part to this it will be the last one.

[multireese]

Part 3

Malachai x male reader part 3

 The view of Sweetwater river was breathtakingly gorgeous. Y/N had never been asked on a date where he was meant to wait for the sunset. In all honesty, he had never been asked on a proper date until Malachai. How can such a sweet guy end up dealing drugs for a living, he thought to himself. 

 The two sat on the hood of Malachai's car overlooking the water. Malachai sat back, trying to think of something he could say to impress his date. Malachai wasn't normally nervous but he knew there was something special about Y/N. He could see himself putting the Ghoulies behind him for someone like Y/N. 

 "I come here often to take my mind off all the bullshit. No Ghoulies. No serpents. No poverty. Here I can just be Malachai, not the asshole people think I am though," Malachai glanced at you, "Not who you think I am. That's why I wanted to bring you here. I want you to really see me. That day in Pop's I almost felt like you already do." Malachai had turned his gaze back to the river.

 Y/N didn't know how to respond, he was far too deep to keep playing hard to get. He just studied Malachai's handsome face. If Malachai was trying to pull one over on him, he was doing an amazing job. "You looking at me like that is making me weak, babe. How are you so cute?"

 The two looked at each other for a moment, Y/N's face lighting up at the pet name. An odd sense of boldness again overcame him. Y/N interlocked his hands with Malachai's. Not to be outdone, Malachai pulled Y/N close. An arm around the smaller boy making him feel like he and Malachai were the only people in Riverdale. "Is this the part in the movies that we kiss?"

 "Not yet," Y/N gave Malachai a confused look,"I have an idea, let's go for a swim."

 "I definitely didn't bring any swim trunks."

 Malachai laughed at your statement, standing up off his car's hood and pulling his shirt off. "Neither did I." Y/N stood as well. 

 "I guess that could be fun." Y/N had no chance trying to resist Malachai and his perfect abs. He raised his arms allowing Malachai to pull his shirt off, then they stripped down to their underwear. Malachai froze for a moment. He knew Y/N was sexy but where did he get an amazing ass like that? 

 Malachai scooped his date into his arms and walked them into the river dipping them both into the water. A splash fight quickly turned into the two making out. "I know this is soon but I think I love you, Y/N." Y/N knew it was probably way too early to have such strong feelings for each other but there was no denying the connection. 

 "I think I love you too, Mal." The two dried off while finally watching the sun set over Sweetwater river. After Malachai drove Y/N home. "Thanks for today. I had a nice time," and with that Y/N kissed Malachai a last time and made his way to his house.

 Malachai stopped Y/N before he could open his door. "Can I call you tonight, I want to be the last guy you're thinking about before you fall asleep." This guy really never turns off the charm. Y/N said of course and put his number in Malachai's phone before stepping inside. 

 Y/N looked through the peephole in his door curious as to how his date would act. It was a complete shock to see the Ghoulie king do a victory dance on his front porch before driving off. He hoped Malachai would get home quickly and call him. Then a hard knock came from the other side of the door. Upon opening it you see Betty and Veronica. SHIT! 

 "What the hell were you doing with that psycho?" The girls spoke in unison. This was going to be a hard one for Y/N to explain.

[multireese]

Malachai x Male Reader

 Malachai could not get the fiery kid from the diner out of his mind. This preppy northsider actually punched him, the leader of the ghoulies. Malachai was supposed to be upset but he really wanted to find Y/N and fuck him.  

 Y/N was walking home from Riverdale high. Finally turning onto his street he saw a man leaning against a vintage red car. He sighed aloud as he got closer finally recognizing the man as Malachai. Usually Malachai is easy to point out but he was actually dressed up pretty nice like he was prepared for a job interview. His pants were still pretty tightly fitted which complimented his bulge. Y/N had to admit the Ghoulie king looked really sexy.

 "Why are you outside my house? Are you stalking me now?" Y/N tried to sound serious and intimidating but Malachai just laughed at how cute he was. "No, not stalking. I just really wanted to see you again."

"That is exactly what a stalker would say." Y/N cursed himself for smiling at Malachai's confession. 

"I guess you're right about that. I just want to take you to sweetwater river, we can watch the sunset and get to know each other better. I promise I'm not all bad." Malachai was being so charming. Y/N couldn't believe this was the same guy that has been harassing Jughead and his gang. 

 Y/N wasn't yet convinced though."Let me get this straight. I punched you and now your showing up to my house asking me to get in your car and go to the middle of the woods with you alone?" Malachai realized how odd the situation was but there was no way he was going to give up. 

 Malachai grabbed Y/N's hand and pulled him closer. Y/N knew he should pull away but he couldn't bring himself to resist Malachai. "How about this, I'll give you my keys and let you drive my car. If at any point you feel uncomfortable we can leave." Y/N actually thought about it for a moment. "Come on kid, just one date."

 "Don't call me kid, you're only 2 years older than me." Malachai responded with a laugh and ruffled Y/N's hair. Every tough made Y/N swoon.

 Malachai pulled his keys out and held them in front of him. "Is that a yes?"

 Y/N attempted to grab the keys but Malachai pulled them a little higher out of the much shorter boy's reach. "You know how to drive right?" Y/N chuckled and snatched the keys anyway circling the car to get in the driver's seat.

 "I guess we'll just have to see."

 

 

 @russianspacegeckosexparty

[multireese]

Malachai meets male reader when he slugs Malachai for something stupid he did and Malachai was just left there touching the side of his face and all "I think I'm in love"

Malachia x male reader

Y/N had done a good job of avoiding the war between the Serpents and the Ghoulies. He did have to admit he was bias to the Southside Serpents his good friend Betty girlfriend of serpent king Jughead was very persuasive.

There was also the fact that the Ghoulies attacked Pops one night. Y/N loved Pops diner since he was a kid and Pop Tate always treated him like family. He made sure to visit every few days to get a milkshake and tell Pop about how he was doing in school and get advice.

On this particular night, Y/N, Betty, and Veronica were hanging out at Pop's. When some hottie dressed like a rockstar walked in alone. This guy was so sexy he couldn't believe it.

"Who is that hottie?" Veronica said. Betty turned to look at the man, sighed and rolled her eyes.

"Thats the leader of the Ghoulies, Malachai. Can't believe he came here." Veronica gasped remembering their breif encounter.

Y/N was pissed that someone who tried to ruin Pop's business would show up here. He wasn't one for confrontation but he needed to do something. He walked straight up to Malachai leaving his friend's in the booth.

"Hey cutie, I would come to the northside more often if I knew I would find you up here" Malachai tried to smooth talk as soon as he seen you walk up to him.

"Cut the shit Ghoulie, keep your war with the Serpents away from Pop's. Why are you even here?" Malachai was impressed by the preppy northsider stepping up to him. The ghoulie bit his bottom lip thinking about how it would be kissing the aggressive spitfire in front of him.

"I just came to get myself a shake, kid. Now Im thinking we should get a booth and share it." Y/N felt butterflies but hid it easily. This wasn't how it should go, so he just rolled his eyes.

"Just make sure you don't come back."

Y/N turned to go back to his booth when Malachai spoke again. "I don't think so, but come to my car with me and maybe you can convince me."

Malachai's cocky attitude was annoying and Y/N hated how much it turned him on. He couldn't allow him to win this argument, Y/N turned around and punched Malachai making him stumble back.

Betty and Veronica quickly pulled Y/N out of the diner leaving Malachai and his sore jaw in there. Malachai rubbed his chin, usually he would be planning how he should track down this kid so he could hurt him but he was more concerned with taking Y/N on a date.

Malachai spent 40 minutes apologizing to Pop Tate so that he could get the name of the cute boy that punched him. Pop was weary of Malachai until his words hit him hard.

"I think Im in love with him."

[ornii]

My Better Bitter Half, Part 11

Apologies for taking so long but we back baby.

How well do we really know our parents? Take my father. I've always considered him an open book. A man given to misguided schemes and exaggerated displays of affection. But when he was a student, he was accused of a murder that took place right up there. Which leads me to wonder...what really happened that stormy night 32 years ago?

You, your sister Wednesday and, possible crush Enid stood together listening to the drivel that principal Weems was spewing.

“Nevermore was created as a safe haven for our children to learn and to grow, no matter bI realize most of you have heard about the unfortunate incident involving one of our students.bBut I'm happy to report that Eugene is on the mend and is expected to make a full recovery.bSo let's focus on the positive and make this Parents' Weekend our very best yet.” Weems said.

“On the mend?” Wednesday said.

“Try in a coma.” You chime in, Enid turns to Wednesday and you.

“Have you been to see him? You're his friends.”

“I'm the reason he's in the hospital.” Wednesday said, and Enid attempts to console her.

“That is not your fault, okay?” She says, and you raise an eyebrow.

“Well… technically speaking—“ you start, Enid glares at you, convincing you to stop speaking. You close your mouth and shrug.

“Besides, The monster hasn't attacked anyone in the past week. Maybe you finally scared it off.” Enid explains, and you rub your chin, pondering.

“Or maybe it went into hiding to avoid this weekend. Too many people… they want to avoid getting caught.” You say, suddenly your eyes catch a glimpse of black, three figures, Mother, Father, and Pugsley. Wednesday also notices the family arriving.

“I knew I should have worn my plague mask.” Wednesday said.

“Would you look at my family?” Enid looks over to her howling family.

“Talk about toxic pack mentality. I give my mom 30 seconds before her judge-y claws come out. Let's get this over with.” She said, the students agree and go to face their family.

