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guys.. i have a problem 🤦🏾♀️
⌇ INVINCIBLE
MARK GRAYSON :: INVINCIBLE P!Links. 1
NOLAN GRAYSON :: OMNI-MAN P!Links. 1
⌇ SUPERMAN (2025)
CLARK KENT :: SUPERMAN P!Links. 1
Coming Untouched, Clark Kent :: Superman — NSFW
⌇ FINAL DESTINATION
ERIK CAMPBELL P!Links. 1
⌇ THE LAST OF US
JOEL MILLER P!Links. 1
JOEL MILLER P!Links. 2
Webcam, Joel Miller — NSFW
⌇ OTHERS !!
Finger Sucking & Dacryphilia, Higgs Monaghan — NSFW
Blindfolds, Kento Nanami — NSFW
Exhibitionism, Messmer the Impaler — NSFW
Punishment, Cooper Howard :: The Ghoul — NSFW
Somnophilia, Bruce Wayne :: Batman — NSFW
Sex Work, Din Djarin :: The Mandalorian — NSFW
...
Thinking about Nolan, and how he sees affection as meaningless. At least until his S/O is running their fingers through their hair and he likes it?
-
Normally he would’ve brushed them off, took a shower, and went to bed. That’s how they would do it in Viltrum.
But he couldn’t deny how he likes feeling his beloved fuss and flutter over him, cleaning up small cuts he didn’t even realise he sustained. They were a great cook, and the stew they made him? Just for him? It was heavenly.
What he still needed to get used to, was… the cuddling.
It was pointless in his eyes, but when they were curled up against him, checking his temp with a gentle press of their hand to his forehead, the soft nuzzle of their nose into the cleft of his neck, it felt… nice.
Not that he would say it.
Out loud.
The first time they did it, he caught their wrist in a split second, thinking they were going to stab his head with a hidden dagger. But all he found was their fingers twitching, trying to reach the soft strands of his hair.
“Babe… please? I just… I wanna comb your hair back. Don’t you trust me?”
That damned pout had his mouth set in a hard line before he lets out a disgruntled grumble. “Fine.”
Now, his head is in their lap, their fingers reaching closer to his head.
This is it. They’ll snap his neck, and he would’ve been the dumbest Viltrumite born if he did die this way. That’s the Viltrumite way, that’s how they did it back in Vil-
But then he just felt the gentle combing through his soft strands, their nails raking just nicely into his scalp as they combed his hair back.
He relaxed almost instantly, his heightened breaths slowing down and evening out, his eyes trained on his beloved’s pretty hues.
“There. Feels nice, right?”
“Mm.”
a girls first love and heartbreak.
just some headcanons of Grayson daughter!reader life that i've had stashed in my brain for a little bit. This was heavily indulgent i am so sorry. Warnings: angst, depictions of a child being injured (the child is reader aka you), surgery, hematoma draining, broken fingers. Reader has powers but is way weaker than mark and nolan, think Oliver levels. mark and reader get beat senseless together <3 use of yn: once ((i use interactivefics to change this)) notes: written all in one go, forgive any errors
Like a good neighbor- Nolan is there!
The first time it happened, you assumed it was just what neighbors did.
You'd been wrestling with your garbage cans — the big ones, the kind with wheels that never actually worked the way they were supposed to — trying to get them to the curb before the truck came, when a pair of hands appeared from nowhere. They simply lifted both of them, one in each fist, and carried them to the street like they weighed nothing.
You turned around.
Your neighbor — the one from the brick colonial across the street, the one you'd waved at twice and spoken to exactly zero times — stood in your driveway in a flannel shirt with the sleeves rolled up, looking at you with an expression that was almost aggressively neutral.
"Truck comes at seven," he said. "You were going to miss it."
"I — thank you, I had it—"
"You didn't." He looked at the cans, then back at you. "Nolan Grayson."
"I know," you said, and then immediately felt strange about it. "I mean — we've waved. I'm—" You told him your name.
He nodded, once, like he was filing it away somewhere.
Then he went back across the street and that was that.
The second time, two weeks later, you were on a step stool in your front doorway trying to change the overhead light bulb — the tall one, the annoying one, the one you needed three extra inches of height to reach properly — when you heard footsteps on your porch.
"You're going to fall."
You squawked and grabbed the doorframe, "what—"
Nolan Grayson was standing at the bottom of your porch steps with a reusable grocery bag in one hand, looking up at you with the same unreadable expression he'd had at the garbage cans. He had, apparently, materialized from nowhere. You were beginning to think this was just something he did.
"I wasn't going to fall," you mumbled sheepishly. "I was fine."
"The stool was wobbling."
"It was not—"
He came up the steps, held out his hand, and waited. You stared at him. He continued to wait, patient as geology. You sighed and put the bulb in his hand.
He reached up — easily, without any kind of stool — and replaced it in about four seconds.
"The fixture is loose," he stated flatly, examining it briefly. "I can fix that."
"You don't have to—"
"It'll bother me if I don't."
You opened your mouth, before thinking better of it.
He fixed the light fixture with ease. It took him ten minutes and he used tools he produced from his car with the quiet efficiency of someone who did not believe in being unprepared. When he was done he packed up, came back to the porch, and looked at you.
"Thank you," you offered softly. "Really. Can I — do you want coffee or something, I have—"
"I have to get back." He paused at the top of the steps. "But another time."
Even though it was such a small thing to say, you thought about it for the rest of the day.
The third time you stopped being surprised and started being something else entirely.
