Average Good Hero x Eldritch Nightmare
Blonde Blazer x Cyn!Reader Fluff Alphabet
Since this isnt part of the story and more for fun, I'll scrap the ██████ stuff and just refer to the Reader as Reader.
Mandy never thought she’d be the more affectionate one—but here she is.
She’s the one who reaches out first: a hand on your shoulder, fingers brushing the back of your neck to steady it when it tilts too far. You respond by copying her gestures with uncanny precision, sometimes seconds later, sometimes minutes.
“Affection reciprocated,” you say, monotone.
Then you lean into her anyway.
You don’t initiate often, but when you do, it’s absolute, quietly sitting beside her, resting your head against her arm like gravity finally chose you. Mandy pretends her heart doesn’t stutter every time.
She plans schedules. You destroy celestial bodies.
You obey her without resistance, not out of submission but trust. When she tells you to stay, you stay. When she tells you to wait, you do, hands folded, feet turned inward.
Occasionally, reality bends slightly to make her plans easier.
Mandy never questions why.
Cuddling is… experimental.
You don’t quite understand comfort, but you understand proximity. You sit too stiff at first, narrating adjustments aloud.
“Arm placement corrected.”
“Thermal regulation acceptable.”
Mandy eventually pulls you closer, tucking your head under her chin, holding it there when your neck threatens to give out. You go very still.
Your internal systems quiet.
You do not move until she does.
You are terrible at chores.
Not because you won’t do them, because you do them too well.
Once, you cleaned the kitchen so thoroughly that the concept of bacteria in a eighty-foot radius ceased to exist.
You enjoy cooking, but only because you like narrating the process.
“Light stir.”
“Heat application.”
“Catastrophic error—oh.”
The smoke alarm fears you.
Mandy is the breadwinner.
Unofficially, you occasionally conjure rare matter or impossible materials that somehow end up funding SDN infrastructure upgrades. Mandy doesn’t ask. Accounting doesn’t question it.
If there were ever children involved, Mandy knows, knows, you’d be the one home.
Watching. Waiting. Protecting.
Not because Mandy hesitates—but because you don’t understand what marriage means beyond “permanent association.”
When you finally propose, it’s quiet.
“Request: continued existence together,” you say, holding out a ring you fabricated from a collapsed star. “Forever, if acceptable.”
Mandy cries. She says yes immediately.
The wedding is small. The universe behaves itself. Barely.
You are devastatingly gentle with her.
You regulate your strength, your presence, your very existence around Mandy. Reality stabilizes when she’s near. You touch her like she might shatter, not because she’s weak, but because she’s precious.
In moments where the Solver stirs, Mandy grounds you with a hand on your chest.
Not maliciously, just because some truths are too large. Mandy senses it but doesn’t push. She knows when something isn’t meant for her.
When you do tell the truth, it’s absolute.
“I would end the universe for you,” you say once, calmly.
“I love you,” you state, flat. Then, concerned: “Emotion detected. Clarification requested.”
Mandy laughs through tears and says it back.
You repeat it often afterward. Sometimes just to hear the sound.
When someone flirts with Mandy, the lights flicker. Gravity feels heavier.
You lean in and say, pleasantly, “She is mine.”
Mandy clears her throat and gently steers you away before something catastrophic happens.
You like kisses on the forehead.
Mandy prefers your cheek, cool, faintly humming with power. Sometimes she presses a kiss to your temple just to feel the world settle.
You always pause afterward.
They are loud. Fragile. Inefficient.
You kneel to their level, eyes glowing softly, terrifying every parent except Mandy. You would guard a child with the same fervor you guard her.
Mandy suspects you’d be an excellent parent in the strangest way.
Instead, you watch her, head tilted, memorizing her breathing patterns until she stirs.
“Morning,” you say the instant her eyes open.
Less noise. Less expectation.
You sit on rooftops with Mandy, legs dangling, stars bending ever so slightly closer when you hum. Mandy leans against you, trusting the world won’t end tonight.
You make sure it doesn’t.
You don’t talk about what you are.
But you are open about how you feel about her.
“I am calmer when you are near.”
“I prefer existence with you.”
Mandy takes that as love.
You are terrifyingly protective.
Nothing touches Mandy without your permission, be it threat, timeline, or fate itself.
You would unravel gods for her.
She knows this and gently asks you not to.
Birthdays. Anniversaries. The exact tone Mandy used the first time she laughed at you.
You remind her of things before she forgets.
She pretends not to notice how comforting that is.
Your favorite memory is simple.
Mandy asleep on the couch. Her head on your shoulder. Your systems quiet.
You like sitting together.
Mandy working. You watching. Occasionally narrating something mundane just to hear your own voice.
“Contentment acknowledged.”
That’s what makes it work.
Mandy hates that sometimes… she forgets you’re dangerous.
You hate that sometimes… you enjoy her fearing you.
Neither of you say it out loud.
You don’t care how you look.
She fixes your clothes, smooths your hair, adjusts your posture. You let her. You trust her judgment more than your own.
Without Mandy, you would still exist.
But it would be… incomplete.
With her, the universe feels quieter.
Sometimes, when Mandy is overwhelmed, you quietly fold reality to make things easier.
Mandy’s favorite thing about you?
That for all your power, for all your horror