“There he is. Oh, how we missed those devilish eyes and youthful glare.” Morticia, your mother hugged you sternly, and you happily accepted her love, as decrepit as it was..

“Madré!” You say, hugging her. Spotting your father you also reciprocate a hug.

Padre! How are you father?” You say, you see how uncomfortable Wednesday is, obviously human interaction was not her strong suit.

“How are you, my little rain cloud?” Morticia hugs her daughter.

“I thought Thing was filling you in on my every move.” Wednesday says, Morticia and Gomez look surprised that she knows, and you casually chime in.

“You didn’t think we wouldn’t notice?” You smirk, standing next to Wednesday.

“I uncovered your feeble subterfuge almost immediately.”

“We.” you chime in.

“So, how's the little fella doing? Does he still have all his fingers?” Gomez says.

“Relax. I haven't snapped any of his digits. Yet.”

“So tell us everything.”

“Since you've abandoned me here, I've been hunted, haunted... and the target of an attempted murder.”

Much to no one surprised, the Addams Re reveled in it. Morticia and Gomez reach the Principals office with the family. morticia looks at her old yearbook with Principal Weems

“I haven't laid eyes on this in over 20 years. Such good times we had, didn't we, Larissa?”

“Some of us better than others.”

“Oh, don't be so modest. You always filled a room with your presence. Like a stately sequoia tree.”

“And I guess that would make you the lumberjack.”

The two engage in passive aggressive softball, and you couldn’t enjoy it more, sneering.

“There's that biting sense of humor that I always adored. Do you remember when we did that duet for the Solstice Talent Show? Your Judy Garland impression was a dead ringer.” Morticia says.

“Sounds positively suicidal.” Wednesday said.

“I’d love to see it. Im sure Wedensday would agree.” You say, crossing your leg as you wink at Wednesday, who stares daggers at you. Morticia notices something off.

“Oh. My picture's gone.”

“Really? Well, that is odd.” Weems says, feigning innocence.

“May I borrow this for the weekend? That way Gomez and I can take a little walk down memory lane.” She says to her husband, they gawk at each other which only makes Weems more, uncomfortable.

“All right. Let's get down to the matter at hand, shall we? Unfortunately, Wednesday's assimilation has been rocky at best.”

“Because I refuse to embrace the culture of dishonesty and denial permeating this school.

Starting with the monster that killed Rowan and put Eugene in the ICU.” She says, you raise your finger.

“Although I do hear he's on the mend.” You say with a grin, Weems puts on a smile, a fake one.

“We've always encouraged our children to speak their minds.” Gomez said

“Sometimes her sharp tongue and his serrated wit can cut deep.” Gomez says.

“Apparently her therapist feels she hasn't been very open to the process. Their time together has not yielded the results we'd hoped.” Weems explains

“I'm not a lab rat.” Wednesday said in retort.

“I say more like a, Crow. A lab crow.” You say, Your sisters cold glare was in the corner of your eye.

“I believe Wednesday should get the help she deserves.” You say, only adding more fuel to the fire and Weems Agrees.

“Dr. Kinbott and I have spoken, and we both agree it would be most beneficial for you all to attend a family session this weekend.” She said, and the word “family” made you halt.

“Wait.. family?” You ask. “Absolutely not.”

“No.” Wedensday shuts it down quickly, and Weems shakes her head.

“I thought that might be your reaction, but your parents can see the wisdom in it.”

“Um, not to side with Wednesday, but, um, we're only here for the weekend.” Morticia says, and Gomez spoke up.

“Oh, come on. What can it hurt? To be honest, I've always been a big fan of head-shrinking.”

“It's not that kind of head-shrinking, father.” You say, now having the annoyed cadence of your sister.

“Well, that is disappointing. But anything for our kids.” Morticia says, much to the annoyance of the twins.

The Therapy session began as (Y/n), Wednesday and Pugsley sat in the middle with both Morticia and Gomez at sides, Kinbott looks at the full Addams family with gleaming hope.

“So, who wants to start?” She said, it was silent, until she asked again.

“Maybe we can discuss what it's like having Wednesday away from home?” She said, and Pugsley began.

“I mean, for me....it's been hard not having (Y/n) and Wednesday around. I never thought I'd miss being waterboarded and Used as a host for ghosts so much.” Pugsley admits.

“Morticia, Gomez. How have you been coping?” Kinbott asks them.

“It's been torture for us too.”

“Fortunately, my brother Fester's rack fits two people.”

“Nothing like a good stretch to bring out the best in each other.” Morticia says and the two simply cannot get their hands off of Each other.

“Enough!” Wednesday said, actually letting her anger out. And not many times, (Y/n) agrees.

“I think it's high time my parents faced the music. It seems they've been lying to me.

Keeping secrets. Murderous secrets that need to be addressed. Who was Garrett Gates, and why are you accused of murdering him?” Wednesday asks her father, (Y/n) squints his eyes and slowly turns to Gomez.

“…Father?” He asks, which Gomez’s attitude shifts, and Morticia quickly intervenes

“Those charges were dropped. Your father is an innocent man.”

“Local sheriff doesn't seem too convinced.”

“Wednesday, stop. This is neither the time nor the place.”

“Mother, did you know about this?” (Y/n) asks Morticia.

“(Y/n), now isn’t the time for this.” She said.

“Actually, this is exactly the place.” Kinbott chimes in. “These sessions are—“

“Doctor. This does not concern you. And I refuse to debate a decades-old witch-hunt with you right now.” Morticia says.

“Darling, maybe we should...” Gomez says.

“No. This session is over.”

“Have it your way, Mother.” Wednesday stood up and stormed off.

“Wednes... Wednesday?”

“If you refuse to tell me the truth, I'll just have to excavate it myself.” She walks off, and Morticia follows.

“What were you thinking? How could you ambush your father like that? Wednesday.”

“How could I? You insisted I go to this school.

Did you really think I wouldn't find out your secret?”

“You don't know the full story. Your father did nothing wrong.”

“I'll be the judge of that.” Wednesday walks off, (Y/n) exits the building to see his sister leave, and he follows, Wednesday enters the hospital and makes her way to Eugene’s room, he follows silently until she sits at his side.

“I harvested hive number three. The bees miss you, Eugene. We all do.” Wednesday said, (Y/n) smiles and gently taps on the door. Wednesday quickly turns around and sees her brother.

“How long have you been listening?” She said.

“Long enough to see you care.”

“I don’t.”

“Sure you don’t.” (Y/n) walks next to his sister, looking at Eugene. A heated rage begins to overtake him.

“He didn't deserve this. I should be in that bed.” Wednesday says, and (Y/n) shakes his head…

“It isn’t your fault, it’s the monster who did this, and we will find him, I can assure you of that. Now Cmon, we have to get back to Mother and Father, you’d hate to make they worry.” (Y/n) says with sarcasm. Wednesday reluctantly follows. The twins return to eat with their family.

“Mmm. I am famished. You're not hungry, darling?” Morticia says to her daughter, (Y/n) was too busy looking over at Enid.

“My appetite eludes me, Mother.” She replies; Enid is forced to sit with her family,

“So are you going to make me ask?” Her mother says, and Enid assumes she means the Addams boy who’s making dreamy eyes at her.

“Well.. (Y/n) and I haven't defined our relationship yet, even if it is one—“

“I'm not talking about boys. Have you wolfed out yet?” She says, Enid inhaled sharply and out on a smile.

..”No.”

“Well, that is a disappointment.”

“That's me. A huge disappointment…” she says, (Y/n) sees how sad she is, he stands up and walks over, he adjusts his clothes and smiles.

“Excuse me.” He says, he offers a handshake.

“You must be Miss Sinclair.” He says and takes her hand, the woman puts on a smile as Enid was now panicking. Her crush and now her overbearing mother meeting.

“I’m really sorry but I have to speak with Enid, just for a moment.”

“Alright? Don’t try anything—“

“Mom!” Enid says though her teeth, he leads Enid away and he sighs.

“I’m sorry to pull you from your family—“

“No it’s fine, I actually wanted to ask you something.”

“You did? What?” (Y/n) asks.

“Well… I, don’t know how to feel after the dance…” she begins.

“You, didn’t have fun?” (Y/n) asks, and Enid shakes her head.

“No, of course I did! It’s just… you’re like my best friend, besides Wednesday, you’re.. more than my best friend.. someone I really care about.

“I’d.. like that.. to be more… I know you’re still heartbroken after Ajax..” (Y/n) begins, Enid watches but slowly peers over his shoulder to see what’s going on.

“Uh.. (Y/n)?”

“And I don’t want to be a replacement I, I want to be more than that, I want to be…”

“(Y/n)… your, dad.”

“What I’m trying to say is that I want you to be my Girl—“

“Your dads getting arrested!” She yells. (Y/n) stops and turns around to see his father being taken away by police.

“Gomez Addams. You're under arrest for the murder of Garrett Gates. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law.”

“Father?”

“You have the right to an attorney. If you cannot afford one, one will be appointed for you.” (Y/n) can only watch as his father is taken away, god only knows what hellscape awaits.

The Twins stood at the blocked off prison visiting room, as their father sits solemnly at the seat. He sees the two stand there.

“My little tormenta, how's your mother?” Gomez asks Wednesday first.

“Devastated. She hates you in orange. I caught her laying a rose on a grave earlier today. The headstone read "Garrett Gates." The very boy you've been arrested for murdering. Care to explain?” She says, and (Y/n) nods.

“It’s best for everyone, father, elaborate.” He said, and Gomez explains.

