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prettiest-thing-in-the-morgue · 4 months ago

Text

HELP YOURSELF

summary : in a family filled with intriguing members of their own right , duke has a particular interest in a certain vigilante in the family that everyone seems to overlook . this interest leads to the family to spiral into obsession .

When he was first introduce to the Wayne family , Duke was overwhelmed , everyone was so talented , so special and unique and came from such - complex backgrounds , it was hard to ever find something or anyone dull in the family . Duke had his highs with the family - from patrol , to movie nights every Saturday , food fights on Monday mornings because of course Jason had to rile up Damian but he had his lows - particularly the fact that he was the only sole meta in the family .

Something so minute shouldn't affect him , I mean come on isn't badass that he's in a family that can accomplish so much with sheer willpower without powers ? Though , it hurts every time he sees Conner teach Jon how to use his super strength without hurting himself in the process . He seethes in envy every time he witnesses it because he swears it ensnares him in a painful grasp - reminding him that he's the bystander in this family and that he's the only odd one out.

He shakes away the chill that runs up his spine and returns his focus back to the scene in front of him , a young woman is desperately trying to yank her purse away from some lacky burglar. ' Easy' Duke thinks to himself as he effortlessly swoops down from the rooftop he is perched on and landed on the thug . " Leave this poor woman alone " Duke commands as he pressed his legs onto the burglar's back. The burglar growls and pushes himself off the floor - practically making the woman scream . Duke immediately goes to jump away and reassess the situation when the burglar spins around inhumanely fast mid air to face the vigilante .

Bewilderment and confusion was all Duke felt but regardless he goes to land a sucker punch to the burglar's mask face when suddenly the burglar takes out a bomb from his inner pocket and throws it at the woman behind them. The woman screams as the bomb makes a beeline towards her and Duke wants to scream in frustration at how utterly stupid she's being and the fact that the burglar has outplayed him.

Suddenly , a figure clad in black with red accents jumps in front of the lady and catches the bomb effortlessly and throws it aside like it was nothing. Duke takes this time to sucker punch the burglar into the floor while he was distracted with the bomb's dentation , causing the man to groan in pain . While Duke is handcuffing the burglar , he eyes the figure in the corner of his eye handing the woman her purse before approaching him.

" Thank you ..... " Duke trails off as he watches the figure properly . He notes that they adorn a black body suit but has a red spider symbol in front near their chest . They adorn black helmet that covers the entirety of their face , only showing the user's dark brown eyes.

"Widow "the figure answers before leaping away from Duke . " Wait ! Who are you , I've never met you before !" exclaims as he extends his hand in attempt to reach out to them . " Just stay safe kid you don't know what you're doing " the figure says , directing a glare at him before they vanish.

That afternoon , Duke returns back to the mansion , he slumps against the kitchen table , the weight of patrolling all day and the situation of meeting a strange entity named ' Widow'. Alfred gently pats him on the back and serves him a plate of snadwhiches.

" I take it that today's patrol was exhausting Master Duke" , Alfred asks him as he begins to wash up wares in the kitchen. " You have no idea , met some weirdo who called me a kid like what the hell " , Duke complains as he takes a bite of the sandwich . " Weirdo ?" Alfred questions as he dries a plate. " Yeah some named Widow " Duke replies . Alfred drops the plate.

He feels every muscle on his body tense at the mention of her name , a name that may have been a bygone memory to many but not to him never him . Duke scrambles out of his chair and approaches Alfred . " Hey are you okay ?" Duke asks as he holds the elderly man by the hands. Alfred tries - he tries to talk but is too shocked to say anything - he fears this is a dream , a cruel dream that god bestowed upon him as a punishment - a reminder of his failure .

"Widow - are you sure they said Widow ?" Alfred asks the boy frantically , panic old eyes watching Duke's intently. Duke stumbles back but answers , " Yeah that's what they said why does it matter ?" . Pin drop silence fills the manor as Alfred registers Duke's words. Alfred crouches to the ground , his hands run along the jargoned edges of the broken plate - the rough feeling grounds him , reminding him that all of this is real .

" It matters because that is your sister young master " Alfred forces out. Silence consumes them again . " What ?" Duke questions as he holds onto Alfred tighter. For the five years he has lived with the Waynes - no one never mentioned a Widow or a sister not ever so why is it now that he finds out that he has a sister and one that he has not heard or known about.

Alfred can feel warm hot tears running down his worn cheeks as nostalgic memories of him making a younger you a hot chocolate in the afternoon as you sit in the same chair as Duke had , coloring whilst simply blabbering about your day. He recalls how every night , he can feel your tiny figure sneaking into his bed to hug him with your stuffed bunny You were practically his daughter .

He also remembers that you weren't particularly liked by the Wayne family , at the time only consisted of himself and Bruce - a younger much fragile Bruce that had no idea how to raise a kid - a kid that was just put into his custody because their parents got too drugged up and k*lled themselves in the living room.

The situation wasn't ideal , Bruce was immature , till learning how to navigate his own feelings , his own anger , his own loss and so were you , a small , fragile thing that didn't quite yet understand why mommy and daddy were being put in a box .

He also remembers that tragic day - the day he lost you - . It was like any ordinary day , he dropped you off at kindergarten and watched you run to your teacher , excitedly showing her a drawing you made. He watches you smile and wave him goodbye as the teacher escorts you to your classroom. Alfred does what he usually does , returns back home and begin his preparations when he receives a call from your teacher . He remembers the dread , the sheer panic , the bone chilling anxiety that consumed him when he picked up that call to hear your teacher utter the words

" two government officials barged in class around recess and they took ( name ) I'm so sorry I tried to stop them - tried to grab the tiny thing but they had her really tight and - and they left "

#dc universe #batfam #dcu #dc x reader #damien wayne #platonic batfam #bruce wayne #damian wayne #jason todd #possessive yandere #duke thomas #dcu imagine #platonic yandere #yandere batfam #platonic yandere batfam #yandere batfam x reader #yandere batfamily #yandere batfamily x reader #yandere duke thomas

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anticipatedexhale · 4 months ago

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How do you think arcane characters would react to burn scars? I have them on the back of my thighs and thought I can't see them everyone who can says they cover most of my thighs and there dark

Your burn marks are a symbol of strength, not flaws. They tell a story of resilience, and that makes you uniquely beautiful. <3 please never feel otherwise.

Burn scars.

⋅˚₊‧ ୨୧ ‧₊˚ ⋅ ⋅˚₊‧ ୨୧ ‧₊˚ ⋅ ⋅˚₊‧ ୨୧ ‧₊˚ ⋅ ⋅˚₊‧ ୨୧ ‧₊˚ ⋅ ⋅˚₊‧୨୧

♡ ◞ includes: caitlyn, jayce, jinx, mel, viktor, vi, ekko

☆ ◞ summary: arcane characters reacting to your burn scars

△ ◞ warnings: gn! reader. A lot of sensitive topics like, burn marks , insecurities, self doubt, the way the reader got the scars are not mentioned, if anyone is uncomfortable in reading about scars or is triggered I suggest to please not read this

Jayce Talis.

The evening was warm, the kind of night where the city hummed with quiet life outside the lab’s tall windows. Jayce sat on the floor of his apartment, leaning against the couch, his arms stretched out behind him as he watched you.

You were sitting on the edge of his bed, legs stretched in front of you, absentmindedly rubbing at your thigh.

The moment your fingers brushed over a particular spot, you flinched.

Jayce noticed immediately.

"You okay?" His voice was soft, careful. Not his usual booming confidence, but something gentler.

You hesitated. "Yeah, just..." Your fingers ghosted over the area again before you sighed. "Old scars."

His brows furrowed, eyes dropping to your legs. And that’s when he saw them.

Burn scars.

uneven marks stretching across the back of your thigh, the kind that told a story—one you clearly weren’t eager to share.

You shifted under his gaze, suddenly aware of his silence. "They’re not a big deal," you said quickly, a half-hearted attempt to brush it off. "I don’t even think about them most of the time."

Jayce didn’t look convinced.

"Can I?" He gestured slightly, not reaching out but offering the space for you to decide.

You hesitated.

Most people pretended not to notice them. Others stared without thinking, their curiosity poorly disguised. But Jayce... he was just waiting.

After a long moment, you nodded.

Carefully, he reached out, his fingers brushing over your skin—warm and deliberate. He didn’t recoil, didn’t wince, didn’t try to mask any reaction.

He just held you.

His thumb traced the edges of the scars with something close to reverence, his touch featherlight but grounding. "You know..." His voice was quieter now. "Scars aren’t something to hide."

You scoffed, a weak attempt at a laugh. "Easy for you to say. You don’t have—"

"I don’t," he admitted. "Not like these. But I know what it’s like to carry something from the past. And I know it doesn’t make you any less..." He swallowed, searching for the right words. "You."*

Your chest ached at the sincerity in his tone.

Slowly, his hand slipped down, intertwining his fingers with yours. "You don’t have to pretend they don’t exist," he murmured. "And you sure as hell don’t have to pretend they don’t bother you."

The knot in your throat tightened. You weren’t sure what to say—if you even could say anything. So instead, you squeezed his hand, letting the weight of his words settle between you.

Jayce squeezed back.

And in that moment, the scars didn’t feel quite as heavy.

------------------------------------------------

Mel Medarda.

The warm glow of candlelight flickered against the silk-draped walls of Mel’s quarters, casting long shadows across the ornate furniture. A gentle breeze drifted in from the open balcony, carrying the scent of jasmine and the distant hum of Piltover’s nightlife.

You sat curled up on the velvet chaise lounge, legs draped over the side, basking in the rare quiet moment. Mel was beside you, her fingers tracing absent-minded patterns along your arm as she studied a painting she had been working on earlier.

"You’ve been quiet tonight," she observed, her voice smooth but laced with curiosity.

You hesitated before shrugging. "Just tired."

She hummed softly, setting aside her brush before shifting to face you fully. Her golden eyes roamed over you, perceptive as always, until they landed on where your pants had shifted slightly—just enough to expose the back of your thigh.

Her fingers stilled.

"Come here," she murmured, voice softer now.

You hesitated for a beat before sitting up, allowing her to gently tug you closer. With a delicate touch, she brushed the fabric further up, revealing the burn scars beneath.

You watched her expression carefully, waiting for the usual flicker of pity, the well-meaning reassurances you’d heard a hundred times before.

But Mel Medarda did not deal in empty sentiments.

Her eyes traced the scars slowly, as if committing every detail to memory. "These..." she started, her fingers ghosting lightly over the uneven skin. "They remind me of gold leafing."*

You blinked. "Gold leafing?"

"Mhm." She tilted her head, her braids shifting over her shoulder. "In my homeland, when something is broken, it is often mended with gold—highlighting the cracks instead of hiding them. It is meant to show resilience. Beauty in imperfection."

Your throat tightened slightly. "I don’t think most people would call these beautiful."*

Mel’s fingers curled under your chin, tilting your gaze to hers. "Most people lack vision."

The weight of her words settled between you, unspoken but understood.

Then, her lips brushed against the scarred skin—slow, deliberate, reverent.

A shiver ran through you at the intimacy of it, the way her breath warmed your skin, the way her fingers trailed up your thigh with featherlight precision. She placed another kiss, then another, until the tension in your shoulders melted under her touch.

"You are art," she whispered against your skin. "Even in the places you try to hide."

A shaky breath left your lips, but for once, you didn’t pull away.

For once, you let yourself believe her.

------------------------------------------------

Viktor.

The lab was quiet except for the steady scratching of Viktor’s pen against paper and the occasional hum of machinery. You were seated on the workbench across from him, stretching your legs out absentmindedly after a long day.

It had been a particularly warm evening, and in the comfort of the empty lab, you had rolled up your pants slightly to cool off. You hadn’t even realized that in doing so, you had exposed a part of your thigh—until Viktor’s gaze flickered over, and he stilled.

His pen halted mid-word. His golden eyes lingered, brows furrowing slightly.

"You are injured?" His voice was quiet, yet laced with something unreadable.

You blinked, following his line of sight before quickly tugging your pant leg back down. "No, it’s just... scars," you muttered, suddenly feeling hyper-aware of his stare. "Old ones."

Viktor didn’t look away. "May I see?"

You hesitated. Not because you didn’t trust him, but because most people either avoided acknowledging the scars altogether or gave you the same well-meaning but rehearsed reassurances.

But Viktor wasn’t most people.

With a quiet breath, you slowly rolled the fabric back up, revealing the uneven burn scars across the back of your thigh. You didn’t look at him—didn’t want to see whatever expression he might be wearing.

Seconds passed in silence.

Then, the gentle scrape of his chair as he moved closer.

Viktor didn’t reach out immediately. Instead, he observed them carefully, like he was reading something important—tracing the pattern with his eyes as if piecing together a puzzle only he could solve.

"Scars are... interesting things," he murmured, voice softer now. "They are proof of endurance. Evidence that pain was felt, yet you remained."

You swallowed thickly. "That’s one way to put it."

His gaze lifted to yours, and for the first time, you caught something in his expression—understanding.

