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queenofdragons12 · 1 month ago

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Ultimate Spider-Man: Shadow of the Force

The days since Spider-Man and Power Man had found you had felt like a gilded dream, laced with both chaos and belonging. Settling into Peter Parker’s modest Queens home, you’d been met with a kindness that could only be described as royal in its simplicity. Aunt May had welcomed you like family, her warm smile and gentle wit wrapping around you like a comforting cloak. The air in the house was always sweet with the scent of her baking, her old-fashioned wisdom punctuating your evenings like pearls of advice strung along your new life.

The team had embraced you, too. Nova’s flirtation, as inevitable as a sunbeam breaking through stormy clouds, had been easy to brush off, though it brought a grin to your face. His sparkling bravado was infectious, even if shallow. Spider-Man—Peter—had been the opposite: grounded, steady, his nervous kindness a steady thread that tethered you to this new reality. He was the one who had suggested the lightsaber training, an idea so absurd yet thrilling that you hadn’t been able to say no. The glow of the blades lit up the darkened evenings like something out of a myth, each swing and parry feeling as if you were carving a new chapter of your story into the air itself.

School had been a revelation. Harry Osborn’s easy charm and MJ’s sharp wit made them fast allies, and they had drawn you into their circle with the ease of royals admitting a favored knight into their court. The other students, especially the girls, had been slower to warm up to you—your arrival had been like a comet streaking across their sky, blinding and awe-inspiring. But soon, even their tentative smiles had turned genuine. After all, how could they not? You carried yourself with the kind of confidence that seemed otherworldly. Your presence turned heads in the hallways, your voice commanding attention with an unintentional authority. You looked like you belonged on a throne carved from the stars themselves, a celestial being among mortals.

The days were filled with a heady mix of ordinary routines and extraordinary moments. Walking to school felt like parading down a cobblestone boulevard in some ancient city, each step echoing with purpose. In class, your answers came sharp and clear, like a blade striking true. At lunch, laughter rang out like silver bells as you shared quips with Peter’s friends, their warmth seeping into the corners of your heart. Even Flash Thompson, the self-proclaimed king of Midtown High, seemed more bemused than antagonistic when it came to you.

Still, it was the nights that shone the brightest. Under the silver gaze of the moon, you and Peter sparred on rooftops, the city a sprawling kingdom beneath your feet. You had never felt more alive, your movements fluid and precise as your lightsaber hummed through the air, meeting Peter’s web-slinging agility with a grace that felt predestined. Each session left you breathless, but the smile that lingered on Peter’s face made every aching muscle worth it.

Though you had found yourself drenched in these royal details of camaraderie and routine, a small, guarded part of you couldn’t help but wonder: What lay ahead for someone like you, who looked like a god yet felt so human among them?

The cafeteria buzzed with the hum of conversation and clattering trays, but Harry’s question cut through the noise as sharp as the edge of a blade.

“Hey, do you wanna go out afterward?” he asked, his tone casual, but his green eyes flickered with an undercurrent of hope.

You paused mid-bite, your sandwich hovering inches from your mouth. A slight smirk tugged at the corner of your lips as you considered his invitation. There was no malice in your response, just a straightforwardness that seemed to define you.

“Can’t, got homework,” you said, your shrug dismissive but not unkind. Then, as if to soften the blow, you nudged him lightly with your elbow. “But tomorrow? Sure.”

Harry’s expression faltered for just a heartbeat, a flicker of disappointment crossing his face before he masked it with his usual charm. “Alright,” he said, forcing a grin as if he’d already started planning tomorrow’s adventure in his head.

The lunch table settled into its usual rhythm, and soon enough, you and Peter were walking home. The streets of Queens stretched out before you like a well-worn map, their familiarity a comfort after the chaos of the last few weeks. You kicked at a stray pebble, your conversation with Peter light and easy, weaving between topics with the kind of camaraderie that felt natural now.

But neither of you noticed the figure cloaked in shadow, their gaze like cold fire as they watched your every move. Their white eyes, devoid of warmth, followed your form with an eerie precision, lingering on you as though they were memorizing every detail: the way your shoulders moved, the faint golden glow of your hair under the fading sun, the confident stride that marked you as someone special. Someone dangerous.

Home greeted you like an old friend, Aunt May’s soft humming filtering from the kitchen as you and Peter stepped through the door. You exchanged pleasantries briefly, your mind already drifting to the next task. Without much thought, you headed for the bathroom, eager to rinse the day off and ease the tension in your muscles.

The hot water streamed down your back, soothing and relentless, as your fingers combed through your short blonde hair. The strands gleamed in the misty light, catching the dim glow of the bathroom bulb. You sighed, letting the water cascade over you, erasing the grime of the day.

And then, your fingers brushed against the scar—a long, jagged line that ran over your left eye. It was a silent reminder, etched into your skin like a prophecy. Your touch lingered there, tracing the raised skin as memories you’d rather not think about tried to claw their way to the surface.