“Garrett was infatuated with your mother. He mistook her kindness for interest. His infatuation turned into obsession, and he started stalking her.”

“Why didn't you call the police?”

“We tried. But his family were the oldest and richest in Jericho, But No one believed us. Garrett's father, an outcast-hating bigot, was furious that your mother had accused his only son. It all came to a head the night of the Rave'N Dance. Your mother and I stepped out to catch our breath. And that's when I saw him. He had broken into the school. His twisted love for your mother had made him insane. His eyes bore into me, brimming with murderous intent. My life flashed before my eyes. Driven by jealousy and hate, Garrett was When I saw the sword, my survival instinct kicked in. It was a terrible accident.” Gomez says, (Y/n) and Wednesday look at each other. (Y/n) motions his sister over and they speak out of hearing range from their father.

“If I'm being objective, his confession sounds entirely plausible, delivered with the perfect degree of sincerity. Perhaps father is exactly what he says.” Wednesday said.

“I agree; although father has a magnificent poker face, I think he’s telling the truth, but then again, what other rotting skeletons are in his closet, let’s play it safe.” (Y/n) said, they walk back and speak at the same time.

“Thank you for being honest with us.”

“I'm sorry I wasn't a better father.” He says, trying to hold back tears, Wednesday had no emotion, (Y/n) sighed.

“Could we please do without the overt display of emotion?” Wednesday demands, and forms composed himself.

“How many fathers hand their daughter a fencing blade when she's five?”

“Your saber strokes were an essay in perfection.”

“How many fathers would teach their son how to beat a lie detector?”

“It’s all about your heartbeat.”

“Or teach her how to swim with sharks?”

“They found you as cold-blooded as I do.”

“The right way to flay a rattlesnake?”

“They really do taste like chicken when prepared properly.”

“The point is, you taught us how to be strong and independent.” Wednesday begins, and (Y/n) adds in.

“And..How to navigate in a world full of treachery and prejudice. You are the reason we understand how imperative it is that we never lose sight of who we are, no matter what life throws at us.” (Y/n) looks into the eyes of his father, showing he means everything he says.

“So as far as fatherhood goes, I would say you've been more than adequate.” Wednesday said, and Gomez holds back a year.

“Gracias, (Y/n), Wednesday.”

The visitation ends and the two step out of the jail.

“We’ll have to consider all of this…” (Y/n) said, Wednesday also agrees and turns to (Y/n).

“You need to… console, Pugsley.”

“Why me?” (Y/n) asks, and Wednesday stares at him.

“… Yeah, I suppose you trying to comfort him would be… an issue.” (Y/n) chuckles, Wednesday turns her head forward.

“I’m going to.. convince the sheriff to hear me out.”

“As long as you don’t wind up behind bars as well, go for it.” He says, they split up and leave, (Y/n) walked past multiple happy families, (Y/n) approached the lake with a bag in hand, he peers over to see Pugsley sitting down.

“Go away.”

“Pug, You forgot your fishing gear.”

“I know you’re just trying to be nice to make me forget about dad. You’re being honest…It doesn't suit you.”

“That’s… fair. Father packed your favorite bait.” He sits next to him and digs into the bag, and grabs a hand grenade.

“What'll happen to him now?” He asks, and (Y/n) primes a grenade and casually tosses it into the water.

“Well, he's confessed, so there won't be a trial. After he's sentenced, he'll be sent to a state penitentiary, where he'll lose his mind being separated from Mother. Did you know they haven't spent a night apart since they tied the knot?”

“I always thought You’d be the first one in the family behind bars.” Pugsley said, (Y/n) shrugged.

“Funny enough, Wedensday nd I had a bet going… she owes me everything in her will.”

The water explodes deep down, and dead fish float up.

“That's quite a catch. Take the shrapnel out and we have a good feast.”

“I'm gonna miss him, (Y/n).”

“It's not over yet. He's innocent.”

“Well, if anyone can figure out who really committed the crime... it's you and Wednesday, you two work really well together. You have to find out the truth and free Dad.”

Pugsley’s words, so endearing. (Y/n) grits his teeth and nods.

“I will. I will Pugsley…Well, until that happens, we both know Mother will be falling apart.

Which means we have to be strong. And by "we," I mean you. Definitely not me.” He says, the brothers spend more time together before (Y/n) left the forest, as he walks out, his ears pick up the sound of sniffling. He halted as he searched for the origin of the sound, what caught his eye was the bright pink vest. He immediately recognized the color. He peers over to Enid sitting behind a tree, crying.

“Enid?” He asks, she looks up to him, her makeup a mess as it seems she’s been at it for a while, (Y/n) sits next to her.

“Is.. something wrong?” He asks, Enid looks at him like a sad, hurt puppy.

“It’s my mom she, wants to send me to… to..”

“To?”

“Conversion therapy! Like I’m some sort of disappointment!” She looks so hurt, (Y/n), not knowing how to console someone, he sighs and speaks from his black heart.

“Enid… you don’t need to wolf out to be a Weerwolf or, find a mate. Even without those powers, you’re unique, sparkly, bubbly, so kind and.. beautiful.” (Y/n) says, looking at the ground, enid looks up at him, perplexed.

“You.. think so?”

“Of course I do! You’re the only person who makes looking at pink bearable.” He says, his hand gently placed on hers. “If my father taught me anything, it’s to be yourself.. unapologetically, which…” he trails on.

“Ive.. been meaning to say this Enid, but I’ve had no luck, I want to ask.. will you—“

“(Y/n)!”

He hears his voice being called, he very didn’t much want to turn his attention to it, but he did, and he saw his sister approach.

“You have got to be kidding me..” he says, he was dragged away by his sister.

“Wednesday this better be good.”

“Father didn’t Kill Garrett. Neither did mother.”

Wednesday said dropping a bombshell, which raises the eyebrow of the Twin.

“Then.. who did?”

“Himself.”

“Okay, elaborate.”

“Mother told me what truly happened, she was protecting father when he attacked, but Garrett was foaming at the mouth. His eyes didn't look human. Foaming saliva, dilated pupils, mental confusion. What are those all textbook symptoms of?”

“Nightshade poisoning…” (Y/n) gets it, and puts everything together.

“He was dead before Mother stabbed him…”

“There's only one way to find out.” Wednesday said, and (Y/n) frowns, he knows what that means.

Late in the night, at the Grave of Miles Garrett, the twins dig his corpse up, both going to the graveyard as they dig up his casket, Morticia stands above them, watching the two.

“This reminds me of when you got your first grave-digging kit. You were so happy, you nearly smiled.” Morticia said, (Y/n) grumbles.

“Are you sure you don't want to join?” Wednesday asks.

“Uh... mm... No, that's okay, darling. I don't want to spoil your fun.” She says.

“This isn’t fun, mother, Digging up graves is for knaves and psychopaths.” (Y/n) jams into the earth again and feels a loud bang, they stop and uncover the decrepit tomb.

“Moment of truth.” Wednesday and (Y/n) open the tomb, the waft of rubbish bond and decaying flesh hits their nostrils. Wednesday seems to enjoy it. (Y/n) isn’t as enthusiastic as his sister. He looks over the corpse.

“I was right.” She points to the inner pocket, seeing hints of a stained blue liquid.

“Nightshade..” (Y/n) reaches in and grabs a finger, and with a quick and sharp twist, effortlessly removes his finger.

“Alright, now.. all we have to do is—“

“Well, well, what do we have here?” Someone from behind all three of they spoke, the twins popped their hands from the grave to see a police cruiser aiming their headlights at them, the second in command.

“Guess there's gonna be an Addams family reunion in lockup tonight. You're all under arrest.”

(Y/n) is locked up with his father, and Wednesday with her mother. Wednesday stands there, silent, as (Y/n) Taps his foot, fuming. Morticia and Gomez were all over each other

“Get comfortable. You can post bail in the morning.” Sherrif Galpin glares at the twins and leave..

“Not even the long arm of the law could keep us apart.”

“At least we'll have one last night together.

Yes.”

“I've seen jackals with more self-control than you two.” Wednesday glares at her parents lost in love.

“Neither one of you are strong enough to serve hard time. And thanks to me, you won't have to.” (Y/n) stops taping his foot.

“I knew our little jailbird would have an escape plan.”

“It seems Wednesday was correct about Garrett, He died from nightshade poisoning.”

“The remarkable preservation of soft tissue and blue tint confirms it. Which means Garrett was dying...Before you stabbed him.”

“You look even more ravishing as an innocent woman!”

“For once, could you two get off of each other and focus.” Wednesday said, (Y/n) agrees.

“Yes, we need to get this to the mayor, and he will drop all charges, all we need is someone to bring it to them.. someone we trust.. Pugsley.” (Y/n) says

“No.” Wednesday replies flatly.

“.. Lurch?”

“No.”

“…Uncle Fester“

“Absolutely not.” Wednesday said, (Y/n) walks to the edge of the cell.

“Well what do you suggest then? break out of here?” He says, Wednesday walks over and snatched the finger from his hand, and suddenly, she had a vision.,

“Prove to me you're still worthy to be called my son! Kill all those outcasts! Sneak into that dance and spike the punch bowl.” Those words rang through her. She sat up from her episode and her family obviously looks concerned.

“Did you have a vision?”

“What happened?”

“What did you see?”

“The night Garrett died, he had a vial of nightshade poison that broke in his pocket.

He wasn't just trying to kill father. He was going to use the nightshade poison to murder the entire school.” She says, the family look at each other. A sly grin creeps along the face of her brother.