Slowly, Viktor shifted, rolling up the fabric over his own leg. The scars along his knee and shin were different—ones born of overuse, surgeries, the toll of time—but they were scars nonetheless.

"People see these and assume they know my story," he said, tilting his leg slightly. "They assume pity is required. That weakness is present." His golden eyes flickered back to you. "But we are not weak, are we?"

Something tightened in your chest. "No," you said softly. "We’re not."

Viktor studied you for a moment longer before, carefully, he reached out. His fingers hovered over your thigh—giving you space to pull away.

You didn’t.

His touch was light, barely there, but warm nonetheless. "Your scars do not lessen you," he murmured. "They do not take away from who you are. They are merely a part of your story. And if anyone tells you otherwise..." He huffed a small breath, a ghost of amusement in his voice. "Well, they are simply not as intelligent as I am."

A small, breathy laugh left your lips despite yourself. "Oh? And what makes you so sure of that?*"

Viktor smirked faintly, withdrawing his hand only to tap lightly at his temple. "Genius, remember?"

You rolled your eyes, but the warmth in your chest lingered.

And for the first time in a long time, the scars didn’t feel like something to hide.

------------------------------------------------

Caitlyn kiramman.

It had been a long day of patrolling the streets, and Caitlyn had returned to her estate looking exhausted. The moment she stepped through the door, she was greeted by the warmth of the fireplace and the soft hum of the house’s familiar sounds. It felt like a reprieve from the intensity of the day.

You were already curled up on the couch, a book in your hands, though your mind was elsewhere. Caitlyn’s presence always brought a sense of calm, but today, there was an unease you couldn’t shake.

As Caitlyn removed her coat and began to relax, she noticed you glancing at your legs, the slight fidgeting of your hand around the hem of your pants. She’d learned to read you like a book, noticing the smallest shifts in your behavior. Something was off, but she wasn’t sure what.

She walked over to you, gently resting a hand on your shoulder, her voice calm but insistent. "What’s going on, darling?"

You hesitated for a moment before you replied, your voice quieter than usual. "It's nothing, just... been thinking."

Caitlyn’s eyes softened, but she didn’t push. Instead, she perched herself on the armrest, her gaze never leaving yours. "About what?"

You sighed, feeling the weight of her gaze press on you. It was a warmth that made it hard to hide things from her. Slowly, you moved to pull your pants up slightly, revealing the scars on your thigh—old, deep burn marks that you had long since grown used to but never really let anyone see.

Caitlyn’s breath hitched, and her hand instinctively reached for yours, her thumb brushing gently across your knuckles. "You’ve never mentioned these before..."

You swallowed, not wanting to look at her, but you couldn’t help it. "They’re just scars, Cait. They don’t mean anything."

She tilted her head, clearly not convinced. "I don’t believe that for a second." Her voice softened, and she slowly knelt down beside you, her fingers brushing the skin around the scars with tenderness, her touch barely grazing you as if you were something fragile. "Scars tell stories, but they don’t define you. Not to me."

You felt your breath catch in your throat. It wasn’t the first time Caitlyn had said something so reassuring, but it was the first time it felt like she truly meant it. The quiet compassion in her voice was enough to make you feel vulnerable in a way you weren’t prepared for.

"You don’t have to hide them," Caitlyn continued, her gaze meeting yours with gentle intensity. "You don’t have to hide anything from me, ever."

Tears pricked at the corners of your eyes, and you quickly blinked them away, not wanting to seem weak. But Caitlyn, ever perceptive, noticed the shift in you. With a soft sigh, she wrapped her arms around you, pulling you into a tight embrace.

"You don’t have to carry the weight of this alone," she murmured against your hair. "I’m here, always."

You allowed yourself to lean into her, the warmth of her embrace easing the tension in your chest. The touch of her fingers against the scars felt like a promise, a silent vow that no matter what had happened before, no matter how you felt about those marks on your skin, Caitlyn would always see you for who you were—not for the pain you’d been through, but for the person you had become.

"I’ll always be here," Caitlyn whispered again, her voice low and steady. "And I love you, scars and all."

You didn’t reply with words. Instead, you let yourself melt into her arms, the comfort of her presence washing over you. For the first time in a long while, the scars on your body didn’t feel like something to be hidden. With Caitlyn, they simply became another part of the story, and it was a story you were no longer afraid to share.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------

Vi.

The rain had finally stopped, leaving behind the smell of damp concrete and rust in the air. Vi kicked off her boots as she stepped into your shared apartment, shaking the water from her hair with a tired groan.

"That was a hell of a patrol," she muttered, rubbing the back of her neck before flashing you a lopsided grin. "Miss me?"

You looked up from the couch, giving her a small smile. "Always."

Vi plopped down beside you, tossing an arm over your shoulder with easy affection. "What’s up, sweetheart? You’ve been quiet."

You hesitated, shifting slightly, but Vi felt the tension immediately. She leaned back, studying your face, and her playful grin softened.

"Talk to me," she coaxed, voice dipping into something more gentle. "Something’s on your mind."

You sighed, glancing away. "It’s stupid."

Vi gave you a pointed look. "Babe, you know I don’t do ‘stupid’ when it comes to you. Spill it."

You hesitated before slowly rolling up the hem of your shorts, exposing the burn scars on the back of your thigh. You felt Vi go still beside you. Her usual warmth, her teasing nature, all of it quieted in an instant.

You braced yourself for some kind of pitying response, for words you didn’t want to hear. Instead, Vi’s fingers brushed over your skin—rough, calloused hands moving with the gentlest touch.

"How long have you had these?" she asked, her voice unreadable.

"For a while," you admitted. "I just… don’t really show them to people."

Vi was quiet for a long moment, her fingers tracing the edges of the scars, slow and deliberate. You could feel her exhale against your shoulder before she finally spoke.

"You know," she murmured, "scars tell me more about a person than their words ever could."

You huffed out a dry laugh. "Yeah? And what do these tell you?"

Vi smirked, but there was something softer behind it, something careful. "That you’re tough as hell. That you’ve been through shit and still came out standing."

You swallowed hard, something twisting deep in your chest. "I don’t always feel tough."

Vi shifted closer, pressing her forehead lightly against yours. "That’s ‘cause you don’t see yourself the way I do." Her hand curled around your thigh, grounding, steady. "But I see you. Every single part of you."*

Your breath hitched when she leaned down, pressing a slow, lingering kiss over one of the scars. Then another. And another.

Your fingers curled into her shirt as she whispered, "You’re beautiful, scars and all."

---------------------------------------------------

Jinx.

Jinx was never good at staying still. Even now, as she lay sprawled across your lap, she fidgeted—twirling a wrench in one hand while her other absentmindedly traced shapes on your arm.

"You’re awfully quiet today, sugar," she mused, tilting her head up to peer at you. "Not planning to ditch me for some boring, normal life, are ya?"

You gave her a small smile, but it didn��t reach your eyes. "Nah, just thinking."

Jinx flipped onto her stomach, resting her chin against your thigh. "Ugh, thinking’s overrated. What’s got you so—" Her words trailed off as her gaze flickered lower, landing on the burn scars on the back of your thigh.

For once, Jinx went completely still. No jokes, no teasing—just silence. You knew she’d seen them before in flashes, but you had never sat down and talked about them. And Jinx? She never pried.

Until now.

"Where’d ya get these?" Her voice wasn’t mocking, wasn’t playful. Just quiet.

You shrugged, trying to pull your leg away, but she caught your knee, holding you in place. "They don’t matter."

Jinx’s lips pressed into a thin line. "Kinda seem like they do, since you never let me see ‘em."*

You exhaled sharply, feeling uncomfortable under her gaze. "I just… don’t like how they look. It’s not a big deal, Jinx."*

"Uh, yeah it is."

She sat up abruptly, straddling your lap, and before you could react, she reached for a marker off the table. With an impish grin, she clicked it open and began doodling over your scars.

"What are you doing?" you asked, baffled.

"Making ‘em cooler," she replied, sticking her tongue out in concentration. "I mean, these could totally be lightning bolts—oh! Or flames. Hell, we could even add little skulls, make it look all badass, like, ‘yeah, I survived a hellstorm, what of it?’"

Despite yourself, you laughed. "Jinx—"

"Shh, shh, artistic genius at work," she interrupted, tapping your nose with the marker.

You shook your head, but you didn’t stop her. Her focus shifted as she ran a gloved hand down your thigh, fingertips barely grazing over the scarred skin.

Then, softer, she murmured, "Does it still hurt?"

Your chest tightened. "Not physically."

Jinx hummed, twirling the marker between her fingers. "Yeah… I get that."

For a second, there was nothing but the sound of the city outside. Then Jinx leaned down and pressed a kiss to one of the scars, quick but sincere.

"There. Now it’s magic. You’re stuck with me forever."

You rolled your eyes, but your heart felt lighter. "Is that how magic works?"

"Duh." She kissed another one, then another, grinning against your skin. "You’re mine, and I’m yours. No stupid scars change that."

You reached up, brushing her cheek. "You’re a menace, you know that?"

Jinx beamed. "And you love it."

And yeah. You did.

------------------------------------------------

Ekko.

The Firelights’ hideout was quieter than usual tonight. Most of the crew had already turned in, leaving just you and Ekko sitting on the worn-out couch, the soft hum of old music crackling from a beat-up radio.

Ekko had his legs stretched out, arms draped behind his head, watching you with that easygoing gaze of his. "You’ve been weird today," he finally said. "What’s up?"

You hesitated, fingers curling around the hem of your shorts. "It’s nothing."

Ekko arched a brow. "Right. And I’m Councilor Jayce Talis."

You huffed a laugh, but it quickly faded as you shifted uncomfortably, trying to keep your legs tucked beneath you. Unfortunately, Ekko was too damn observant for his own good. His eyes flickered downward, catching the movement—then landing on the burn scars on the back of your thigh.

His expression faltered. "Yo... what happened?"

"It’s nothing," you said quickly, shifting to pull your legs away, but Ekko reached out, stopping you with a hand on your knee.

"Nah. Don’t do that." His voice was gentle but firm. "You always let me ramble about my scars. What makes yours different?"

You swallowed hard, staring at the floor. "Because they’re ugly."

Ekko frowned. "Ugly?"

"Yeah." You exhaled sharply. "People stare. Whisper. It just… reminds me of shit I don’t wanna think about."

Ekko was quiet for a moment. Then, without warning, he shifted, adjusting his weight until he was kneeling in front of you, his hands braced on either side of your legs.

"Look at me," he said softly.

You hesitated before finally meeting his gaze. His eyes weren’t filled with pity. No forced reassurances. Just raw, quiet understanding.

"You know what I see when I look at you?" he murmured. "Somebody strong enough to still be here. Somebody who’s been through hell and didn’t let it break ‘em."

His fingers traced feather-light over the scars—not afraid to touch, but careful, like he was memorizing them. "You think these make you ugly? Nah. They just prove that you survived something meant to take you out. That’s powerful."

Your throat tightened. "I don’t always feel powerful."

Ekko huffed out a small smile, leaning in to press a slow, lingering kiss against one of the scars. "Then let me remind you."

Another kiss. And another. His lips were warm, grounding, a silent promise in every touch. You closed your eyes, exhaling as you let yourself lean into his presence.

"You’re still you," he murmured against your skin. "Scars don’t change that. They never will."

------------------------------------------------

I must apologize to all of you because of such a delay I have been dealing with alot lately and also last year of highschool so much Happening BUT PUSHING THROUGH please send requests tho! I LOVEEE em!

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venusbyline · 1 month ago

Text

Mother Above — Aemond Targaryen.

— summary: His wish for revenge had broken the bond of love and affection between him and his mother. Alicent no longer saw him as her good boy. She was seeing him as a monster, worse than Aegon. A murderer. A murderer who could only find comfort in another woman's arms. In your arms.

— pairing: Aemond Targaryen x brothel worker!reader

— type: smut

— word count: 1.6k

— tags/warnings: female!reader, sub!Aemond Targaryen, prostitution, breastfeeding, lactation kink, handjob, mommy kink, mommy issues, breast worship, naked snuggling, implied Aemond Targaryen/Alicent Hightower BUT NOT REALLY, mention of Helaena and Aegon together during the Driftmark incident, Lucerys Velaryon's death mentioned, Jaehaerys Targaryen's death mentioned, religious imagery and symbolism (Faith of the Seven), single mother!reader, kinda fluff, kinda angst too, fluffy but open ending, canon divergence, porn with plot. no use of y/n. english is not my first language.

— author's notes¹: Reader has no specific description of physical appearance other than breasts (no specific size mentioned) and a vagina.

— author's notes²: This one-shot is based on an anon horny thought that I received on my inbox this week 🤭🤭💕💕 Tysm sweetie!!!

— crossposting: AO3

❥ Aemond masterlist • HOTD masterlist

❥ about me • main masterlist

Aemond entered the brothel with the same stoic face as always, his jaw clenched almost like a stone, perfectly matching the coldness of his gaze. His single eye scanned the place without worrying about the whispers of the other people around.