For a moment, the bathroom seemed quieter, the steady rhythm of the water fading into a hollow echo. You exhaled, shaking off the thought as you tilted your face upward, letting the water carry away the weight that clung to you.

But somewhere, in the depths of the city, the figure with the dark white eyes had not stopped watching. Their plans for you were already in motion, and the scar over your eye might have been the least of your worries.

The underwater lab hummed with an otherworldly rhythm, the soft glow of green and blue bioluminescent lights reflecting off the steel walls. The water outside cast shifting, rippling shadows across the room, giving the place an ethereal, almost haunting ambiance. Amidst the faint whirring of machinery and the occasional hiss of steam, Dr. Otto Octavius moved with purpose, his eight mechanical arms twisting and turning as if they had minds of their own. Tubes of unknown liquids bubbled behind him, casting eerie, pulsating lights onto his weary face.

The sound of the door hissing open broke the rhythmic chaos. In walked a man whose presence was as sharp and deliberate as a knife. His auburn hair was slicked back perfectly, and his tailored suit and tie spoke of wealth and influence. He carried himself with the ease of someone who was used to power—expected it, even. His polished shoes clicked against the metallic floor, echoing softly as he approached Octavius.

“Octavius, you got the formula we need?” he asked, his voice low and controlled, yet carrying an edge that demanded results.

Octavius didn’t turn immediately, his shoulders slumping under the weight of his frustration. His natural hands paused their work, but his mechanical arms continued, their claws deftly manipulating tools and vials with eerie precision. Finally, he sighed, his tone carrying a mix of resignation and irritation.

“I still need Spider-Man’s DNA,” Octavius said, glancing over his shoulder. His voice had an academic sharpness to it, as though the weight of his genius was both a gift and a curse. “The last specimen ran out, and I’ve been unable to obtain another. The city is a maze, and that infernal wall-crawler doesn’t stay still long enough for me to—”

“Excuses,” the man in the suit interrupted, his frown deepening as he stepped closer. His hazel eyes, hard and calculating, bored into Octavius like twin drills. “I don’t care about the logistics, Otto. What I care about is results. We’ve come too far for delays, and I don’t want that thing going wrong.” His words hung heavy in the air, underscored by the subtle but unmistakable threat in his tone.

Octavius turned fully now, his face shadowed by the dim, flickering light of the lab. His mechanical arms shifted restlessly, one of them slamming onto the desk with a metallic clang that echoed through the room. “You think I don’t know the stakes?” he growled, his voice rising slightly. “That ‘thing’ is a masterpiece, a culmination of decades of research! But without the DNA to stabilize it, it’s useless. Do you have any idea—”

“I’m not interested in your tirades,” the man cut him off again, his voice cold as ice. “Just see that you get it done. And fast.”

He adjusted his tie with a smooth, practiced motion, his polished exterior never cracking. But as he turned to leave, his parting words were laced with a venom that sent a chill through the room.

“This Skywalker girl,” he said, almost musing aloud, “the new friend of my son... she’ll be trouble, I’m sure of it.” His lips curled into a faint smirk, the kind that spoke of plans within plans. “Maybe we’ll need to keep a closer eye on her. Who knows? She might prove useful.”

As the door hissed shut behind him, Octavius returned to his work with a grim determination, his mechanical arms now moving faster, almost frantic. The hum of the lab seemed to grow darker, more insidious, as the pieces of a dangerous game began to fall into place.

#ulitmate spiderman x reader #anakin skywalker

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victor-the-vampire · 15 days ago

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Meet Father Silas Agnusdei

Silas used to be a devout member of Iscariot until, disaster struck. He was turned while on a mission. Ever since then he has turned his back on the Vatican and god as a whole. The way he sees it is if God valued his soldiers as much as everyone says, then he would have been protected. Or hell, dying would have been a better fate than this. He stays around the Vatican, trying to convince other members of Iscariot to leave. That god won't look after them. He doesn't want this to happen to anyone else...

Themes of religious trauma and sh under the cut!

The weapon he wields is a cross shaped dagger, wrapped in thorns. The palm of his left glove is gone, allowing the thorns to dig into his skin and draw blood. This is his penance, for drinking the blood of innocents. Despite everything, he's a man of God. He hates it, but deep down, it's true. losing his blood is the least he can do. Silas is wreaked with guilt. Guilt for leaving those he loved behind, guilt for drinking blood, guilt for his hunger, he's a miserable man hidden behind an excited facade. In the face of danger, he seems happy, overjoyed to be in the middle of bloodshed, but behind it all is pain.

I think during the final battle he hid in the shadows fighting from the sidelines, after all he used to be a member of iscariot, the least he can do is protect them now. The only time he stepped out was to try and stop Anderson from using the nail. He ultimately of course, failed.

During the 30-year time skip, I think he began to work for Integra. He's only an occasional hire that hangs around the mansion full time [not having anywhere to go any other time]

He got along wonderfully with Anderson, having a huge crush on him, and now he gets along well with Seras, the two being gossip buddies of sorts. Mostly, though, he's alone. And that's what he thinks he deserves.

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