“Oh I’m going to enjoy this…”

“Thank you for seeing us at such short notice, Mr. Mayor.”

The twins stand before the mayor, after being in jail for approximately 4 hours.

“Yes, well, veiled threats have that effect.”

“Then let’s cut to the chase, Garrett Gates wasn't killed by a stab wound.” (Y/n) goes first, then Wednesday places the severed finger on his desk.

“That blue sheen is a telltale sign of nightshade poisoning.” Wednesday said.

“But you already knew that, dont you mayor? Because back when you were sheriff, you were in charge and covered it up.”

“Ansel Gates hated outcasts and Nevermore.

He claimed the land the school was built on was stolen from his family over 200 years ago.

Garrett went there that night to spike the punch and kill all the kids at that dance.” The twins deliver a fairly clear shut argument, and the mayor grumbles, and confesses.

“Ansel confessed the whole thing to me in a drunken stupor. It was his idea.”

“Then Why did you instruct Dr. Anwar to falsify the autopsy report? You knew the truth about how he really died.”

“Listen, my job was to keep the peace. If there had been a trial, Jericho's and Nevermore's reputations would have been trashed.”

“I think the only reputation you were worried about ruining was your own.”

“I remember Garrett bragging to me that his father had the sheriff in his pocket. One year later, you get elected mayor. Hmm. No doubt with the full support of Ansel Gates.”

“I resent your implication.”

“I resent the fact you decided to cover up a potential Genocide of an entire school by a bigoted drug crazed maniac to save the face of this place. The truth stings, doesn’t it mayor?” (Y/n) said with a cold bite.

“What I resent is that you could have prevented Garrett's death if you had done your job when I lodged my complaint about him stalking our Mother.” Wednesday snaps back, The mayor was at a loss, and gave in.

“What do you want?” He asks them.

“All charges dropped. Our father will be released with a full and unequivocal apology from the sheriff's office. Do we have a deal?” (Y/n) asked, and the Mayor gave in.

The twins exit the building as (Y/n) thinks, and decides to speak about it.

“Have you spoken to mother about your visions? You know she could help you. You’d only have to ask Wednesday, we’re family.” He said. Wednesday was silent for a moment, and he continues.

“We’re Navigating this, treacherous shoal of our sibling relationship. But I'm always here for you, Wednesday. Mother, father, Pugsley, unfortunately.” He says.

“I’ll.. consider speaking to her.” Wednesday says, and (Y/n) sighs with relief. Gomez and Morticia We’re Released and All hugged, besides Wedensday.

“Don't crowd me.”

The next and final day, (Y/n) approached Enids family with her Next to him, they stopped and he motions for her to go.

“Stick to yourself, I know you’ve got this.” He says, and Enid walks to her mother, ready to stand her ground. Enid approached and her mother was already hounding her.

“So, it's decided. Six weeks at Camp Howl.

You'll need to pick which activity—“

“No, I don't. Because I'm not going. Not this summer. Not ever. If I'm meant to wolf out, then I'm going to do it on my own timeline and not yours. I hope that one day, you'll finally accept me for who I am.” Enid turns and sees (Y/n) smile, giving her a nod of approval.

(Y/n) returns back to his family as Wednesday was reluctantly being hugged goodbye.

“Don't push it.”

“Well, at least we can't say Parents' Weekend wasn't a nail-biter.” Gomez said.

“I knew you didn't have what it takes to be a murderer.” Wednesday says flatly,

“As much as that stings, gracias, my little death trap.” Gomez gives his daughter a hug, and turns to his son.

“A devious as always, my boy.” Gomez grins and (Y/n) smugly bows.

“Of course, manipulating the mayor into freeing my family a stroke of genius.” (Y/n) replies, and he and his father continue to laugh about it, Wednesday and Morticia watch them, she sighs happily and then goes back to her daughter, and she hands her the yearbook.

“As I leafed through the pages of this yearbook, I was reminded of all the wonderful times I had here. But they were just that. Mine.

You have your own path to blaze. I don't want to be a stranger in your life, darling. If you need me for anything, anything at all, I'm only a crystal ball away.”

“Thank you, Mother.” Wedensday looked blankly at her, but under those eyes was love, the Addams leave, letting the twins look into the book, and at a page of Weems.

“Hm… her Judy Garland costume was phenomenal..”

“…no.”

“No?”

“That isn’t a costume… she looks exactly like her.”

“Wednesday that’s impossible, the only way she could if Weems could shape her body to match hers.”

“…like a shape shifter?” Wedensday asks.

“Most likely, yes.” (Y/n) replies; Wednesday immediately slams the book shut and quickly walks off.

“Wednesday?” (Y/n) asks, and she bursts into Weems office.

“I knew it. I did witness Rowan getting murdered that night.” Wedensday stopped at the foot of the desk.

“Excuse me?” Weems asks.

“When Rowan appeared the next morning, it was you. When you participated in the talent show, not only did you impersonate Judy Garland, you became her. You're a shape-shifter.” Wedensday accuses her, and Weems scoffs at her.

“That's a fascinating theory.”

“I'm curious to find out how Sheriff Galpin feels when I tell him.” Wedensday says threateningly, Weems stands up, slowly showing her towering height.

“You won't tell a soul, Miss Addams. And it wouldn't matter much if you did. Rowan's father already knows what happened, and he fully supports my decision not to involve the authorities.”

“Why would he agree to that?”

“Because Rowan was not in his right mind. His telekinetic abilities were driving him mad and he attempted to murder you twice. His tragic death allowed us to rectify the situation without casting the school or Rowan in an unflattering light.” Weems explains the cover up.

“You and Mayor Walker are the same, aren't you? Burying bodies to cover your dirty secrets.”

“I did what I needed to do to shield this school from controversy and protect its students from harm.”

“Tell that to Eugene. How are you protecting him?”

The two continue to bicker, until (Y/n) bursts in.

“Principal Weems, Wedensday… you have to see this.” He rushes back and the two follow out to the yard as they bear witness. Flames dance in their eyes, seeing words burned into the ground, this was a message, who knows the borrows that are yet to come

[ornii]

My Better Bitter Half, Part 9

Part 9: Pilgrimage

“Let's assess, shall we? Bag over my head for optimal disorientation, wrists tied tight enough to cut off circulation, and no idea if I'm going to live or die. It's definitely my kind of party.”

(Y/n) and Wednesday, twins were bagged and dragged into a dark decrepit hole unbeknownst of their location.

“Who dares breach our inner sanctum?” A haunting voice comes out, their masks were suddenly taken off as they look around, and realize they’re still in the library.

“You can take the mask off, Bianca.” Wednesday says.

“And just like that, my hopes were dashed against the rocks of bitter disappointment. My foe was no psychotic killer. More like a bunch of high school clowns.” Wednesday thinks as they remove their masks

“Wait, I preferred you with it on.” Wednesday said.

“How did you get down here?” One asks

“Rowan” (Y/n) chimes in. “She tracked the watermark to the Poe statue. Then I solved the riddle.”

“Wait, there's a riddle?” One asks, “I thought we just snapped twice.”

“Wow, absolute Einstein here” (y/n) says with his burning sarcasm.

“The Nightshades are an elite social club.

Emphasis on elite.” Bianca said.

“We have roof parties, campouts, the occasional midnight skinny-dip. And Yoko's an amateur mixologist. She makes a killer virgin mojito. It can get pretty wild.” One girl adds in.

“Wow. Do you guys even have a bedtime?” Wednesday said with her cold sarcasm

“Last I heard, the Nightshades had been disbanded.” (Y/n) said.

“Yeah, the group kind of lost its charter 30 years ago after some normie kid died.” Xavier says

“But we have a lot of wealthy alumni, so Weems looks the other way as long as nobody makes any waves.”

“Someone like Rowan?” Wednesday adds in.

“We booted that loser last semester. Question is, what are we gonna do with them? Only members are allowed in this library.” Bianca says, and Xavier comes up with an idea.

“I say we invite them to pledge. They’re Addams, both legacy.” He explains.

“After the crap they pulled in the Poe Cup, there's no way in hell.”

“Are you mad we beat you at your own game? Let me save you the trouble glow fish.” He stands up and reveals his undone bindings.

“I'm not interested in joining, and I’m sure my sister isn’t.”

“You're seriously turning us down?” One says.

“Yes Because your little social club is so inviting.” He walks to the door, but is stopped by Kent, the mermaid and the twin of Divina.

“If you think the little burns you had at the Cup were bad, I’ll fillet you alive, get out of my way.” (Y/n) says with such unnerving calmness, Kent awkwardly side stepped and (Y/n) turned to Wednesday.

“When you’re done toying with them, let me know.” He heads up the flight of stairs to leave his more than capable sister there.

Minutes later he’s awaiting at the gate of the school, and his sister arrives.

“Good, you’re done playing with them, we can figure out our next move.” (Y/n) says.

“It seems the Nightshades were a dead end. They’re not capable of murdering Rowan, they’re barely capable of kidnapping two people.”

“Well your Standards are unnaturally high.” He says and nudges his sister, she stares at him and he walks back to his dorm, Wednesday watches her leave.

“There were so many threads to my investigation, I could weave a burial shroud. I still have no idea how Rowan mysteriously rose from the dead. Or why that monster is prowling the woods. But right now, nothing intrigues me more than this book. If I'm going to be responsible for Nevermore's demise, the question is, why am I sharing this apocalypse with a pilgrim?”

The next morning, The Students Are forced to stand at the Quad as Weems gives them the rundown for their Jobs.