The whores and their clients... All whispering about the constant presence of the Targaryen prince there, once again that week. Such visits no longer caused great surprises, no longer raised confused or fearful looks. No one asking about what he might want... Everyone knew.

Everyone knew why Aemond was there. They knew who he was looking for. Who he was paying. Who he was desiring, and not just physically.

"May I help you?" A random girl approached him, as she was instructed to do. Regardless of how obvious the reasons for Aemond's visit were, the rules established by Madam Sylvi had to be followed. The whores had to offer themselves to him first, no matter what.

Aemond grimaced at the sight of the girl coming close to him like a dog in heat, her nipples perky behind the fabric of her silk robe that did little to keep her mounds covered. She was not ugly, perhaps she was the type that would catch his older brother's attention — although Aegon did not have very high standards when it came to women. He just liked any tight cunt he could fuck.

"No." Aemond answered to the whore's suggestion, returning to survey the brothel with his eye, not even bothering himself to try to be a little more friendly or to thank her for that offer.

He was there for a specific purpose, and that one did not include tarnishing his dignity with a woman of no importance.

With a woman who was not you.

The whore did her best to disguise her reaction, a poor and weak performance. The offense at the quick rejection was clear on her face, as difficult to mask as it was impossible for Aemond to hide who he really was.

His attempt to hide his Targaryen bloodline was failing, despite the hood he wore to cover the color of his long hair.

Everyone knew he was a Targaryen prince. Everyone knew he was Aemond One-Eye. After all, who else on that damn city would have silver hair and wear an eye patch?

After a few more minutes of complete silence, an older whore approached the one who was already close to Aemond, whispering something in her ear. The younger woman took a deep breath and nodded, before turning to the prince with a fake smile. "She is waiting for you."

Aemond's tongue circled around your nipple, teasing the peak so he could turn it more perky... Drops of milk dripped even though he had not made any real effort to suck and extract them yet.

The taste was sweet. Familiar and comforting. Just like the sounds of pleasure that came from the lips of the pretty woman beside him. You.

You seemed like some Goddess before Aemond's eye. The Mother Above in all her glory, granting him the blessing of taking you, of drinking from your breasts like a starving child. Like a newborn baby desperate to stay alive, to survive the hardships of life.

The hardships he brought upon himself when he killed Rhaenyra's son. When he let himself be carried away by impulsiveness, by a strong wish for revenge since the Driftmark incident.

Aemond could blame his cousins, Rhaena and Baela. Daemon’s daughters who had been too stupid to understand that a dragon was not like a puppy and could not be stolen, and that he had every right to try to claim Vhagar before Rhaena could recover herself after her mother’s death.

Aemond could blame Aegon and Helaena. His older brother had been so drunk that night that as soon as he was escorted back to his chambers by their grandfather, Aegon had snuck out and sneaking into their sister’s, laying next to Helaena even after he complained about his recent betrothal to her, both of them not even remembering about Aemond’s existence while they were having a decent conversation for the first time.

Aemond could blame Rhaenyra and Daemon. His spoiled cunt half-sister and his idiot uncle had not even paid attention to their own children, because they were so focused on having sex on that beach after years apart.

Aemond could blame Lucerys and Jacaerys. His nephews who were too easily influenced and who always played tricks on him along with Aegon. His nephews who always saw Aemond as someone inferior, who had accompanied Rhaena and Baela to argue with him about a matter that was none of their business. He could blame Jacaerys for bringing that knife, just like and he could blame Lucerys for using it.

Aemond could blame Viserys. He could blame his damned father for letting things go too far, for not defending him that night, for caring more about those "false" rumors of Rhaenyra's children's bastardy than the fact that Luke had mutilated his eye. For always favoring Rhaenyra, his firstborn, and completely ignoring the existence of his other children, even though he had spent years wanting a son, a male heir.

Deep down, though, Aemond knew there was only one person he could blame. And it was himself. His wish for revenge led him to murder his own nephew Lucerys Velaryon. His wish for revenge caused the war between the Greens and Blacks to begin in earnest. His wish for revenge was the reason for Jaehaerys' tragic death and for Helaena's incessant melancholy.

And worst of all... His wish for revenge had broken the bond of love and affection between him and his mother. Alicent no longer saw him as her good boy. She was seeing him as a monster, worse than Aegon. A murderer. A murderer who could only find comfort in another woman's arms. In your arms.

"You are hungry tonight..." You teased him, fingers stroking the prince's long hair.

A groan rumbled from Aemond's chest when your free hand moved down between his legs, teasing his shaft, but not quite touching it. Not quite holding it tightly and stimulating it. Not quite giving Aemond the pleasure he wanted. The pleasure he needed.

He felt like a son being denied by a mother. He felt like the way he had when he had tried to hold Alicent close after returning from Storm's End. His often stoic face was contorted into a look of despair, barely able to tell her that he had just killed Lucerys. His single eye were filled with tears that refused to let go, like when Aegon and their nephews played pranks on him and he sought comfort from his mother.

That time, however, Alicent did not comfort him. She slapped him across the face and yelled at him, the same way she always did with Aegon.

The boy had been deprived of any affection or words that could help him deal with the situation. During that night, just hours after becoming a Kinslayer, Aemond found himself entering a brothel for the second time in his entire life, thinking about distracting himself with a little sex, a tactic Aegon used whenever he was scolded by Alicent.

Unlike his older brother, who drowned his sorrows with wine and rough sex with any whore he saw, Aemond was looking for someone who would care about him. Create a bond. Someone who could love him the way Alicent had loved him before all of that. Or at least someone who was good enough at pretending.

And from the very first moment, you were willing to do it.

Now, after so many moons bedding with him, your motivations were no longer focused on the gold he paid you, no longer just focused on the opportunity to have enough money to keep your daughter fed and safe.

Aemond was not pretending.

You were not pretending.

Neither of you were pretending.

"Do not deny me..." Aemond's words sounded muffled against your breasts, not like an order dictated by a prince to a mere whore. It was like a little boy begging for his mother.

Like a believer begging for the compassion of the Seven.

You guided your palm until it finally closed around Aemond's thick pink cock, the young man's only eye closing with the pleasure of that touch while the sapphire that filled his empty eye socket looked even more beautiful than before.

Oh, how grateful he was to the Mother Above for your motherhood, for the breast milk that trickled from your breasts as he sucked and squeezed them, nourishing him like they nourished your own child, nourishing him like the wet nurse had nourished him when he was just a little baby, nourishing him like Alicent never cared to do when he was born.

"Gentle Mother, font of mercy. Save our sons from war, we pray, stay the swords and stay the arrows. Let them know a better day..." Your voice sounded soft, humming the hymn Aemond had already asked you to recite when he was breastfed by you for the first time.

Aemond whimpered with a mixture of pleasure and sadness, melancholy filling him as he remembered about the afternoons he had accompanied Alicent to the Sept so they could pray together. As he remembered about her humming that hymn along with Helaena when he and his sister were little kids.

Melancholy filling him as your milk wet his lips and his creamy seed splattered onto your fingers.

"Gentle Mother, strength of women. Help our daughters through this fray. Soothe the wrath and tame the fury, teach us all a kinder way." You finished singing, kissing Aemond's forehead like Alicent used to do. Like Alicent would never do again.

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felonytaxevasion · 27 days ago

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And terrible thumbnails of lazy quality but my thoughts on how I would set up the Undersiders with Their Cape Self paintings if I wasn't constantly busy

1. Aisha, position Imp with her arms around Aisha shielding/hiding her with a background of shadowy figures looking over her. Literal visualization of her power but you can pull some tension in Imps creepy smile and Aisha not smiling.

2. Alec. You gotta hide Alecs face entirely and only leave Regents blank face expression mask. Alec buried all his feelings away and his behind his cape self but even his cape self can't feel much of anything. Little Alec clings to the big Alec since in this piece he would be meant to represent vulnerability and childlike tendencies which is also why you can barely see little Alec. Almost entirely gone. The background has curtains to reference Alecs love of fancy things but also as a Pay No Attention To The Man Behind The Curtain, the man behind the curtain being both Little Alec and also Alec when controlling the targets of his power

3. And I don't know Lisa like that at all so I kind of phoned it in but I think having Tattletale full eyes out and grinning like her life is so awesome but also clutching Little Lisa and covering her eyes both as a mercy and a way of preventing escape. Maybe there's something there but someone else will have to tell me

4. Likewise Rachel I'm not sure about at all. I drew Bitch picking her up and carrying her because that's vulnerability Rachel doesn't give anyone but herself plus also fun to draw. The dogs move with Bitch in one direction while Rachel looks away. Is this about how for all her acting Rachel secretly wishes she could be among humans instead of dogs? Is it about how Rachel is only able to move forward because of her dogs? Is this me making shit up on the spot because I don't know Rachel very well? Up to you

5. Taylor is so easy because she does her tragic symbolism to herself. Resting her forehead against her cape self, mirroring each other. You keep the body language comforting but you put Taylor and Skitter in a spider web and have Skitter holding onto webbing laced around Taylors neck. Skitter both comforting and her and preparing her for her inevitable tragic doom forever.

6. Brian's is simple but I think it works for him. Grue standing over him like a parent hands on his shoulders to convey expectations. Skeleton mask foreshadowing death. It's easy. The only difficult thing is Brian should be wearing a colored shirt to distinguish him from the greys of the rest of the piece though as we all know Brian only wears beige. Maybe you can do some clever lighting with the helmet reflecting the shirt and the shadows covering it so the fun color side stays with Grue, the more carefree half of Brian's personas. Idk

Ok and that's my vision for the world thank you all for coming

#art tag

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xqueen-of-disasterx · 2 years ago

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Enemy

Kinktober day 3

Paring: Spiderwoman!reader x Venom!Nat

Warnings: SMUT, dub-con, fingering, tendril sex, Venom forming a dick, (I’m sorry), degradation, humiliation, public sex, breeding kink, nipple stimulation, orgasm control,

!Disclaimer English is not my first language so please excuse any grammar or spelling errors. This story is completely fictional!

A/N: I’m very sorry if you read this Lewis

Masterlist- Kinktober

The rain was purring onto the dirty streets of New York washing away all the grease left by the city however the read dirt stayed; they had to be taken care of by you. You were Spiderwoman since you had turned 17 a few years back and since then the streets were your life. Your mornings, your noons, your evenings even your nights had been spent cleaning this city from its dirt. There was simply no time of a committed relationship, even though you had tried and failed with what you thought would be the love of your life. Unsurprisingly being a superhero barley covered anyones bills not like it had been implied by the comics you had spent your whole youth reading. You couldn’t quit either Spiderwoman was a symbol. A symbol of hope and kindness when every institution failed you had been there protecting those who couldn’t do it themselves.

Sitting alone in your one bedroom apartment you were certain that being a super hero in high school was a lot easier than making it your profession in adulthood. Your head was planted upon your desk your eyes threatening to fall asleep from sheer exhaustion. You barely listened to the frequency of the police radio. You were quickly awoken by the news of a black human like monster being sighted by civilians. You were in your suit in record time pulling your mask over your tired eyes before swinging into the cold city. You swung over the busy traffic of the the New York streets.

Arriving at the described location you realised that the object of your attention was no where to be found. Not a trace from it left. Your curiosity got the better of you. In your years of being a superhero and fighting against the green goblin and people made of sand nothing could shock you anymore. Oh how wrong you were. But this was something something, new something exciting which could potentially make your boring life a bit more exciting.

The police was just as clueless as you were so you started to search around the area yourself. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary until you made out a red headed woman alone in a dark alleyway. You came closer to her this probably wouldn’t help your search but she had a strange aura around her pulling you in. She seemed a bit nervous perhaps her green eyes fixated on your athletic form. She looked older than you maybe in her mid 30s but you weren’t sure.

“Can I help you this is a dangerous neighbourhood.” The woman face changed to a smirk “Well” she started “I’m sure you can help me in a personal way” Flirting and especially sleeping with civilians was off limits but you were desperate. It had been months since the last time you had another woman at your mercy. “I’m sure I can be of great-” you could see the womans eyes widen as she looked over your shoulder in the same moment your spider senses went off. Was something behind you? You turned around to see nothing you were confused for a second until you felt a force wrestling you onto the ground. You managed to turn to onto your back only to face a black slimy creature. You stared into its big white eyes as it slowly opened it mouth to reveal its many white razor sharp teeth. It seemed to have multiple rows of them all tripping in salvia. Its velvet tongue had an impressive size as it hovered above your masked face. Salvia tripped onto your face as you tried to move away.

“You were right Nat… she is stupid” the creature above you remarked in its deep voice. “Hey” you squeaked higher than you had intended to. The goo pulled back to reveal the beautiful red head again. “Oh look V she looks so shocked” she snarled at you pulling her arms from the black slime but your hands remained pinned to the concrete. Her hand gripped onto your mask pulling it up as you shook your head to side violently. Never once did you get unmasked but she did it gripping onto your chin so you couldn’t move. “You are a pretty one spider girl.” “Fuck you” you bit back. She responded in laughter making you blush in humility. “Oh no I’m gonna fuck you sweet girl” she said in between laughter.