The faucet under your kitchen sink had been dripping for a week. Not badly — just enough to be audible in the quiet of the house, a slow metronomic drip that you'd been meaning to call someone about and hadn't gotten around to. You'd left your front door open on a Saturday morning while you moved boxes from your car, and when you came inside Nolan Grayson was crouched under your kitchen sink.
You stood very still in your own doorway.
"The washer was worn through," he said, without looking up. "I could hear it from outside."
"You could hear it—"
"It was bothering me."
You set your box down slowly. "Mr. Grayson. You're in my house."
"The door was open." He emerged from under the sink, standing to his full height in your kitchen, and looked at you without any apparent awareness that this was unusual behavior. He had a wrench. He had, apparently, brought his own wrench. "It's fixed. You should have called someone sooner — that kind of drip runs up the water bill."
You stared at him.
He looked back at you. Something shifted, just slightly, in his expression — not quite a smile, but adjacent to one. An awareness that he was being evaluated and a complete absence of concern about the outcome.
"Coffee," you said finally. "You're having coffee. I'm not asking."
A pause. "Alright," he agreed firmly.
He took it black, which surprised you for no logical reason.
He sat at your kitchen table like he'd sat there before, comfortable in the space, watching you move around the kitchen with that steady, unblinking attention that you were starting to recognize as just how he looked at things he found interesting. It should have been uncomfortable. Mostly it was just warm.
"How long have you lived across the street?" you asked.
"Twelve years."
"And you've never — we've never actually talked before two months ago."
"You didn't need anything before two months ago." He said it simply, no subtext offered, and wrapped both hands around his mug.
You leaned against the counter and looked at him. "Is that how it works? You only talk to people when they need something fixed?"
"Generally."
"That's a very lonely way to live."
Something moved across his face, there and gone, "It's a very efficient way to live."
"Mm." You picked up your own mug. "And you just — happened to notice my garbage cans. And my lightbulb. And my faucet."
"I pay attention to my surroundings."
"You pay attention to my surroundings."
He looked at you over the rim of his mug and said nothing, which was somehow a complete answer.
Your face felt warm. You looked out the window at the very normal and interesting backyard.
"Well," you started. "Thank you. For all of it. You didn't have to."
"I'm aware."
"So why—"
"You take your trash out in your socks," he stated flatly. "In October."
You blinked. "What?"
"The first morning. You came out in socks. No shoes." He set his mug down. "It was 48 degrees."
You had absolutely no response to that.
"I noticed," he said, in the same tone someone might use to report weather data, "that you do a lot of things without quite enough help."
The kitchen was very quiet.
"That's—" You laughed, a little helplessly. "That's either very sweet or very alarming, I genuinely can't tell."
"Probably both." And there it was — not a full smile, but the real version of that almost-smile, the one that changed the whole architecture of his face. It lasted about three seconds and then he picked up his mug again and it was gone. "The gutter on your east side is pulling away from the fascia."
"I — what?"
"I'll take care of it Saturday."
"Nolan—"
"Unless you have plans Saturday."
He asked it like it was a practical question about scheduling. He was looking at you like it was something else completely.
"I don't have plans Saturday," you answered slowly.
He nodded, satisfied, and finished his coffee.
When he left he paused in your doorway — your fixed, properly lit doorway — and looked back at you with that steady, unhurried attention.
"Lock up," he stated. "The deadbolt, not just the handle."
"How do you know I only use the handle—"
He was already down the porch steps.
You locked the deadbolt. You stood in your kitchen for a moment in the quiet of your fixed-faucet house and pressed your fingers to your mouth and tried very hard not to smile.
You failed.
Saturday, he arrived at eight in the morning with a ladder and fixed your gutter in forty minutes. You brought him coffee without being asked. He drank it standing in your driveway, looking up at his work with a critical eye, and then looked at you.
"The porch railing has some rot on the left post," he said.
"Of course it does."
"I can—"
"Nolan." You held out his empty mug. "You know, most people get to know their neighbors by introducing themselves. Maybe a wave. A casserole."
"I fixed your faucet."
"You broke into my house to fix my faucet."
"The door was open."
"Nolan."
He took the mug. He was doing that not-quite-smiling thing again, the one that made it very difficult to maintain a reasonable level of composure. "There's a hardware store on fifth," he offered. "They'd have the right lumber for the post. I know the owner."
You looked at him. "Are you asking me to go to a hardware store with you."
"I'm saying I need to get the lumber anyway."
"That's not a no."
"No," he said, "it isn't."
The morning was cold and bright and your gutter was fixed and Nolan Grayson was standing in your driveway holding your coffee mug with both hands waiting for you to put your shoes on.
Actual shoes this time, you thought.
You went inside to get your coat.
could you do headcanons about the Viltrumite men caring for their sick s/o?
x gn Reader; no warnings
A big change.
Nolan Grayson x wife!reader
Summary: When Nolan hears the news, he's immediately distraught.
Warning: so angsty🙁 this fandom hates happiness, bed-talk, mentions of sex, etc, spoilers for end of S1 I suppose
Masterlist
................................................
"Nolan?"
He paused mid-chew, his fork still in his hand.
The two of you hadn't truly talked about what you were going to tell him.
You were pregnant.
It had been part of the bed-talk you shared. When he was deep inside you and whispered how beautiful you'd look swollen with his seed. But that was it.
The pregnancy test you'd taken this morning proved otherwise.
A Viltrumite's Pet
Chapter 1 - Nolan
CW: Explicit 🔞, Very dubious consent, Power imbalance, PwP
Word count 3295