“All students will report for their volunteer jobs at 10:00 a.m. sharp, followed by a community lunch at 1:00. As you know, this year Outreach Day culminates in a very special event, the dedication of a new memorial statue in the town square, which will also include performances by Nevermore students. As representatives of our school, I trust you will all put your best face forward.” She says, and hands out slips of paper for the Postions they’ll play. The Addams twins and Enid get theirs.

“Yes! I got Pilgrim World!” Enid says and (Y/n) checks it.

“Me too.” He ways, “I have natural people skills and a love of performing, so it's kind of the obvi choice.” Enid says, and grabs (Y/n)‘s arm.

“We can wear matching clothes!” Enid says smiling, which quickly changes the sullen demeanor of (Y/n). Who smiles.

“ I suppose I don’t hate that…” he says softly, and Enid turns to Wednesday.

“What'd you get?”

“Uriah's Heap, whatever that is.” She said, the students convey to Jericho to assist at Pilgrim world

“Ew. It's this weird, creepy antique store.” Enid says. “You'll love it though. I'm crossing my claws Ajax and I will be outreaching together.” Enid says, which (Y/n)‘s smile quickly Fades.

“Fantastic.” He walks off, and Weems has reached the front and begins.

“Welcome, welcome, Nevermore Academy.

Now, on behalf of the entire Jericho community, we are so, so pleased to have you all here today. Your generosity and hard work are truly... outreachous! Okay, everyone. We'll see you back here at one o'clock for lunch. Enjoy!” Weems says, (Y/n) adjusts his tie, ready to Woo Enid and make her forget about Ajax, as Enid prepares, Wednesday approaches her.

“Enid. Switch volunteer assignments.”

“What? No. Uriah's Heap is definitely not my bag.”

“It's an emergency. I need to check out Pilgrim World.”

“But Wednesday, this is not a fair trade. Why would I agree to spend the entire day at some dumpy emporium of crapola?”

“Because Ajax is volunteering there. Thing sneaked a peek at his assignment. But if you're not interested...” Wednesday begins to retract, but Enid grabs it.

“No! Oh my God, thank you. You're the best!” Enid skips away, (Y/n) stands with the ground, he turns left as he senses the approach of a woman, he turns with a smile to face enid but he unfortunately sees Wednesday.

“Wednesday? Where’s enid? You didn’t hurt you did you?”

“No, she swapped assignments with me.”

“Uh, why?” He asks, “She hates all things creepy.”

“Ajax is working at the Heap. That convinced her.” Wednesday says, (Y/n) was at a loss for words, the anger and disappointment was at a maximum as he lost his chance to possibly sweep Enid off her feet.

“I would have preferred Enid.” He says.

“I still cannot comprehend what you see in Her.”

“You don’t understand the Human emotional spectrum? I’m so shocked.” He says with sarcasm. “I’d like to spend time with women who aren’t related to me, unless you just don’t want Enid to snatch me away from you~”

“You are absurdly full of yourself, She’s After Ajax, do yourself a favor and accept cold reality. Wednesday says, He opens his mouth to say something less than appealing to his sister, but Eugene intervenes.

“Hey, Wednesday, want to grab a Hummers group photo?” He says, standing in the frame and the twins turn to face him, now both of them with the same stone face.

“Guess not.” Eugene says sheepishly as he walks away, suddenly, a woman approached, dressed as a Pilgrim.

“Good morrow, my young Nevermore kin. I am Mistress Arlene. A real OC. Original colonist. Now prithee, put your cell phones on vibrate and make haste, for you are about to travel back in time to the year of our Lord 1625, to Jericho's first pilgrim settlement. Yonder. Behold, the meeting house. Inside is a collection of artifacts related to Jericho's most beloved and pious founder, Joseph Crackstone. And beyond is our privy, America's first gender-neutral restroom.” She says, “Does anyone have a question about the bathrooms?” (Y/n) begins to raise his hand but Wednesday puts it back down.

“I haveth a query.” Wednesday said.

“Pray, be quick, child.”

“In the meeting house, which of Joseph Crackstone's artifacts are on display?”

“It is truly a treasure trove, including original farm tools, tableware, even the Crackstone family chamber pot.”

“Sounds fascinating. My Brother and I volunteer to work in there.”

“Pray, no. That exhibit is being renovated.

Today, thou will all be working at the beating heart of Pilgrim World. Ye olde fudgery!” She says, and shows the children a Fugde production shop

"Ye Olde Fudgery?" (Y/n) says, raising an eyebrow.

“More like ye olde diabetes in a box.” His sister retorts.

“Volunteers, prick up thine ears. Fudge is the lifeblood of our humble community. And samples equal sales, so grab a uniform and a box and make our forefathers proud.” She says. And adults hand out pieces of the uniforms.

“Are these for muzzling tourists?” Wednesday says.

“No, perhaps we can use them for muzzling troublesome siblings.” (Y/n) thinks.

The twins unfortunately put on a perfect facade of creepy pilgrims as (Y/n) stands there with a plate of Fudge, and Wednesday next to him.

“Enjoy your "authentic" pilgrim fudge made with cacao beans procured by the oppressed indigenous people of the Amazon. All proceeds go to uphold this pathetic whitewashing of American history.” She says in fluent German.

(In French) “Also, fudge wasn't invented for another 258 years. But please, continue to fuel this soulless corporation with your money so your children can still call Native Americans “Indians” (Y/n) says in perfect French.

“Any takers?” They say in Union, which creeps out the tourists and they leave. He calmly tosses the plate over his shoulder.

“This is getting ridiculous.” He says, Wednesday looks around and eyes the door she wishes to enter and walks off, (Y/n) follows, eventually the duo reach the door and Wednesday, using her oddly knowledgeable skill of breaking and entering unlocks the door and heads inside, he follows closely and the duo see the house, it was obviously turned into a museum, displaying multiple items

“My grandmother once told me secrets are like zombies... they never truly die. I'm not sure what secret Crackstone is hiding, but I have a strange feeling the answers to my future lie in the past. The Old Meeting House, 1625.”

“(Y/n), this is the girl from my vision. She's even holding the same book. That black one she had outside Crackstone's crypt.” Wednesday says, and (Y/n) turns to see a book on display.

“Codex Umbrarum. Book of Shadows." He opens it, and sees it all Empty. “Great. It's a fake.” He checks the back of it as his sister peers over his shoulder.

“I don't know who Etsy is, but I doubt she was an outcast settler.”

“No, she wasn’t.” He says, their investigation was suddenly sidelined as Arlene sees them.

“Just what the fudge are you two doing in here?” She says,

“Mistress Arlene.“ (y.n) said, “I proclaimed the meeting house is under repair.” She says “I know thoust heard me.”

“We don’t have firm for this. What happened to the original?” (Y/n) says, and Arlene frowns

“A child unknowing to respect thine elders, The original was stolen last month during the two o'clock witch trial.”

“It was probably the only authentic thing you have in here, yet you still charge $29.95 a ticket?” Wednesday says.

“Hold thy tongue. I'm reassigning you both.

To fudge-churning duty.”

“The original meeting house, the one in that painting, where is it?”

“How the hell should I know?

I only moved here from Scottsdale in April.” She says dropping the attitude.

“Fantastic, we’ll have to find it ourselves, I’ll ask around.” (Y/n) says.

“Ask who? No one living knows—“

“Exactly, no one living. Now If you’ll excuse me sister.” He says to Arlene, she frowns and walks off.

Back at Nevermore, (Y/n) sits cross legged in an Ally, with Wednesday watching guard, she turns to face him.

“Have you found the information yet?” She asks, his head suddenly jerks back and then forth and he opens his eyes, Gasping for air.

“I, think I do…” he says, and walks off into the forest, almost zombie like, they reach a burned down building, they search but, find nothing.

“Can you touch a leaf or something and get a vision?” (Y/n) asks.

“No, I can't just touch something. My visions seem to happen spontaneously.”

“Mother could help you learn some of the power”

“I would rather dye my hair pink than ask mother for advice.”

“Why am I not surprised, Maybe You’re Just afraid to see a vision.” He says sarcastically.

“Oh, you want me to prove it to you?” She says and grabs random items

“No. Nothing. Ah, I bet this will give us some real insight.” She says holding a Taco Bell bag..

“My visions are about as predictable as shark attacks.” Wednesday touched the gate and immediately stiffens up and convulses. (Y/n) rushes to her side and grabs her.

“Wednesday? Wednesday?!” He yells, she seems to be lost in a vision, and (Y/n) takes her away.

Minutes pass inside his room, he had a circle drawn around Wednesday, using his otherworldly skills to try and assist his sister, but her body suddenly awakens and she sits up.

“(Y/n), I saw her! The girl from my visions.

Her name is Goody Addams, and I believe she's our ancestor from 400 years ago.”

“Okay, but what does that have to do with Crackstone?

“I saw Joseph Crackstone in front of me as clearly as I'm seeing you now. He gathered all the outcasts in the meeting house and burned them alive.”

“I see, I see.. so that’s why they’re connected, Joseph killed Goody. Then Crackstone has to do with what’s going on… well, we have to think about this later, we have the concert to perform at? I assume Weems told you.

“Unfortunately so.”

“I thought nothing scared me, but that was before I stared into the eyes of Joseph Crackstone. I don't believe in heaven or hell. But I do believe in revenge. I usually serve it warm with a side of pain, but I've never faced an adversary cast in bronze.”

The Addams Twins are with other students in Jericho, preparing for the Band, but (Y/n)’s guitar skills were unmatched. But his sisters cello ability was unmatched. Weems approaches the podium.