***

“Please” you whimpered desperately your face pressed against the hard brick wall. The position you were in was beyond embarrassing. Complete naked bend forward black tendrils running over your naked form with her fingers deep inside of you pressing against you g spot. “Who would’ve guessed the symbol of hope would be such a slut. Look you are dripping down your legs like a penny whore” she slapped your ass making you cry out for more. “More” you whined feeling the tendrils rolling over your nipples.

She moved her fingers at her brutal pace curling and twisting as you clenched down. “I- I’m gonna-” “Should we let her V” she asked her companion. “Cum” you did on command releasing your slick over Nats hand and wrists.

Natasha pulled her hand from your heat making you whine at the lost. “I think she can do another” the goo formed a dick around Nats hips which you only realised once its big head was already pressed against your tight hole. “I can’t” you lied as she pushed in “Your body wants it I know it Spidey” she chuckled pushing in until she bottomed you out. She let you adjust before picking up her pace. She fucked into you hard and fast. “I’m gonna fuck you pregnant you little slut” she bit into your neck the tendrils working magic on your already overstimulated clit. “Fuck I’m gonna cum” she picked up her pace one last time before releasing her with cum inside of you.

The tendrils pulled back from your cum mixing into each other before tripping down your thighs. She pulled her pants back up leaving you panting against the wall. As a last act of affection she helped you back in your suit before leaving.

“Until next time spider girl”

I do not own these characters all rights go to Marvel

#natasha romanoff imagine #natasha romanoff x reader #black widow x female reader #natasha romanoff smut #natasha romanoff x you #black widow x reader #natasha x reader #natasha x you #natasha romanoff #kinktober 2023

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jawsoffate · 26 days ago

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Diabolically Yours | part I (vessel!demon x reader)

Summary: Emma just wanted a simple magical boost to win a writing contest, not a snarky and handsome demon bound to her soul. But after summoning the wrong hellspawn, she ends up stuck with Vessel: a sarcastic, shirtless chaos entity who won’t stop flirting or stealing her snacks. Now they’re magically tethered, emotionally entangled, and dangerously close to something much scarier than a pact gone wrong... feelings.

TW: Contains supernatural shenanigans, mutual pining, steamy tension, and one annoyingly hot demon. Read with care (and maybe holy water on the finals part).

A/N: I'll try update regularly because i'm really excited with this idea. This is also something new that i'm trying so, please, bear with me. It's being crossposted on ao3 too.

💖 masterlist

Part I | Part II

Part I: Where Everything Goes Wrong

Emma wasn’t the kind of person who made deals with demons. At least, not until that weekend.

She was the kind of person who organized her mugs by color, cried during movies with dogs, and said “excuse me” even to store mannequins. But she was also the kind of person who was absolutely fed up.

Fed up with a stagnant life, with a pile of ignored résumés, unpaid freelance gigs, family gatherings full of invasive questions like “so, any boyfriends?”, and above all, fed up with relying on luck.

So why not cheat a little? Not much. Just enough.

It was just a basic pact. A “mystical agreement with an underworld entity for moderate personal gain.” No soul-selling involved (she read three blogs that guaranteed this), no sacrifices, nothing too heavy. Just a simple ritual with easy-to-find items: black candle, red chalk, coarse salt, and blood from the summoner. There was even a tutorial on YouTube — dubbed.

The goal? To summon a useful demon. Nothing too ambitious. One specialized in creativity, literary inspiration, maybe a bit of extra charisma — things that would help boost the frustrated writing career Emma so badly wanted to take off.

She even chose a specific name: Belmior, the Demon of Eloquence.

According to the grimoire Forgotten Spells and Hidden Codes (available as a PDF on Telegram), Belmior was polite, focused, wore a linen suit, and helped artists create masterpieces.

Perfect.

The ritual was set up on her bedroom floor: rug rolled up, furniture pushed aside, window slightly open to “oxygenate the energy.” Emma lit the candles, drew the circle with chalk and salt, put on the suggested ambient music (something ethereal with harps, very conceptual), and recited the words in a firm voice:

“Domine voco te, Belmior, Artifex Verbi, Veni et responde...”

The ground shook. The candles blew out on their own. A cold wind blew from nowhere.

Emma smiled. It was working!

Until, with a sharp crack — like a lightbulb bursting — the air split in two and a figure appeared in the center of the circle.

But… it wasn’t Belmior.

He wasn’t wearing a suit. He didn’t radiate serenity. He didn’t bring a quill and inkpot. What emerged looked like it had stepped out of both a ceremonial nightmare and a divine painting.

The figure was tall, lean, with dark skin that shimmered with an unsettling metallic sheen. His face was covered by a pale mask, adorned with golden lines and glowing green symbols that pulsed like living magical veins. Where eyes should’ve been, there was only shadow. And where there should’ve been a mouth… the silence was sharper than any scream.

He wore a dark cloak with gold details and chains hanging from his body as if they were part of him, decorating his chest like cursed jewels. On one shoulder, a white piece of ornate armor — fit for a king or a celestial executioner.

He looked ancient. Solemn. And completely out of place in Emma’s room, between a half-dead plant and a bag of cookies.

“Seriously? You used finger blood for this?” he said, in a deep, slightly hoarse voice, clearly annoyed.

“Great. A hysterical human with a blog ritual.”

Emma went pale. “You... you're not Belmior.”

“And you’re not smart. But let’s deal with one problem at a time.”

He looked around, scowling at the crooked circle on the floor, the fallen candle, and the harp music still softly playing in the background. Then he looked back at her.

“My name is Vessel. And you’ve just made the worst kind of ritual mistake: summoning me by accident without a clear purpose.”

“I just... wanted creative help!”

“And you summoned a demon of dimensional disruption. That’s like calling a plumber to fix a broken heart. Congrats.”

Emma stood in silence for a moment. Then she sighed. Deeply. “Okay. Okay. This can be fixed, right? You can just… go back?”

“I’d love to. Really. But there’s one small detail: you called me incorrectly, with an incomplete connection and an unfinished contract. The result?”

He stepped toward her, and she instinctively stepped back. He took another step. She backed up again. He followed, like they were dancing some kind of supernatural tango.

“We’re stuck.”

“Stuck?”

“Stuck. Glued. Bound by a partial arcane link. You summoned me and didn’t release me. I can’t leave until... the bond dissolves through some sort of great personal achievement.”

“This is a joke.”

“My entire existence is, darling.”

Emma sat on the floor, dazed.

“I just wanted to write a good story for my semester project. It’s worth 70% of my grade.”

“And now you’ve got a demon as your personal coach. What an opportunity.”

She glared at him.

“You’re going to mess everything up, aren’t you?”

“Most likely.”

Emma squinted, trying to figure out if this was real or just a caffeine-fueled creative breakdown.

“So now what?” she asked, voice still shaky. “What happens next?”

Vessel stretched his arms as if waking from a nap. He looked absurdly comfortable in the room, as if Emma’s bedroom were just an extension of hell — which, given the scattered clothes, might not be that far off.

“Now? Now... we live this nightmare together. I follow you around, you try to get rid of me, and somewhere in the middle, you learn a lesson.”

Emma stared at him. “You’re kidding.”

“I have literally centuries of experience with botched summonings”, said Vessel, folding his arms and leaning against the wall like someone commenting on the ending of a predictable TV show. “It always ends the same way.”

He raised a hand and started counting on his fingers:

“First: the human learns a touching emotional lesson.” One finger. “Second: they cry. Always cry. Sometimes ugly cry”, two fingers. “Third: I get banished dramatically, surrounded by smoke, cheap candle scent, and an existential crisis that lasts about fifty years”, three fingers. He dropped his hand and sighed theatrically. “The only variable is the candle scent. Vanilla, cinnamon, jasmine... a scented hell.”

Emma raised an eyebrow at him.

“And yet you keep coming?”

“The entertainment makes up for it. Plus, humans are... delightfully messy. I never know if I’ll end up in a gothic castle, a suburban garage, or” he gestured broadly “a room with shelves full of cheesy romance novels.”

“Is that a compliment?”

“If you want it to be.” “Right. And in the meantime, you’ll just... stay here? With me?” “Of course. Unless you want to find out what happens when we’re apart.” “What happens?”

He smiled. That should’ve been illegal. It was the kind of smile reserved for perfume commercials with French names and a lifetime contract with sin.

“Try it. Go on. Walk thirty steps in any direction. I’ll wait.”

Emma hesitated. Her rational brain screamed that it was a bad idea. Her curiosity said “what’s the worst that could happen?”

She took ten steps to the bedroom door. Nothing. Fifteen. Vessel stood still, arms crossed. At twenty, a light pressure hit her chest. At twenty-five, it turned to dizziness. At thirty, it felt like an emotional anvil was dropping onto her heart.

She staggered. “Okay! Okay, I get it!”

Vessel appeared beside her before she could blink, hands behind his back and a mock-innocent expression.

“You reached the limit. Congratulations. We’re officially mystical Siamese cats. Isn’t that cute?”

Emma leaned against the wall, catching her breath.

“This is a nightmare.”

She stormed back into the room, flopped onto the couch. Vessel sat in the armchair like exiled royalty. “And don’t you have, I don’t know, a hellish boss to report to?” “I do. But he’s busy with an interdimensional conference. Don’t get involved with demonic bureaucracy — it’s worse than a bank queue.”

Emma frowned.

“You’re really taking this well.”

“Like I said, this isn’t my first time stuck with a clumsy, cute human who mispronounced arcane words like a margarine commercial.”

She arched a brow.

“Did you just call me cute?”

“I said clumsy and cute. Don’t take it out of context.”

“Are you flirting?”

“I’m breathing. In my species, that’s already halfway to flirting.”

She turned her face, trying to hide the small smile that slipped out.

“And what if I just... ignore you?”

“I sing. Loudly. And my voice makes dogs cry.”

“Lovely.”

“And I know the entire ABBA discography.”

“That... that’s not a threat. That’s a promise.”

Vessel smiled genuinely for the first time. Emma noticed that, behind the irony, there was something almost... comforting. Like a presence that, despite the chaos, fit better than anything else she had ever tried to summon into her life.

“Fine.” She took a deep breath. “You can stay on the couch. But no dream invading, no touching my chocolate drawer, and absolutely no commenting on my sad song playlists, got it?”

“Got it.” He paused. “But I can help you write. I’m great with sarcasm and irony.”

“Hmm. Maybe you’ll be useful after all.”

“Oh, Emma... you haven’t seen anything yet.”

#sleep token #ii sleep token #iv sleep token #iii sleep token #sleep token fic #vessel x reader #vessel sleep token #vessel x you #vessel sleep token smut

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dirtyvulture · 2 years ago

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Something’s in the Air - Part 1

Natasha Romanoff x Beefy!Reader

18+ only, read at your own risk

Summary: Natasha returns from a mission after being exposed to a chemical that makes her extremely, extraordinarily feral for you.

Word count: 2362

AN: Here is the opening act of the long-awaited collaboration with @jedi-luca! Enjoy, sinners!

Reader has a penis, no pronouns used.

Natasha races down the empty hallway, trying to ignore the blaring alarms and flashing lights overhead. She can’t read any of the symbols marking the doors, and all she knows is that she’s looking for one with a triangle in the center of three overlapping circles, like a variation on the classic biohazard sign.

“You find him yet, Nat?” Clint buzzes in her earpiece.

“Not yet,” she responds.

“Well, you’ve only got about another minute before HYDRA agents flood the building–”

“I know!” she snaps, her eyes finally settling on a triangle surrounded by three circles. “I found it!”

“Get him and let’s go!”

Natasha doesn’t need to be told twice, and she inputs the ten-digit code into the keypad on the door. It lights green to grant her access and she steps into a tiny, square room, no bigger than a broom closet, the heavy steel door automatically closing behind her.

“Uh oh,” she says when she hears the door click shut.

Suddenly, a white smoke starts to fill the tiny room, jetting out from the piping running along the walls and ceiling. Natasha covers her mouth with her arm, fumbling on her belt for a proper mask. The smoke stings her eyes and burns her throat, but the initial shock of pain is quickly overtaken by a warm, fuzzy feeling. Natasha staggers back into the wall, not even feeling the impact of the solid concrete as her stomach clenches in a way that’s familiar and foreign at the same time.

But just as quickly as it had started, the pipes stop pumping out the gas and it clears away through the vents. She wipes at her watering eyes and sees a door in front of her with no lock. More cautiously this time, she opens it and finds herself staring down a young boy behind a glass wall.

“Clint, I found him.”

***********************************************************************

Natasha safely extracts the boy, wrapping him up in a ragged blanket she found on his bed, and carries him out in a bundle. She meets Clint just in time before the HYDRA agents realize their base has been compromised. They leave the boy in the custody of a SHIELD van and six agents. Natasha gives him a chocolate before they part ways. Her and Clint escape on the Quinjet, only breathing a sigh of relief once they are safely hidden amongst the clouds.