“Thank you. It is my honor to celebrate our town's history and Jericho's noble forefather, Joseph Crackstone. Now, he believed that with a happy heart and an open ear, there was nothing our town couldn't achieve. So together as one, our community and our friends at Nevermore Academy, we've built a monument to celebrate his memory. Now, may the spirit of Joseph Crackstone be memorialized for eternity.” She says as they reveal the Statue of Crackstone, which begins to flow water.

The band begins playing of "Don't Stop" by Fleetwood Mac and the crowd cheers, but (Y/n) was still miffed by his loss of possibly wooing Enid.

The crowd cheers, but their cheers quickly turn to horror as an explosion bellows from the statue, it seems someone swapped the water with gasoline, and all it took was a single match. Screams, terror, fear rang though the center, but what truly took the eye of most was the hellish screeches of an electric guitar, and a cello, as the twins play a harrowing version of Vivaldi's "Winter" as the guitars strings bellow though the area, the cellos haunting dreary tone perfectly compliments the guitar, but Weems wasn’t enjoying it.

“That was a disaster. The mayor is furious!

I've lost count of the angry phone calls, emails, and people in the town, alumni and parents. They want answers and so do I.” Weems says with such vitriolic rage at the twins sitting at the office.

“I would lead the inquisition, but I left my thumbscrews and rack at home.” Wednesday said.

“Miss Addams... you're already on thin ice.

Wafer-thin ice.”

“I swear Principal, our hands are clean.”

“What happened to you Mister Addams? You weren’t like this until your sister darkens our dorms.” She says, which changes his mood, maybe he was going back to his old ways. Weems turns to Wednesday.

“I may not have hard evidence, but I see you.

You're a trouble magnet.”

“If trouble means standing up to lies, decades of discrimination, centuries of treating outcasts like second-class citizens or worse...”

“What are you talking about?”

“Jericho.” (Y/n) cuts Weems off

“Why does this town even have an Outreach Day? Don't you know its real history with outcasts? The actual story of Joseph Crackstone and his hatred for Us?”

“I do…To an extent.” Weems says.

“Then why be complicit in its cover up? Those who forget history are doomed to repeat it.” Wednesday chimes in.

“That's where you and I differ. Where you see doom, I see opportunity. Maybe this is a chance to rewrite the wrongs, to start a new chapter in the normie-outcast relations.”

“Nothing has changed since Crackstone. They still hate us. Only now they sugarcoat it with platitudes and smiles. If you're unwilling to fight for truth...”

“You don't think I want the truth? Of course I do. But the world isn't always black and white.

There are shades of gray.”

“Maybe for you. But it's either they write our story or we do, history isn’t written by those who are right, it’s by those who survive.” He says, weems Just sighs.

“You two are exhausting.”

“We know.”

“Goodnight, Minster and Miss Addams. But know, I don’t tire easily.” She says with the last foreboding warning, the twins leave the office and head back to their dorm. A but silent between each other, Wednesday was typing upon her typewriter, and Enid shows off a few outfits.

“Too much?”

“I feel like you just napalmed me, Enid.” Wednesday says.

“So glad I have my date with Ajax tonight.

Get my mind off that trainwreck of an afternoon. I literally think I have PTSD. I didn't even get to do my dance routine.” Enid says.

“What a tragedy— wait Date?” Wednesday asks.

“What kind of twisted psycho would want to sabotage such a life-affirming event?” Enid says, Wednesday ponders for a moment, and looks a bit saddened. He brother truly does care for her.

“…You're going to be late.”

“Wish me luck.” Enid says with a giggle and leaves. Meanwhile (Y/n) stands at the window, staring out into the moon, sighing solemnly as his eyes reflect the full moon.

“I don't believe in mandatory volunteer work, sugar-coated history, or happy endings, but most of all... I don't believe in coincidences. To paraphrase Agatha Christie, one coincidence is just a coincidence, two are a clue...and three are proof. Rowan's drawing of me and Crackstone happens sometime in the future. Goody Addams' warnings about Crackstone were in the past. And the monster is here in the present. Three coincidences that I know are connected. That monster could be anyone. The sheriff thinks they only exist behind the walls of this school. The truth is, there are monsters everywhere. And sometimes the monsters we least suspect are the most dangerous. They don't need teeth and claws to terrify. They hide in the shadows until no one is looking. And then they strike. But I'm looking now. And I won't stop until I find the truth.

[ornii]

My Better Bitter Half, Part 8

“As I expected, now stop pussyfooting, and get ready because we’re going to make Bianca’s Dream into a nightmare. I’ll go prep black kitten.” (Y/n) says to his sister, who stands before him in the skin tight black suit, fuming with rage, “I will make every last moment of your life absolutely painful.” She says with venom and he nods “as expected.” He said and walks off, eventually (Y/n) reaches a small clearing that perfectly looks over the lake. He calls in via Walkie-Talkie.

“Alright, Addams 2 to Addams A.” He said, “All Cards Are set. Ready for takeover.” He said and kneels down, readying a bow an arrow, he listens calmly to Weems speaking a ways away.

“I want to welcome you all to the Edgar Allan Poe Cup. This is one of Nevermore's proudest annual traditions, dating back 125 years.

Each team must row across to Raven Island, pull a flag from Crackstone's Crypt, and hustle back without sinking or being sunk. First team to cross the finish line with their flag wins the cup and bragging rights for a year, as well as some special privileges. Let the Poe Cup begin!”

He hears a gunshot ring out and he watches them row, the four teams including his sister rowing away. He watches as they creep closer to the island to get the flag, suddenly the Boat Xavier rows begin to sink. And another topples over and it seems that some foul play was at hand, (Y/n) rose up with his bow and took aim.

“The final two teams are the Gold Bugs...and the Black Cats.” He says. He aims and prepares the arrow tip to Pierce the boat, not hurt anyone of course, he begins to trail off. And let the arrow loose, and it flies, and if by the grace of god or the Devil himself. It ricochets off of the boat, it hits multiple Metal objects and then hits a rock near the oily waters, which somehow sets the oily water on fire, creating a ring of fire around Bianca’s boat and halting them in their tracks. Which gets the Black Cats the win, which somehow was him. Absolutely stunned by this, he shrugs and accepts it,

The winning ceremony began as (Y/n) caught up to Enid who was talking his head off, whilst Wednesday just stares as Weems gives another speech,

“The first Poe Cup took place in 1897 as a way to not only honor Nevermore's most famous alumni, but to celebrate those values that all outcasts share. Community, perseverance, and determination. And we certainly saw those Congratulations to Ophelia Hall!

As a former resident, I will be happy to see the cup back on the mantle after all these years.

The trophy was given and celebrating was afoot. Unfortunately Wednesday was not the social spider her brother was and retreated to a secluded corner of the building, (Y/n) peered down the hall to see her.

“Wednesday? What are you doing down here?”

“Hiding. People keep randomly smiling at me, it's unsettling.” She said and (Y/n) chuckles.

“They’re smiling because they’re proud of you,

You took down Bianca Barclay. Try to enjoy it sister, it’s not often you take down a high scho monarch. And smile a little, Oh, come on, it won't kill you.”

“You know it will.” Wednesday responds, (Y/n) thinks for a moment.

“Well, I suppose, okay what would you like to do to celebrate?” He asks, and Wednesday thinks, and walks off and (Y/n) follows.

“Nevermore continues to be an enigma. A place where the questions far outweigh the answers. But sometimes... the answer is staring you right in the face. Don't worry, Edgar Allan. I see your sanctimonious smirk. But I will get the last laugh.” Night falls and the twins stand before the Edgar Allen Poe statue.

“Ah, a Statue?” He asks.

“Yes, i came across something most interesting, you see Edgar had a penchant for riddles. And this might be his cleverest yet. Because it's not a single riddle. Rather, each line is its own separate one. "The opposite of moon."

“Sun” (y/n) replies:

"A world between ours."

“Nether”

"Two months before June."

“April.”

"A self-seeding flower."

“Pansy.”

"One more than one."

“Two.”

"Its leaves weep to the ground."

“Ah, a Willow.”

"It melts in the sun."

“Ice.”

"It’s beginning and end never found."

“A Circle.”

"Every rule has one."

“Exception.”

"The answer will give a sharp cracking sound." Wednesday ends, and (Y/n) rubs his chin.

“Snap.. Twice.” He says, and the twins do it on unison, snap twice. Mechanisms change and shift inside the statue, suddenly it begins to move back and reveal a flight of stairs.

“Wow, as diligent as ever dear sister. You first.” He says and Wednesday heads in first without much reservation and (Y/n) follows. They enter a library full of books, books that look exactly like the ones she was looking for.

“Hm, books, just like the one Rowan had..”

“Then we’ve found our origin.” Wednesday says. The twins catch the eye of a photo being taken, of their mother. They stare at it together.

“Secret societies. Hidden libraries. Our mother staring at us in a judgmental way. These are all things I should expect. But the minute I inch towards the truth...” (y/n) thinks, from the corner of his eye his sister is bagged and dragged away. He turns around and someone whispers into his ear.

“Sleep…”

His legs suddenly fell weak and he collapses down, he rolls on his back and looks up to his eyes closing not by his choice, and dark shadows surround him. And it all fades to black.

“Luckily, I'm not afraid of the dark.”

[ornii]

My Better bitter Half, Part 7

The Twins continue though the forest, their conversation mostly due to (Y/n), was slightly more contentious.

“Hm.. Enid told me that a boy was helping you escape.”