“When I was trying to get him, I got sprayed with something,” she tells him in a low voice.

“With what?” Clint doesn’t take his eyes off the dashboard.

“I don’t know.”

“You seem fine.”

As if on cue, the same sharp pain that she experienced upon first inhaling the smoke punches her stomach again and she doubles over.

“Shit,” she curses, trying to massage out the ache and feeling her cheeks flame in embarrassment when she finally realizes what the pain reminds her of. Although she wouldn’t describe it as a pain, but that feeling of being so aroused she wants to burst.

“Nat?”

“Uh, never mind,” she says, not wanting to get into details with him.

“I’ll call ahead and have Dr. Cho ready to see you in the medical bay,” he says.

“I–Wait, I don’t think that’s necessary,” Natasha says, but Clint won’t listen to her, he’s already typing out a message to send to the doctor.

Natasha grumbles wordlessly and takes the seat next to Clint. She still isn’t sure why SHIELD made such a point to send in some of their best Avengers to free a single young boy, but sometimes, the less details they knew the better, and now she had to worry about what exactly had been in that smoke.

She takes her phone out from the backpack under the chair and sends you a text. But it’s almost three in the morning, so her text goes unanswered. With another 30 minutes until they’re home, Natasha boredly scrolls back up in the conversation, her attention caught by some of the old pictures you’ve sent her.

The first one she looks at is probably the most innocent of the bunch, a slightly blurred snapshot of you post-workout, your skin gleaming with sweat and your muscles pumped. Natasha bites her lip as her eyes trace down the veins on your stomach, following their path to the waistband of your shorts, which is not quite low enough to reveal perhaps her favorite body part of yours.

She quickly skips to the next picture, which is much more scandalous and should not be viewed in a public setting, but luckily Clint is sitting in front of her. You’re lying down, the camera positioned down towards your muscular legs, but Natasha’s attention is drawn to the thick cock you have your hand wrapped around. Her center clenches around nothing; Natasha wishes she had your length inside of her, ramming into her hard and fast, until you came undone and pumped your seed deep into her womb.

“Fuck,” she mutters to herself, crossing one leg over the other, trying to alleviate the pulsing at her core and failing. There was still so much time left until they landed, she didn’t know how she was going to survive. Out of pure desperation, she considers touching herself (still in the vicinity of where Clint can hear her, but he can turn his hearing aid down, can’t he?) right there in the Quinjet, and it takes all of her mental strength to keep her hands on her knees. She doesn’t know what’s gotten into her, why she’s so horny all of a sudden.

All she knows is if she doesn’t have you inside her in the next hour, she may actually die.

Using her advanced Red Room torture resistance techniques, Natasha barely clings to her sanity for the next 30 minutes. She grinds herself subtly on her seat, although it does next to nothing to ease the ache in her stomach.

“Can’t you fly faster?” she asks Clint eventually through gritted teeth. “It’s not like there’s any traffic in the sky.”

“I’m doing my best,” Cint responds.

“Well, going a little faster would be nice.”

Clint doesn’t bite back at her even though he wants to. Overall, Natasha seems okay even after her exposure to the unknown gas, but Clint knows his best friend better than herself. Something is bothering her–badly–and she doesn’t want to talk about it, which means it can only be one thing.

Natasha wants to cry in relief when the iconic “A” of the Avengers Tower comes into view. She practically hijacks the controls from Clint trying to land the plane faster, but just before she can sprint out of the Quinjet, Clint grabs onto her.

“You have to see Dr. Cho first,” Clint says sternly, holding onto her arms in a vice grip.

“I don’t want to see the doctor. I want Y/N,” Natasha says, almost in tears. Her core is practically on fire at this point and she wouldn’t be surprised if her panties are ruined.

“Y/N will be there,” Clint assures her, dragging her to the elevator and going one floor down. Despite the early hour, Dr. Cho waits sleepily to greet them at the entrance of the medical bay. Natasha practically throws a fit as Dr. Cho escorts her to a private room, while Clint disappears without an explanation.

“I’m fine, Doctor,” Natasha insists as Dr. Cho has her sit down on the edge of the plastic bed.

“Agent Barton said you may have been exposed to some unknown chemical,” Dr. Cho says, shining a bright penlight into her eyes and opening her mouth to examine her tongue and tonsils.

“I’m fine,” Natasha repeats, shifting agitatedly and crinkling the white paper covering the bed.

Dr. Cho squints at her. “I’ll be back to run some more tests,” she says, disappearing with a flip of her white lab coat.

Natasha groans and falls back on the bed, unzipping the collar of her uniform down to her chest, flapping her hands to cool her face. She thinks back to the pictures of you she looked at on her phone and before she can even stop herself, sticks her hands down her pants, ignoring how unusually wet she is, her fingers gliding through her soaked folds to press into herself.

“Fuck,” she mutters, kicking her legs wider to find a more comfortable position. Natasha can easily fit three fingers into herself already, a feat that normally takes some working up to, although it pales in comparison to the size of your cock. She pants at the thought of you on top of her, your body hot and heavy against hers, the feeling of your muscles flexing as you devote your strength to pleasuring her. She clenches hard around her fingers, trying to imagine them as your cock instead, hard and throbbing, stretching her apart in the best of ways and filling her better than any toy or substitute can.

Suddenly, there is a knock on her door and Natasha pauses mid-thrust.

“Nat? Babe, it’s me,” your croaky voice says on the other side.

“Come in!” she responds.

You open the door, still in your pajamas. Clint had called you until you woke up, telling you that while the mission had been a success, Natasha had come down with something and you needed to see her immediately. Without properly dressing, you staggered down to the medical bay, worried about your girlfriend despite your own exhaustion and delirium from being woken up at three in the morning.

And now you stare at her, jaw dropped, as Natasha is lying on the hospital bed, her hand disappearing down her shorts, her forehead covered in a light layer of sweat.

“Are you–” you start.

“I need you,” she begs, removing her hand and your heart thumps when you see that it is completely soaked in her slick. “Y/N, please, I need you.”

“What happened?” you ask, as your legs seem to have a mind of their own and gravitate to her side. Natasha reaches out for you, her hand twisting in the front of your shirt to draw you closer. She tugs it up, trying to shove her hand into the waistband of your shorts next and you stop her gently. “Nat.”

“I got sprayed with something while I was trying to free the subject,” she says, clawing at your abs. “At first it didn’t seem to affect me, but when we were on the way back, I just felt this overwhelming need…for you.”

“For me?”

She nods, biting her lip and looking at you with her bedroom eyes. Suddenly, your whole body lights awake, and you strip out of your shirts and shorts, climbing on the bed with Natasha and the structure squeaks under your added weight. Natasha pulls you on top of her, frantically wiggling out of her suit so she can feel you skin-to-skin. She kisses you ferociously, bruising your lips and clacking her teeth against yours, but you respond with equal enthusiasm, not really sure why she’s so desperate for you all of a sudden but not going to complain either.

You roll your hips in a gyrating motion, dragging your hardening cock along the insides of her slick thighs, unable to help yourself when you let out a moan at her impressive wetness. You’ve never seen her so ready for you, and you know you’ll have no trouble slipping inside.

“Fuck, fuck,” Natasha pants, dragging her nails along the muscular planes of your back and gripping onto your butt. “Stop teasing, baby,” she begs, trying to guide you to her entrance but you hold back.

“I haven’t even gone in and you’re already going to cum,” you point out, although you’re surprisingly close yourself, seeing how turned on your girlfriend is for you. You look down to see your cock shining with her wetness, the veins on it throbbing.

“I can’t cum without you,” Natasha says, and you lose all patience and discipline. You line yourself up with her entrance and push in hard, moaning when wet velvet wraps around your cock and Natasha moans in absolute relief at finally being filled. You pound into her, the muscles in your thighs and abs flexing like steel bands. Natasha keens as she takes you, knowing that you’re the only one who can bring her to a high that will have her entire body shaking, her lungs screaming, her nails marking red lines down your shoulders and back that everyone will see when you go to the gym tomorrow.

“God, Nat, you’re so wet,” you say between thrusts, using all your strength to hold yourself upright, when Natasha’s pussy is so tight and hot around you that your thighs are trembling and you can’t focus on anything other than the heat between your legs. You want to last longer, so you broaden your strokes, slowing down your pace but burying yourself even deeper with each thrust.

“Yes, just like that,” Natasha moans as the head of your cock presses against her sensitive walls. “Keep going, baby. Don’t stop.” She wants you to be buried to the hilt when you release her load, she wants to drain you of every drop you have to offer.

“Almost…there…” you grunt, squeezing her hips tighter as you pin her against the bed. The ball of arousal in your stomach burns hotter as you near your peak, and Natasha knows your body well enough to sense that your finish is near. She pulses around you harder and you drop your head against her breasts, panting like you’re running the last mile of a marathon. “Nat, Nat I’m gonna–”

It takes one more powerful thrust that causes the entire hospital bed to collapse under your combined weight. You jerk your hips forward as your cum shoots out of your cock in short, hard bursts. Natasha practically cries in relief as you fill her to the brim.

At the same second all of this is happening, Dr. Cho comes back into the room. She says nothing, only nodding in immediate understanding and quickly backing out.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------

AN: Part 2 by @jedi-luca is here!

Please like, reblog, and comment! Follow for more content.

#natasha romanoff #black widow #natasha romanoff smut #natasha romanoff imagine #natasha romanoff x reader

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crustyfloor · 8 months ago

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Brain vomit...I am insanely jealous of the people who can get the new merch. And I am planning an elaborate heist. But aside from that, I'm also crazy over the lore implications of the new photo-card designs...

Of course, they're all suffering as per usual. But it's symbolized by cracks in their skin. When I saw that, I immediately linked it back to the collapse of barriers, secrets, structures, etc. The hearts, however, confused me a bit. But I suppose it's because the reason they all "broke" is ultimately because of their love.

This is probably the most distressed Ivan has ever looked in a photo card, and really, he's honest. The tone of his card is sickeningly oversaturated and overwhelming, and his emotions are visceral, I also find it interesting how the cracks are littered all over his face, and the hearts leak out like that from the neck--and Ivan holds his face like he's trying to "fix" it, or in other words, "keep it together" as he's breaking down and becoming vulnerable, he has to cover up his expression behind something more appealing as he always does. He's also wearing his Anakt Garden uniform. When he was a child, he was just learning how to develop his mask. But even then, he faltered sometimes, Ivan's automatic response is always to try to fix it, even if he's underplaying the severity of his feelings, it's what he has to do regardless, I love his card for that portrayal when he tries to keep one wound closed, another wound opens, its erratic and uncontrollable, like his true emotions. When I see him trying, it looks like it's hard because, well--he's breaking down. Normally, you can't just bounce back from that, so in this rare moment, he struggles with how to deal with it. (A certain desperation to keep up the act?) (His eyes. I really like his eyes in this PC, it's more akin to those moments when his true expression comes out, in those very rare moments)

And then there's Till, I feel pain when my wife feels pain. His expression, too, is very overwhelming. Like he's suffocating too, But his cracks are minimal, not because his pain is small but because vulnerability--something he loathes, is coming to the surface. In tears, Till is suppressing his emotions. Who he bleeds for is ambiguous here, you could say the hearts are for Ivan or for Mizi, but I think it's both. Because he hides from the both of them and eventually the love he feels for them both seeps out one way or the other like a slow leak through a crack in the wall, he's spent so many years building a fortress of a barrier to emotionally separate himself from others, it's his way of protecting himself. But at the peak of his suffering, long too deep into this hell, losing Mizi and then Ivan, he's crying because he's slowly breaking down, and the way he grips at his hair like he's trying to hold back...urgh. In different ways, indifferently, Till ignores Ivan and his affections, and fearfully, he avoids Mizi, instead watching her from afar, doing small things to feel close to her, even when he has the opportunity to get closer, and even when she acknowledges that he's so avoidant of her that it makes Mizi concerned if he even likes her or not, as was said in the Artbook when asked for her opinion of him:

"Mizi -> Till: I'd love to be friends with him. He's an artist who's so dedicated to his work. But he seems to be avoiding me... Does he hate me?"