“Yes.”

“So you don’t deny it? I’m glad you’re growing to trust me.”

“No, I simply couldn’t care less to lie to you at this point, I plan on staying.” She says.

“Good, this boy, a Normie?”

“Was it obvious?”

“Yes, any guy in Nevermore knows not to help you escape.”

“Because?”

“They’d have to answer to me of course.” He says with a smile, (Y/n) and Wednesday were Twins at birth and still share some similarities in hair color, bone structure and their prominent black eyes. But their personalities began to overtake as they became older and found their own identities. While Wednesday was antisocial, blunt and cold, (Y/n) was extrovert, more soft spoken and warming. He kept his smile, but deep down he kept the same absolutely horrifying side of himself buried, unlike his sister who allows herself to be feared.

“Hey, do you Remember our Tenth Birthday?” He says.

“I remember you crying after I locked you in the dungeon with the clown.” She says.

“Yeah, that one. Looking back on it, it was pretty entertaining in hindsight, I have an absolute hatred for clowns now, but I suppose that can’t be helped now. You remember the 11th?” He says smirking.

“Yes, when you splattered me with pink food dye all over my clothes… I was in intensive care for a week.” Wednesday says, I’ll admit it was a devious plot of revenge.” Wednesday said.

“It was.” He says softly, “When I went to Nevermore two years ago, I contacted mother and father frequently.. I always asked about you, but mother and father always said you were busy.. I never wanted to bother you.” (Y/n) says, and Wednesdays focus was more on him.

“I suppose even twins grow and separate.” He says somberly, Wednesdays eyes were a bit, somber before responding.

“(Y/n) I—“ Wednesday begins but (Y/n) stops her, kneeling down. They see a pair of shattered glasses. “These are Rowan's.” (Y/n) says.

“I knew it was a cover-up.” Wednesday reached and grabbed the glasses, suddenly her body was stiff like a board and she fell back. (Y/n) quickly swept her up by her feet.

“Wednesday? Wednesday?!” He yells, holding his sister as her vision began, it was Rowan and Xavier, arguing,

“What are you talking about?”

“So much of my... my new desk, you psychopath!”

Wednesday awakens from her vision to her dorm room. (Y/n) awaiting next to her.

“Feeling better?” He asks. She sits up, looking around for Enid.

“Enids away, i was able to haul you around unbothered thankfully, what did you see?” He asks.

“Xavier and Rowan, they fought, and a.. book.” Wednesday says.

“A.. Book?” He asks, eventually the two make their way to the library, searching for said book.

“I keep seeing that same purple book.” She says, (Y/n) shows her a Royal purple book cover.

“The cover was darker. More like a day-old contusion. Keep looking.” She says, (Y/n) tosses the book and keeps searching, eventually being interrupted by Wednesdays Den Mother, Thornhill.

“I don't usually find students in here looking for actual books. Most sneak in to make out.” She says to the twins, who rightfully look at her with suspicion.

“…What?” (Y/n) said.

“N-no that’s not what I meant! It was fairly Common thing back then, If a king can break society’s most basic rules, he stands above everyone else. Plus, a truly lofty king has no peer other than his sister, since only she shares his exalted birth. A noblewoman couldn’t stand beside him as his queen and near equal, and neither could a princess from a lesser dynasty. So the propaganda of mighty kingship sometimes demands..” Thornhill says, slowly trailing off as the twins just stare at her.

“… so..Is there something I can help you find?” She says changing the subject. Wednesday shows Thornhill the page.

“Have you seen this before? It's a watermark from a book I'm looking for.”

“I think it's the symbol to an old student society. Um...The Nightshades.”

“Like the deadly flower. Color me intrigued.”

“I was told they disbanded years ago.” Thornhill says.

“Any idea why?” (Y/n) asks.

“Sorry, but no. I was very impressed with your answers in class today.”

“My mother is a carnivorous plant aficionado.

I assume I get my red thumb from her.”

“I get my knowledge of the undead arts from mother, it seems we both know something.” He said, and Thornhill smiles.

“You two really are so unique, you know, they say twins often are the dualistic worldview of each other, or even their shadow. While that’s the case, it’s also important for the twins to be idk their own people, and with how different you two are, you’ve developed into your own way.” Thornhill says before leaving, the twins shrug it off and head back to the dorm.

“The book wasn’t there.”

“Obviously Wednesday… in your vision you saw Rowan and Xavier arguing, we can deduce where the book is, the Men’s dorm.”

“And how do you suppose we get the book?”

“That, well we need to get into Xavier’s dorm first and search for it.” (Y/n) says, pondering.

“I’ll go.” Wednesday says.

“What? If they find you in the boys dorm—“

“They won’t, and I’m going to need someone to be the outside look out, and I suppose there’s no one else to trust besides you.”

“…I suppose that’s fair, fine, but if you see discovered I will disown you.”

“I’d.. expect nothing less.” She responds, “Xavier’s should be out on his jog. Let’s begin.” He says, the duo reach the room of Xavier and enter, he lets Wednesday in.

“Be careful.” He says, and she departs inside, he leans against the wall outside as Wednesdays begins her investigation. His eyes focus and dart around to see anything, it was silent for a moment until his ears perk up and he hears footsteps approaching. His head twisted to see Bianca approach. He plays it off and lightly taps the door twice. Signaling for his sister, he cuts her off to buy her as much time.

“You’re Not Supposed to be here.” (Y/n) says.

“I just need to talk to Xavier.” Bianca says.

“Hm, about what?”

“Obviously your sister..”

“..” (y/n) silently sighed and shrugged.

“ seems your sister caught his eye.” Bianca says.

“Well he should get it back before I gouge it out.” He responds with a smile, Bianca does as well.

“Seem we’re on the safe wavelength, good.” Bianca said, and enters the room, (Y/n) can only wait, a few minutes pass and Bianca leaves, but not before giving a small wink to (Y/n), a minute passes and Wednesday exits.

“Found it?” He asks, and Wednesday shows him not a book but, a Mask.

“Huh… let’s compare notes.” He says and Wednesday walks off. “Correct.” Wednesday said, the twins return back to her dorm to Enid, weeping like a kicked puppy. Her eyes were puffy and tears were forming and she quickly spits the two.

“Where have you been? I'm literally having a heart attack right now.” Enid says, (Y/n) walks over and tries to comfort her by patting her on the shoulder, Enid hugs him tightly, wrapping her arms around him as she sniffles. (Y/n) was caught off guard, his hands shake once more, and (Y/n), like most pet owners, just pats her head, gently stroking her blonde hair, as Wednesday watches on, an odd emotion glowing from her, Jealousy?

“Yoko's in the infirmary!” Enid says.

“What? What happened?” (Y/n) asks.

“Garlic bread incident at dinner. She had a major allergic reaction. She's out of the Poe Cup. I don't have a co-pilot.” Enids anger tightens her grip.

“Okay Enid, I’m all for expressing yourself but I’d rather you not snap my spinal chord.” He says and she lets go, wiping tears.

“I’m sorry..” she says sadly.

“It wasn't an accident. Bianca's behind it.” Wednesday, boldly walks in between them to split them up.

“..How do you know?” Enid asks, “Yeah how do you know that?” (Y/n) asks as well.

“Doesn't matter. We are going to take her down tomorrow.”

“Wait. You're joining the Black Cats? You're willing to do that? For me?” Enid says, (Y/n) gets behind Enid and nods, trying to convince Wednesday to nod.

“I want to humiliate Bianca so badly that the bitter taste of defeat burns in her throat.” Wednesday said.

“…Yeah, but mostly you're doing it because we're friends, right?” Enid says and (Y/n) nods harder but his Sister ignores her.

“Tell me how she keeps winning.” Wednesday said.

“It's a real brain cramp.” Enid begins, “The past two years, no other boat has made it across and back without sinking.”

“It’s not.” (y/n) said, “There are no rules in the Poe Cup, and she is a siren, making her invincible in the water, so that’s how she keeps wining.” (Y/n) says.

“Then we just need to beat her at her own game… (Y/n).” Wednesday says to (Y/n), who smirks.

“Of course, this might actually be fun.”

[ornii]

My Better Bitter Half, Part 6

Chapter 6

(Y/n) stood in the halls of Nevermore with Enid, who’s trying to be threatening during his interrogation of her.

“So, against my wishes you assisted my sister in attempting to escape Nevermore? Heavily against my wishes?” He says with his arms folded, Enid awkwardly shrugged and tried to laugh it off, but his stern lips and cold eyes quickly froze her warm bubbly smile.

“Well.. she was unhappy here, and if you wanted to leave I’d help you too. She has a right to be happy.” Enid responds and (Y/n) grunts in disappointment. Enid pouts at him, letting her ocean blue eyes slowly melt him down.

“I… I forgive you.” (Y/n) says and Enid smiles again and hugs him, (y/n) was at a loss for words feeling her arms wrap around him, he felt his body instinctively stiffen and his arms began to shake, about to clasp her into a tight hug but, he couldn’t push himself to do so. He simply allowed her to hug him and she lets go.

“Good, I really hate it when you pout.” She said, you sigh and shrug.

“I suppose it can’t be helped, we do have bigger issues on the mend, especially when it comes to Rowan, I can only wonder what the police are going to do.” (Y/n) said, he looks up to Enid staring off in the distance.

“Enid? Enid what has you so preoccupied? It can’t be that—“ (Y/n) looks over to where she is staring and his eyes go wide, he sees, Rowan, alive and Well. It’s almost as if he didn’t get mangled to death last night.