Till doesn't confront relationships any more than he has to even though he cares so so deeply for them because confronting his emotions and confronting vulnerability, sadness, happiness, etc., and especially fear, is a commitment you have to understand how to accept and respond to, and Till doesn't understand the how when he can only go back to his starting point, hiding and or getting angry, because it's easier. At this point, it's instinct. Shyness is one thing, but doubt is something that can make you freeze in place, confuse you, make you feel unsafe, and even hinder your ability to control yourself in the wake of fear. Fear is what roots Till in place. Till, even for how emotional and sensitive he truly is, he fears the type of vulnerability being emotional requires, he knows of it, but he can never truly embrace it out of fear, that's why he rarely ever shows his heart. He already knows that wearing your weakness on your sleeve leaves you vulnerable to pain, he used to be childish and vulnerable once, and technically, he still is, but just imagine what years upon years of cruelty has instilled in him. So he acts cold and avoidant, and these misunderstood emotions lead to other misguided intentions. That's what brings me to the quote on the back of his pc

Translation:

"사랑 같은 애매한 말보다 증오란 말이 확실해요" -> "The word hatred is more certain than vaguer words like love"

Rather than confronting uncertainty and exploring the confusing, unpredictable, and gray area that is love, hate is honest, hate is intentional, hate is malleable, and you can control it. It's Till's response to feeling unsafe to resort to anger, in the same way, Ivan resorts to trying to fix it and put on a facade. Again, it ties back to the fact that Till doesn't and has never hated Ivan, but understanding Ivan is as confusing as understanding love, Till is as much of a puzzle himself. That's why they confuse each other and clash. So they come close but remain distanced because their connection is almost like unattractive magnets, Till is sensitive and loving, compared to Ivan's regrets; of not being nicer, of not understanding how to get closer to Till, then I think about what Till's recollection of his relationship with Ivan and Mizi in retrospective would be like when he does acknowledge it.

And now...mmizisua. To me, Sua looks more aware of her pain than Mizi is, like in the storyline, she is more aware of their fragility and the cruelness of their environment. It's surely a parallel to the way Sua had kept Mizi in the dark for so many years, even when this pain and this love are so destructive, she covers up her wound with her hand and hides it from Mizi, to protect her, her wound is a direct correlation to her (inevitable) death, a truth that would shatter Mizi, even after he death she wants Mizi to remember her the same as she was when she was alive, unaffected by their world. She tries to force a smile as if everything is still okay, especially because she doesn't want to affect the way Mizi looks at her so lovingly, how would Mizi ever recover if she knew the truth?

And Mizi would seemingly be none the wiser if not for the tears because, to me, she knows but looks to Sua for comfort, to forget even when she is hurt the same way, I love this side of MiziSua a lot, the side that highlights the cruelty of their relationship that surrounds their bubble, because as long as they could distract themselves with the presence of each other, the co-dependence of their dynamic, they could forget as if they couldn't feel the pain at all as long as they had each other, but Mizi is still so affected by her pain, all this hiding had amounted to nothing in the end because Mizi never changes in Sua's eyes, and Sua is still hiding her pain, but that day, Sua had broken that bubble of ignorance to the evil around them. Mizi's cracking, and she shows Sua when she pulls back her hair. It's an interesting contrast between MiziSua and IvanTill, when Mizi and Sua smile, they look happy to be in love, even if it's twisted and hurts each other, because they only rely on each other, and Ivan and Till look inconsolably pained.

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o1lboy · 5 months ago

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yapping about the au im procrastinating writing

Art originally posted on a different acc but then some of the designs got edited and now its getting posted here :]

TIES au where they're all nonhumans pretending to be humans

BASICS : Tango is a cursed man turned witch, trying to break his curse and get rid of his immortality. Impulse is a demon who is 'in tango's service' aka tango summoned him for something centuries ago and they became besties so tango just never dismissed him to let others summon. Etho is a vampire who could care less about disguising himself and wants to just live a normal life (it isnt going well). Skizz is the angel who fell less than a month ago and is struggling to adapt to human life.

Okay i get to go more in depth now :3

Tango / "The Cursed" - During witch hunts and stuff, got cursed by an actual witch when his village was trying to get rid of her. After being hunted and banished from his home, wandered around for a few years before being taken it by a kinder witch (not important who). She taught him everything she knew, and specifically how to disguise his cursed traits (firey hair, tail, claws, sharp teeth. he cannot disguise his red eyes). After she died, he took over her potion business and threw himself into trying to study how to break his curse. He soon learns part of that curse is immortality, and as all his witch friends around him die, summons a demon to try and get the demon to help him fix his curse. Now in modern day, he runs a smoothie place and still hasn't been able to break his curse, but has found more piece with it, surrounded by other immortal friends.

Impulse / "The Summoned" - Having been around for thousands of years, Impulse is a very feared demon who was so done with being summoned. He hated doing tasks for people, hated being a sort of demonic servant who got paid with souls. What does someone even do with a soul? He is able to disguise himself as human due to his demonic powers, as it helped him look 'normal' when he had to go out to do tasks and not immediately get pointed out as nonhuman. When he got summoned by Tango, he did what he always does and helped how he could. He thought it would be a quick task, but years started passing and they were getting nowhere. As time passed, he and Tango slowly got closer and closer until they were friends. Tango changed his order from 'help me break this curse' to 'be my friend'. Theres been one point where Impulse got dismissed from that order, but after Etho showed up, he helped Impulse reunite with Tango. In modern day, he helps Tango run the smoothie shop and in his spare time, continues trying to figure out how to break his friends curse.

Etho / "The Hunted" - A lot younger than both Tango and Impulse. He was turned when he was younger, and his parents did their best to protect him from the truth of it, but they weren't able to protect him for long, as in his teens a vampire hunter came across him and recognised the traits of a vampire. The scar over his eyes is from that hunter, but in the end, Etho managed to kill the hunter. He wears that man's bandanna as a sort of victory symbol, plus he realised it was easy to keep his hair out of his eyes. He met Tango during Impulse's dismissal and kinda became an awkward roommate, which worked for both of them, as etho needed a place to stay and tango needed company. He is the one who managed to get Impulse back to Tango, and by then he had accidentally become a bestie so he wasn't able to leave now. Out of the three, he does the least to disguise himself. His fangs are covered by the mask he wears, and blames any other weird thing on just being canadian. strangely it works. In modern day, he works the night shift at a gas station nearby and gets his blood from impulse, who as demon, blood loss doesnt affect

Skizz / "The Fallen" - A fallen angel kicked from heaven due to a sort of rumour. he doesn't know what the rumour is, but its his goal to figure it out and fight against it, and get back to heaven. When he fell, his wings grew very tattered and messy. His halo is shattered, no longer glowing how it once did. Both his wings and halo are able to be hidden, with his wings able to tuck very tightly against his back and his halo having the ability to go invisible. His skin is covered in golden scars, scars he gained by being a sort of angel warrior. He had wandered around aimlessly for a few days, managing to get money through stealing, as he doesn't understand human culture or the need to pay for things. While wandering, found a poster that Tango had put out advertising the trio's need for another roommate. He went, and somehow got accepted as the final roommate, even though he very much lacks a job. He is slowly learning about human culture and focusing on getting a job, and somehow has not realised his new roommates aren't human, as they are constantly disguised around him. Meanwhile, they also don't realise he's not human, they just think he's a bit goofy.

Other character that have been figured out include Bdubs (werewolf, summoner of impulse during the time tango had dismissed him), Martyn (vampire hunter, descendant of the one that etho killed. matching bandanna to his ancestor, and is doing his best to hunt down etho while failing miserably), Ren (martyn's silly werewolf friend, who is very stressed and doing his best to stop martyn hunting etho so martyn doesnt get severely hurt), Jimmy (phoenix, who has a sort of rebirth every 30 or so years, has been around for maybe as long as impulse), scar (centaur, think chiron from percy jackson for how he hides the horse), zombiecleo (zombie, self explanatory. no clue how they'd hide it)

#feared/fallen au #ties #TIES fanart #tango tek #tangotek #tango fanart #impulsesv #impulse fanart #impulse sv #skizzleman #skizz fanart #skizzleman fanart #skizz #ethoslab #etho slab #ethoslab fanart #limited life #au idea

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lulunothulu · 10 months ago

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“A Bullseye to the Heart” Ch. 8

Jake “Hangman” Seresin X Latina Reader

Summary: Flashbacks creep into your dreams, causing you to wake up in a panic…it’s a good thing Jake is there to calm you. Jake finds out what happened to you, what happened with your ex, and why you’ve been getting paid off.

Content: Flashbacks(kinda gory), torture, anxiety attack, talks of suicide, some swearing, DV, will end on a happy note.

Word count: 4,019

A/N: While I think you can assume this is a middle eastern place that she was taken/sent to, I didn’t label the people for obvious reasons. Please be mindful of this and really put yourself in her shoes. Next chapter will be a lot less traumatic. I promise 💗 (Please do go back and read the other chapters, this won’t make a lot of sense if you don’t. All linked in my Masterlist!)

Chapter 8

“What were you sent here to do?” The man asks. His dark hair and even darker eyes bare into yours, daring you to speak. He’s wearing jeans and a black shirt, his mouth and nose covered in a mask.

You’d figured out that he was the leader of the terrorist organization whose weapons you were supposed to bomb. You’d been in their custody for a few days, tied to a pole on the ceiling like a slab of meat in a butcher shop.

They did this to weaken you for torture, you knew that. You’d been trained for this.

“Answer me!” The man yells. When you don’t say anything but stare at him, he nods to a man on your left.

This one compared to the leader, was huge—broad shouldered and muscular even under the loose shirt he wore.

The other man smiles, a whip coming into your view. Before you had time to brace yourself, the whip cracks and slams into your skin.

You seethe in pain, not wanting to give them the satisfaction of screaming in pain.

Except, when the whip is pulled away from your back, a chunk of flesh follows. You let out a blood curdling scream at that.

“All you have to do is tell us who you were working for,” the Leader tells you. “Your Admiral must’ve told you something.”

“I don’t know anything,” you gritted.

He sighs. “Fine.”

And again, you’re whipped.

Over and over again.

So much so, you could feel the blood trail down your spine and legs.

You knew you’d bleed out before they could get anything out of you. You almost begged for it to happen.

After a week of being whipped and beaten by a wooden so badly it broke, you knew you weren’t making it out alive.

Day after day, the same questions.

“Who do you work for?”

“Why are you here?”

“Where’s your back up?”

And each time, you’d give them nothing. An occasional spit in the Leader’s face but that would result in him slapping you, followed by the larger man’s fists.

By the end of that week, they’d send you to a medic who would treat you, let you heal for a week, and then it would start again.

Two months into it, you began losing hope that you’d ever be found.

Two months in, you were still being tied up to the bar in the ceiling. Occasionally you’d be sat down, given food, only for them to turn you upside down and dunked in water. They’d ripped out your nails, cut your skin, burned your healing back.

And still, nothing from you except for an occasional “fuck you”.

By the end of the third month, you’d come to expect the lashings. You’d come to expect the beatings.

But that last day, you were taken to a clean room. A surgical room. Fear riddled your body, beginning to expect the worst. When a doctor walked in with the Leader and his torturer, you were tied to the bed, your pants pulled down your legs.

“You are leaving,” the Leader tells you. “But not before we leave you with a parting gift.”

His eyes crinkle in what you assumed was him smiling. Behind him, the doctor walks up to you and marks your hip with a blue marker.

“Here is safe,” he tells the torturer.

You hear a machine whir behind him and when he moves, you see the torturer holding a hot stamp. A skull and bones symbol red as a chili pepper is being heated by some sort of portable hot stove.

“No,” you say, quietly at first but louder the closer they get to you. “NO!”

They only laugh. The torturer comes close, before whispering, “This will hurt. Do not move.”

You feel the doctor and the Leader hold your legs in place as the hot stamp finally makes contact with your skin.

You scream, blood curdling and raw. You scream until you can no longer breathe, the scent of burning flesh fills the small room. You feel yourself falling in and out of consciousness, but the doctor wakes you up completely with some smelling salts.

They pull your pants back up before untying you and dragging you out of the room and into a garage before putting a hood on your head. They throw you into the back of a truck before laughing and driving you somewhere.

“You’re lucky we didn’t do more than that with your pants down, girl.” The Leader tells you. “Thank your God we didn’t.”

You only sob. You were sure they were going to kill you. But when they stop and pull you out of the truck, you have to blink when they pull the hood off.

You were in an open field. The sun gloriously kissing your skin and grass whistling in the soft breeze.

They push you to your knees before you hear the cocking of a gun.

“Thank your Admiral for us,” is the last thing they say before shooting up in the air.

It was flare. They shot…a flare.

Instantly, you hear the whirring of a helicopter coming from behind a mountain in front of you. Behind you, the truck doors slam before the two men leave you on your knees, bloodied all over your body, and tears running down your face.

You were going to be okay. You were going to be saved.

So then why did the man’s words echo in your mind?

* * *

“Thank your Admiral for us.”

You woke up with a jolt, someone’s hand was holding yours and you had to fight to free yourself from their grip.

You were sweating, panting for fresh air.

It was just a dream. You’re home, safe.

You tried reasoning with yourself but it was no use. You were panicking, and hard.

Beside you on the floor, Jake sits up, rubbing his eyes before turning to you.

“Hey, did you sleep–”

Jake stops talking when he sees the way you hold your chest, face frozen in panic and breathing rapidly. “What happened?”

“They’re here,” you breathe, staring off into space. “They want me back. They’re gonna kill me this time.”

“Hey, hey,” Jake soothes, squatting beside you. “Breathe.”

“I. Can’t. Breathe.” you sputter. “It’s–oh my god–Jake I can’t–”

“You can,” he tells you. “C’mon, Sweetheart. You’ve got this, just like me.”