“…I need to find my sister.”

Later in the day, (Y/n) wraps up his fencing class, on top as usual. As he removes his helmet he spots a black cloud looming near him. He puts his gear down as Wednesday approaches, they stop in each others tracks and (Y/n) sees the others speaking.

“I know why you’re here. Come, let’s speak more privately.” (Y/n) says.

In the Backyard of the School, a block of wood was placed on a tree, like a bullseye, but not for darts, a hatchet slams into it, scoring a near bullseye, a throwing knife then landed into it, perfectly.

“Lucky shot.” (Y/n) says as he and Wednesday were throwing them.

“So… you know thay Rowan is alive, correct?” (Y/n) asks.

“Last time we saw him his insides were being torn to shreds.” Wednesday says.

“I know, don’t tell me it’s a case of Folie à deux.” (Y/n) says, “The Madness of Two. Dear sister, it’s possibly we have finally driven each other insane.”

“I doubt it. If I had been driven insane there would be clones of you haunting my dreams.”

“Oh? Well it’s nice to know you think about me.” (Y/n) gives his cheeky responds.

“That’s not what I meant—“

“You love me, just admit it.” He says jokingly and Wednesday glares at him with the knives in her hand.

“I kid I kid, you’re no fun.” (Y/n) says, Wednesday hurls her knife into another bullseye.

“When you took over Rowan’s body…” Wednesday begins and (Y/n) quickly cuts her off.

“I know what you want to know: my powers began about a year ago.”

“When my visions began..” Wednesday said to herself.

“Seems even our powers are intertwined. These visions, are they a grizzly future?” He asks.

“More or less, and your Abilities..”

“They don’t just end at that.” (Y/n) says, and Wednesday looks at him interested.

“Do go on.” She says.

“I may be able to project my spirit, but it’s more than that Wednesday, I can see the dead sometimes, spirits wandering that have some unfinished business in this world…” (Y/n) says, he sees a black cat walk over, and leap on Wednesdays shoulder, but for Wednesday, there’s nothing there on her shoulder. (Y/n) sees the cat and smiles.

“Some people attract death.” (Y/n) says, and turns and throws a hatchet to a bull eyes, breaking Wednesdays knives.

“Rowan was killed that night… whoever I saw and you spoke to.. that cannot be him.” (Y/n) says, and Wednesday actually agrees.

“What do you propose we do? You forbade me from leaving Nevermore.” Wednesdays says sarcastically, as if (Y/n) could hold her.

“You wish to understand why Rowan wants us dead, and why his death is a coverup.” (Y/n) says, and Wednesday is in an agreeable mood.

“We could discover it, but Weems has eyes on me constantly now.” Wednesday says, and (Y/n) thinks, a dark light bulb comes on in his head and he looks at his sister.

“Well. Then we need a good coverup, come.” He says.

(Y/n)‘s POV.

I walked though the small clearing with my sister, slowly heading to a small white building, we stop at the door and I turn to her with a cheeky smirk, she looked at me unamused. I delivered two taps on the door. And it suddenly opened to a slightly smaller boy, ruffled hair and big glasses.

“Are you interested in the ancient art of beekeeping?” The boy asks and introduces himself to her “Eugene, Eugene Ottinger. Founder and president of the Nevermore Hummers.” He said with a handshake.

“Wednesday. Wednesday Addams.” Your sister replies and Eugene finally pieces it together.

“Wow! I knew you had a sister but the likeness is impeccable!” He said, “I get the beautiful genes from mother. Wednesday unfortunately wasn’t so lucky.” You say smirking.

“We look exactly the same—“

“Anyway.” You say cutting her off, “Wednesday, this is your perfect club to join.” You say, she glares at you for a few moments but then turns to Eugene.

“Am I late or is it only you?” Wednesdays said and Eugene sadly nods.

“The hive life isn't for everyone. Most kids are afraid of venomous insects. Are you willing to feel the sting?” He asks, and the most twisted smirk creeps along your sisters face.

“I love it when a plan goes perfectly.” You say, Eugene, please give Wednesday all the information you can, I’m sure she’s going to love it.” You say and lean into your sisters ear “No one would question where you are now, just try and play nice, we’ll figure something out.” You say and leave, planning more ahead.

The next morning, you sat up from your rest, expecting to be electrocuted for some reason, but alas the sweet release of death was not here to claim you yet. Instead you heard the dreary knocking of your sister and knew what she wanted.

3RD PERSON POV.

(Y/n) and Wednesday stood next to each other towards Enid.

“And you want me to cover so that you can return to the scene of a crime that didn't happen?” Enid asks.

“I have beekeeping club this afternoon. I need you as decoy.” Wednesday said.

“But you have a literal perfectly cute decoy next to you.” Enid says.

“You, think I’m cute?” He asks trying not to smile, “Well we used to do that as kids, impersonating each other.” You say.

“Why you stop?” Enid asks.

“I got tired of being asked to perform Shakespeare.” Wednesday said.

“And I got tired of wearing dresses.” (Y/n) said.

“That’s, adorable but Sorry. Two strikes. I'm busy and bees totally creep me out. Why don't you ask Thing? Wait, you can't because he's mad at you.”

“What did you do to thing?” (Y/n) asks annoyed.

“Why's he mad? He's the one who screwed up.” Wednesdays says to (Y/n).

“All I know is that we spent an hour giving each other manis, and he really opened up. He feels like you don't respect him as a person.” Enid says.

“Enid, Thing isn’t a person he’s a hand.” (Y/n) says and Enid gasps.

“(Y/n)! That’s very rude ! He's your family. And he would do anything for you.” Enid says and (Y/n) folds his arms.

“Enid, grow up. And just help us.”

“When Wednesday apologizes and I'll reconsider helping you.” She says. (Y/n) frowns a bit and Enid pouts at him again like a puppy dog, (Y/n) grunts again trying to keep a stern glare, but he again falls to Enids puppy pout and he turns to Wednesday.

“Wednesday you have to apologize.” He says, and she frowns.

“She’s ripped your spine from your back.” Wednesday says and walks over to the bed where thing is reading a magazine. Wednesday sits down next to him.

“I snapped at you. I'll check my tone in the future. Now chop-chop, before all our leads turn cold.” She says, and thing doesn’t move.

“What is it that you want? Hand cream? Nail buffer? New cuticle scissors? Consider it done.” Wednesday says, (Y/n) sighs and walks over to Thing as well.

“Wednesday, bribery will get you nowhere.” He says, and Wednesday sighs.

“I know I'm stubborn, single-minded and obsessive. But those are all traits of great writers.”

“And Serial Killers.” (Y/n) chimes in

“What's your point?” Wednesday says, “you’re a real gem.” You say sarcastically and sit next to thing as well.

“I have nothing to get off my chest, and I am not submitting to your emotional blackmail.” Wednesdays pouts and you just shake your head.

“What Wednesday is trying to, and very poorly convey— is that we do care for you, and we shouldn’t take you for granted, you see Rowan showed Wednesday a picture of twins destroying Nevermore, and it seems we will be responsible for something terrible. Not good terrible, like Ivan. Bad terrible. And we can't let that happen.” You explain.

“That's why I need to find out the truth.” Wednesday said, “I.. I truly want your help.” She says, “See? You can be nice sister.” (Y/n) says:

“Breathe a word of this to anyone and I will end you.” She says to (Y/n).

Finally convinced, Enid dawns the beekeeper shot.

“If Weems comes sniffing around, keep your distance, look grim, and don't say a word.” Wednesday says to Enid who looks more than unhappy.

“If it’s any consolation, you look, pretty dapper in white.” (y/n) says, and Enid smiles.

“Thanks, it Actually means a lot for you to say that.” She says and for a moment, (Y/n) and Enid can only look at each other. But their budding friendship was nothing compared to the rotting flower bud that is Wednesday and Eugene.

“Blab and I will squeeze you like a honeycomb.”

“Snitches get stung. It's hive code. Besides, I should be thanking you. This is the most girls I've ever had in the shed. Other than bees.”

“Shocking.”

“I've always had a thing for werewolf chicks.” Eugene says with a smirk.

“The chance that Enid ever becomes romantically interested in you is less than 1%.”

“So I've still got a shot? Yes!” Eugene says, Wednesday looks very unamused, and turns her attention to (Y/n) it’s time to—“ she stops, seeing the two talk and how he’s been grinning ever since she put on that outfit. Wednesday lacked the social ability to form normal relationships, but she could easily see how her brother-in-law fawning over the werewolf, unfortunately she was too air headed to notice or he was too stubborn to admit it, but she’d rather get the job done first. Wednesday just snaps her fingers, which catches (Y/n) and Enid off guard. They separate and he follows his sister out. Leaving Eugene to spit game on enid.

“In ancient times, honey was used to treat wounds and in sacrificial burial rites. Cleopatra was rumored to bathe in honey. Gave her skin a luminous glow. You ever taken a honey bath?” He smirks.

“I just don't wanna get stung.” Enid admits sadly.

“The key is to remain calm. Bees detect fear, but you don't need to worry. Because I have a very big smoker, and I handle it like a pro. Would you like to see it?” Eugene says, the twins continue to walk though the forest.

“Enid.” Wednesday says and (Y/n) turns to her.

“What about her?” He asks

“I could care less about your romantic inclinations about her, but keep your focus on the investigation and not your pet.”

“She isn’t a pet!”

“Getting defensive are we? You seem very intimated for someone you don’t consider your pet.”

“… I hate you.” (Y/n) looks away and keeps walking as the slightest smirk was on her face.