He brings one of your hands to his chest, the warm surface clothed in cotton, heart beating under your fingertips. “Feel my heart?”

He grabs your other hand and brings it to your chest, your heart pounding against your hand. “Match my heartbeat, Y/N. You can do it.”

You feel yourself slow down, the world around slowing. Jake’s green eye is the only thing you’re focusing on.

“Count with me,” he goes on. “One.”

“O-one.”

“Two.”

“T-two.”

“Three.”

“Four,” Jake smiles.

“Four,” you smile back.

“Do you feel better?” he asks.

You nod. “Yes, thank you.”

“Did you have another nightmare?” he asks, rubbing the hand on his chest with his thumb.

“Yes,” you tell him, feeling yourself fully relaxed. “It was like a movie.”

“How so?”

“I saw what they did to me in a compilation,” you shudder. “I saw every lashing, every cut, everything.”

“Tell me about it.” Jake’s eyes are soft on you, encouraging you to go on.

“I saw them beat me that first week,” you tell him after a few deep breaths. “They had whipped me and beat me with a wooden bat.”

Jake’s eyes flashed with anger before he nodded for you to go on.

“They-they did that for a month. The next month was the same but this time they let me sit instead of being chained to a bar on the ceiling.” You drop the hand on your chest in your lap, squeezing Jake’s hand in yours.

“They pulled my nails out next and cut my back wounds open again,” you went on. Tears form in your eyes again before you tell him, “The last day of the third month, they branded me. Called it a ‘parting gift’.”

He remembered. The skull and crossbones on your hip.

“They told me to be glad I didn’t get…you know, while my pants were down. That I should thank my God.” You were fully sobbing now. You couldn’t stop the tears from falling.

“They told me to thank my Admiral,” you cried.

Jake let go of your hand before wiping the tears that fell with his thumb. “I’m so sorry, Y/N.”

“That was the only thing I could focus on when the Navy saved me,” you tell him, tears drying. “‘Why would he say that?’, I asked myself. And then it hit me.”

You look up at Jake again before saying, “I think Simpson knew I was going down. Even after I radioed in that I was.”

Jake’s blood runs cold, he wanted to tell you what he knew but wanted you to tell him what you knew first.

“I think that’s why they paid me off,” you continue, tears long gone now. “They must think I know something.”

“Well do you?” he asks, not able to contain the curiosity anymore.

You nod. “I think the weapons they wanted me to bomb were U.S. made and that’s why they sent me to bomb them.”

“Why do it themselves when they can send one pilot to bomb them?” he adds.

“Exactly,” you agree. “That’s why they wouldn’t let Rooster or Phoenix and Bob come with me. They knew I was going down or dying trying to fight my way out.”

“But why keep you for three months?” he asks.

“Who knows why the Navy does what they do,” you sigh. Changing the subject you tell him, “When I got back, I was so broken–physically and emotionally. Maybe that’s what made me an even bigger target to Nick.”

Jake’s spine straightens at his name. “Why’s that?”

“I was a walking target, I had the look of someone who had been through something horrible.” You shake your head and chuckle. “I was so open to wanting someone to show me love and affection, I fell right into his trap.”

You look at him, watching as Jake’s eyes harden before he asks, “What did he do?”

“He was nice,” you start. “At first he was. Asking if I wanted to talk about what happened, then asking if I needed company. He moved in not even two months into knowing him.”

You scoff, remembering how naive you were.

“Rooster hated him the moment I introduced him to him and Nat,” you continued. “He was a lot like you actually.”

“How so?” Jake asks.

“Nice, a ladies man, handsome…” You look away at that last word.

“That’s why you didn’t trust me at first,” he fills in the blanks.

“Yeah.”

“Do you trust me now?” he asks.

You turn to him, a small glimmer of hope in your eyes.

“Yeah, I really do.”

“Why?” Jake asks. “If I’m the same as him, why do you trust me?”

“You never made a move to kiss me the first few times you were with me,” you whisper.

* * *

Jake only stared.

That motherfucker tried to kiss you the first few times he saw you? He was ready to pummel that fucker into the ground if it meant you would never see him again.

You must’ve seen the anger in his eyes because he shakes it away and swallows it down. “I’m you trust me.”

“I am too,” you tell him. “I’ve never told anyone that, about what I suspected with the Navy and with Nick.”

“I’m glad you finally got it out,” he tells you. “I really am. It’s good that you talk about what happened to you.”

“What about you?” You ask. “Has something like that happened to you?”

Jake shakes his head, remembering his old weapon system officer. “Not me, but my old back seater.”

“What happened?”

He’d told this story twice in his life. Once at court after everything happened and the second time to Lt. Addams’ parents.

“We were sent to bomb some important buildings in Afghanistan,” he starts. “They held all sorts of jets and weapons that could’ve comprised the U.S. military that were stationed there. So they sent Lieutenant Addams and I—that was my partner’s name.”

He smiles to himself.

“He was my best friend,” he continues. “I grew up with him and we joined the Navy together and then eventually flight school and so on.”

He looks up at you, watching as you listen so intently, you’re practically holding your breath.

“Well, we got into a disagreement,” Jake tells you. “He wanted to take things slow and I wanted to speed up, elimisome time from our arrival time.”

He takes a deep but shaky breath before looking away, down at the hands he held in your lap. He takes his time, caressing each of your knuckles, examining the small scars on your right hand. He flips your hands over to see your smooth palms, coated in light sweat.

“I went faster and didn’t anticipate the upcoming turn,” he goes on. “It was too late. I was too late. I should’ve died but I yelled for him to eject and I thought he was coming with me. But he—”

Jake’s breath hitched in his throat as an angry sob trickled up instead. He blows out a few breaths before looking up at you with tearful eyes.

“He didn’t eject in time.”

“Oh Jake,” you start.

“I should’ve listened to him,” he tells you. Then quietly he adds, “It should’ve been me.”

“Jake,” you start.

He feels your hands let go of his and move to his cheeks, you tilt his head up to face you before saying, “You are exactly where you need to be. If you weren’t here, I’d probably still be dealing with Nick. Or worse.”

Jake’s eyes glisten with tears, hearing you say that means so much to him. Being able to definitely say that he was a hero for you, meant that his mistake with Addams was paid back in full.

Because it may not have been Addams, but it was someone else who needed his help the most.

“You’re exactly the person I needed when I least expected,” you go on. “I know it hasn’t been long but I do think of you as a good friend. Thank you, for everything.”

He smiles up at you. This beautiful woman before him was a fighter, and he damn well deserved to be here—even just for her.

A knock on the door startles you both out of the mini staring contest you were in, making Jake turn in the direction of the front door.

He checks his watch which reads 2:45 AM.

“Who could be here so early in the morning?” He asks.

Before you even get to answer, you both hear pounding on the door. Jake feels you freeze, terror paralyzing you into speechlessness.

“Y/N!” He hears Nick yell. “Get your sorry ass out here! We’re going home.”

“How did he find my house?” Jake asks himself.

“He must’ve followed us home after we left Hard Deck.” You answer.

Jake looks at you, taking your hands in his again. “Go into my room, there’s a box under my bed. The code is 07-12-89. There’s a gun in there, just in case you need to use it.”

“What about you?”

Jake looks at you like it’s the last time he’ll see you. He tries to memorize your eyes, the way your lips pull back when you smile. He brushes a strand of your hair back before smiling at you.

“I’ll be okay, Sweetheart.”

When Nick pounds on the door again, Jake points for you to be quiet and go to his room. You obey, running as quietly and quickly as you can.

Once Jake is sure you’re safe, he calmly walks to the front door, opening it just as Nick was about to pound on it again.

“Can I help you?” Jake asks.

“Yeah,” Nick says, the smell of alcohol on his breath. “I’m looking for my girlfriend. She’s in there.”

“Girlfriend?” Jake pretends to think. “Wait, I thought you were single.”

Nick angrily grunts before adding, “No, she’s confused. She’s sick in the head.”

“Well if that’s the case, she’s definitely not here,” Jake smiles. “I only allow sane people in my house.”

“Then let me in to look for her,” Nick drawls.

“No can do, buddy,” Jake says, blocking Nick when he makes a move to enter the house. “See, I don’t know you and you w already tried to kick my ass earlier today—well, yesterday. So that’s a hard no from me.”

Nick frowns in anger, face contorting into something ungodly. “Let me in. I saw her go into the house.”

Jake’s heart was pounding.

Not because he was scared, but because he was furious. Why can’t this guy just get the hint?

“Dude, even if she was here,�� Jake starts. “She doesn’t wanna see you. So, take the hint.”

“Who the hell even are you?” Nick asks, pushing Jake back a bit.

“I’m just a guy who doesn’t like the way you’ve been treating Y/N,” Jake states. “And quite frankly, I don’t want you in my property so get the fuck off my porch and go home.”

“I don’t think so,” Nick seethes. “I want her and only her. So get her out here or I’m burning your house to the ground.”

“Those are some strong words for someone who’s worked really hard to become a pilot,” Jake smiles. “Do you really wanna throw that all away for some girl?”

Nick seems to ponder his words, brows furrowing in thought.

“Because that’s what? Two years of your life down the drain? And for what? A girl who doesn’t even want you?” Jake continues. “Is she really worth it all?”

Nick’s eyes focus on something behind him and Jake doesn’t even need to turn around to know who he’s looking at.

“Y/N,” Nick says. “Let’s go.”

Jake turns around to see you standing there, head held high, body squared, and feet planted. You look like the woman you once were, the one he’d seen pictures of in the Top Gun classroom and halls.

Strong and bold. Confidence radiating from your glossy bronzed skin.

You weren’t scared, and you made sure Jake and Nick knew it.

“I’m not leaving with you,” you say firmly.

“What the fuck do you mean, ‘No’?” Nick bellows. “You’re coming home with me and we’re gonna talk about…us.”

“No,” you say, pushing past Jake and squaring up to Nick. “You’re going home and I’m staying here. You’re not good for me.”

“What? And he is?”

“Yes,” you say simply, catching Nick off guard. “He’s good for me. He and my friends, the ones you tried to keep me away from.”

Nick scoffs at that, rolling his eyes.

“What do you want? My apartment? You can have it,” you say, tossing your keys at him. “But what you can’t have is me. I’m done, I’ve been done for a long time, Nick. From the first time you put hands on me, to the last time you did. You will not hurt me again. So get off his porch and go home.”

Nick stares at you incredulously—Jake does too. He knew you’d finally had a breakthrough and was prepared to do anything to get Nick out of your life. Even if that meant standing up for yourself and doing the scariest thing you could ever do.

Confront him.

With a swipe at his face, Nick shakes his head before slapping you across the face. Your head turns but your body doesn’t move.

“You made a mistake,” Nick says darkly.

“No,” you say. “You made a mistake.”

You point behind Nick, where two officers, Bradley, and Natasha stand.

“Goodbye, Nick.”

* * *

2 months later

It’s been a fairly good two months. You’d been living with Jake since that night. You couldn’t bring yourself to go back to your lonely apartment. And besides, you liked living with Jake.

Every morning since that night, Jake has made a point to leave you notes on the fridge, telling you when to expect him home. Granted, you’d be at work. But it’s the thought that counts.

Nick was kicked out of the Navy and served a few months in jail for the assaults he committed in the week before his arrest. You were also granted a permanent protection order against him.

Life was starting to look up.

You’d been hearing nicely, emotionally at least. You even told your therapist everything you told Jake.

The only thing you worried about now was whether or not Jake was going out on a date on weekends.

You hated to admit it, but I fell for him. And hard.

You didn’t want to, but the way he treated you was so different to what you’d ever experienced, you couldn’t help yourself.

But it seemed like Jake went back to his man-whore ways. You’d be at work and glance over to where he and the rest of the group were to see him all over a new girl each week.

You tried not to let it get to you, but it still did.

You figured you’d use this time to heal yourself—better yourself. You’d get to be as great as you could be so that when—and if—Jake wanted you, you’d be ready.

So now, you’d focus on you. Until the time was right.

Because even though it wasn’t meant to be right now, you knew it was meant to be. Otherwise, why would he leave you flowers and notes everyday? No man who wasn’t fawning over a woman would ever do that.

And yeah, there was a little voice in the back of your head that says maybe he’s just trying to be nice…but why do all that?

Either way, you were doing what was best for you. Because you owed it to yourself to do it.

No matter the outcome.

For now, you would go to work, go to your weekly therapy sessions, and smile at the life you get to live.

But that’s exactly what you get to do.

Live.

* * *

Jake’s date for the week smiled up at him as she attempted to seem hotter than she was. He’d brought her to Hard Deck to meet the group but now, he kinda didn’t want her around.

She smelled too sweet, she laughed a little too loud, and she just felt…wrong.

She wasn’t his Bullseye.

Not his. But his.

You’d just brought over a round of beers and were talking to Natasha when your date tapped on your shoulder.

“Yeah, I don’t drink beer. Can I have a white wine?” She says, rudely snapping at you to hurry. “Chop chop.”

Bradley’s eyes widen and he takes a long swig of his wet before looking at Jake with a wild expression.

“Sure,” you say. Jake watches as you take the beer, glancing his way with a dissatisfied expression.

She’s gonna rip me a new one later.

“Why don’t I get it for you?” Jake suggests. “Just in case.”

“Oh, Jakey,” his date says. “That'd be great. But honestly, we can just leave. This place is dingy and old.”

Behind her, Natasha and Bob’s mouths fall open, Coyote and Payback following suit. Bradley only cackles, making his date turn around in annoyance and Bradley turn around to avoid her gaze.

“So Jakey,” Bradley starts. “Are you leaving or are you staying?”

Jake looks at Bradley, then his date, and lastly you at the bar. You were serving Maverick a beer and smiling at something he said.

You were beautiful tonight. Your hair was curled and half tied up in a white bow, a white linen shirt and jeans your uniform for the night.

As if feeling his eyes on you, your turn just in time to catch him smiling at you before he turns to his date.

“You know what,” he starts. “I think I’m gonna stay.”

Bradley smiles. “Good choice.”

Next part

A/N: Thank you for being patient with me. I had a hard time with this chapter mainly because I wanted it to be sensitive but also raw. So thank you for reading it if you read it. And remember that there’s always someone out there that loves you 💗

Tags: @lonelysoul50 @akilatwt @russopalette @emma8895eb @djs8891

#glen powell #fanfic #jake hangman fic #jake hangman seresin #glen powell x reader #hangman x reader #hangman x you #latina reader #hangman x rooster #bradley rooster bradshaw #top gun hangman

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arntyoujustcute · 8 months ago

Text

"Strange Manicure"

(^She's so cocky here, I love her)

"Hey, Sektor?” Smoke calls out to her from across the table, snapping her from the thoughts. New blueprints for her flamethrower’s harness and what material would be best suited for it served as her mind's distraction as they waited for Bi-Han's arrival.

“Yes, Smoke?” She replied, lifting her head up from its resting place on her crossed hands. She had cleaned her hands free of her workshop's dirt and oil before coming to this assembly, and her nails were just as spotless. That was not what Smoke wanted to point out, however. It was something else on the Master Armorer that confused him.

“Why are the nails on your middle and ring fingers shorter than the others?”

The young man asked his question, truly clueless on the matter. Her work was very hands-on, of course, but her nails were deliberately cut short on both hands compared to the rest on her other fingers.

Sektor sighed and glared, breathing low through her nose. Next to Smoke, Scorpion coughed loudly behind his mask, trying to cover up the laughter that tried to spill out.

“Mind your business, Tomáš.” Sektor scoffed, turning away from the smoke user. Scorpion is now chuckling silently, his face in his hands. Smoke blinks rapidly between the two of them, not sure what he did wrong.

“I did not mean to offend, I was only curious since it seemed like you did it on purpose.” He explained, making his situation even worse. Sektor glared daggers at him that would have killed him dead if she had it her way, and his brother laughed loudly, tears building up in his face.

“You have not felt the touch of a woman yet, have you?” Sektor mocked, still refusing to give him the reason for her strange manicure. Tomáš gasped, confused about what he did to deserve that when Kuai Liang spoke up from his laughing fit.

“If you are truly curious brother, go ask Sektor's assistant. I'm sure she wouldn't mind helping you!” Kuai teased, earning Sektor’s ire.

“Do not even think about it Tomáš!” She snarled, standing up from her seat. What goes on between her and her signif-her assistant is no one's business but there's.

Smoke stuttered, not sure why you of all people would know the answer to his question, but then Bi-Han walked through the room, icy vapor trailing behind him. The Grandmaster's presence forces them and everyone else in the room to look at him.

“Is there an issue?” The cryomancer spoke gruffly, seeing the scene playing out between his brothers and Master Armorer.

“Nothing, Bi-Han. May we begin now?” Sektor spoke first before Scorpion and Smoke, the two younger brothers quickly changing into pictures of obedient subordinates with the eldest of them now appearing.

Bi-Han looks between the three of them, still suspicious that he interrupted something judging from how Smoke keeps looking at Sektor, like she offended him. He will find out more later, from Sektor herself or from one of his brothers, and the meeting begins with little fuss.

Later on, while Sektor is off distracted somewhere, Tomáš makes his way down to her laboratory. He dodges cables, heavy boxes of building materials, and random chemicals in bottles stamped with symbols he doesn't understand. The person he seeks is currently leaning over one of the many tables around the room, a pair of heavy goggles protecting their face as they piece together more toxic yellow glue bombs for Cyrax. They hear his footsteps on the metal floor and look up from their work, lifting the industrial goggles hiding their eyes from view.

“Tomáš! What can I do for you?” You ask cheerfully, twisting yourself in your chair to face him. The Czech greets you back, making his way around your lover's magnificent lab to your side.

“I hope I am not interrupting you too much, I have a question to ask you that Sektor refused to answer.” Tomáš reveals, making you hum. Sektor could occasionally be a bit brash, a side effect of a large ego combined with a strong mind. It annoyed you in the beginning, but now you know better than to let her attitude get under your skin, and better yet, how to get under hers.

“You're good! What is it?”

“Why are Sektor’s nails on her ring and middle fingers shorter than her other ones?” He asked, still just as clueless. He watched as your eyes widened and mouth dropped, a tiny squeak coming out from your throat. Your face heated up from embarrassment, and you quickly looked away from the warrior as you sat up.

“What!? W-why would I know?!” You yelled, your fingers coming up to try and cool your heated face. “Why are you asking me?”

“Scorpion said that you would know!” Tomáš defended himself, now on the receiving end of two different women's anger. You were not as skilled as him or Sektor in kombat, but you were more than able to hold your own. As if Sektor would ever leave you alone without some way to defend yourself.

“Well I don't, so there's your answer!” You snapped, bringing your conversation with the typhomancer to a close. You stomped away from him, flinging your goggles and gloves to the side and going after wherever your lover was in the temple. To kiss or slap her, you don't know yet, you'll figure it out on the way.

Tomáš meant to chase after you, asking for forgiveness for whatever he did, but then the invisible light bulb over his head went off. He still didn't understand the thing with Sektor’s nails, but he did understand why his brother sent him after you.

You, a lowly engineer and Lin Kuei initiate, and Sektor, the clan’s Master Armor and its best mind…what an interesting couple.

#Something to feed the Sektor girlies #all 3 of you #currently working on some Sekmeleon and SektorxOC fics and had to get this idea out of my head #Sektor my underrated beloved #Sektor #Sektor x reader #mortal kombat #mortal kombat x reader #(for those that don't get it #if you see a woman with her middle and ring (or pointer) nails short #it means she fucks-)

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spid3rw0mxn · 9 months ago

Text

The Injured Spider

Peter Parker angst: Mentions of: Blood and violence :)

—

“You’re going to die.” Her words hung in the air around them. 3am, He came through her window. Battered, bruised and in need of immediate medical attention. Medical attention he couldn’t receive without risking his identity so instead they sat in her studio apartment. The lamp light illuminated the current slash she was tending towards. Her fingertips stained crimson as he winced from her stitching. She’d grown accustomed to blood. The smell didn’t phase her anymore, it had come to be something she’d associated her boyfriend with.

Peter let out a small chuckle, trying to defuse the situation at hand. He wanted to avoid the conversation that statement would lead. “You should see the other guy.”

Silence followed his words. It was Interrupted by the sound of a police siren ringing out, followed by that of an ambulance. 3am In a city that never sleeps.

Static sounds came from Peters police radio. How he’d managed all this equipment evaded her, she didn’t bother to ask. She listened in, it seemed the police had it covered. His body relaxed back, shoulders slouching as he continued to let her doctor his wounds. No doubt if they’d needed him he would’ve swung off into the night. Completely ignoring his own needs, As he was known to do.

That’s what Spider-Man did. He had found himself to be more of a symbol for New York than a person. A symbol doesn’t rest, a savior doesn’t succumb to injury. Spider-Man doesn’t stop.

She let out a sigh as she fixed up the last stitch, sitting back on her knees to examine her work. The first-aid course she’d picked up after high school came in handy more and more often these days.

“You’re going to die in this suit.” She tugged her lip between her teeth when she spoke again. She stared down at her chipped red polish, at least it matched the staining underneath her nails.

Peter sighed and turned to face her. This was a conversation he’d had before. A glimpse of Gwen and him in a similar position plagued his mind. He had failed her, and it had taken him a while before he learned to love again. He couldn’t help but fall for the girl who sat opposite of him now. She’d been patient, she’d been kind, she’d been understanding before even knowing who he was. Even going as far as sweeping the cancelled dates under the rug with a smile and rescheduling.

It was easier when she didn’t know. Lying was easier. She didn’t get that furrow in her brows from worry. She didn’t chew her bottom lip from nerves while watching the news. She didn’t frown at the articles against Spider-Man. When she didn’t know, she watched with wonder as the masked hero swung by her. She didn’t look up to blow a kiss, wondering if he’d make it to their dinner reservations. He couldn’t protect her from the dangers of loving a superhero. He knew that. He had learned that before. But, If he could go back and protect her from doing so knowingly, he would.

“Someone has to protect the people.” He stated plainly. The humor in his voice from earlier disappeared. It was replaced with a solemn tone, one she couldn’t say she hadn’t heard him use before. Especially when this discussion arose.

“It has to be you?” She questioned, but she knew the answer. ‘With great power’ and all of that. She wondered if Uncle Ben had known the life he was sentencing Peter with at those final words. “You’ve done enough. Maybe it’s time now to just be Peter Parker, a student at Empire State.”

“I’m not just Peter Parker. I haven’t been in a long time.” Truth be told, he hadn’t felt like Peter Parker since he turned 15. If he’d become the spider or the spider became him, he was unsure. All he knew now was the strength he had, the responsibility he held in his hands.

“You could be.” She tried again, cupping his face in her left hand, thumb gently brushing over the yellow bruise under his left eye. “It doesn’t have to fall on you.”

“But it does fall on me. If I don’t do this, people die. Innocent people.”

“You’re an innocent person Peter.”

“If I do nothing, I’m not innocent. I’m a bystander.”

She was stunned by that. How could she argue? He was right. She hated to admit it so instead she just turned her head from him.

“I’m scared for you.” She exhaled, fighting with the tears that threatened to roll down her cheeks. “I can’t keep watching you do this to yourself.”

“Then don’t.” He said the words before he’d thought them through. The implication behind the sentence suffocating them both.

A beat passed, then another. She looked back towards Peter. “Okay.”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean…” He started, pausing as he tried to think of what to say. His eyebrows fell in defeat as he reached towards her.

She shook her head and he retreated. “No, You’re right. I can’t do this. You want to kill the man I love? Do it. But, I refuse to be part of it.”

He stared at her, blinking a few times in surprise. “What?” His voice was soft, like a child being scolded. “That’s not-“ He stopped himself as he heard another siren in the distance. Peter took a breath before slipping his mask back down over his face.

“We will talk about this later.” He moved down, lifting his mask up over his lips to plant a gentle kiss to her forehead. “I’m Sorry.” Peter left the same way he had entered. Through the window, Following after the bright red and blue lights. He was headed towards whatever danger awaited him.

The depth of his apology wasn’t lost on her. “I know.”

#peter parker fic #peter parker x reader #peter parker angst #spiderman angst #spiderman x reader #spiderman x you #peter parker x you #peter parker x y/n #spiderman x y/n #spiderman fic #peter parker fanfiction #spiderman fanfiction

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frailowl · 1 month ago

Text

Chapter One- The Offering

cw: mild depictions of violence

1983

Somewhere in the middle of Eastern Europe

The mountains had teeth. Sharp ones that cut like daggers.

They tore at her skin with every breath. Wind scoured her lungs raw, ice clung to her lashes, and blood—hers, mostly—left warm smears across the snow. Every step was a negotiation between collapsing and dragging forward. She was practically naked from the waist up, clothed only in tattered pants and the remains of her tank top, covered in bruises, and half-shifted—her body caught in a painful, stuttering retreat from her other form.

She didn’t remember where she was. Only what came before.

Needles. Screams. The reek of metal and antiseptic. Voices calling her a number, not a name.

Then—fire. Blood. Running.

She clung to one truth.

Aris. That was her name.

She collapsed near the tree line, trembling and feral, red eyes dim but not extinguished. The wind howled through skeletal trees.

And then the figure came.

Black robes. Silent steps. A golden mask that didn’t blink. Her lips peeled back in a snarl, fangs still half-exposed. But her limbs refused to respond.

When the figure knelt beside her, she was too weak to bite, giving in to the pull of sleep that she had been dragging behind her for miles now.

The ancient church stank of incense and mildew. It wasn’t holy—it was hungry.

When Aris came to, she was knelt in the center of a worn stone circle, arms bound behind her back with thick iron shackles. Her skinned knees pressed into the cracked floor. Dried blood had settled beneath her fingernails. Her head hung low, black hair tangled around her face.

Four thrones formed a half-circle before her. Symbols marked them: house crests, sigils, etched bone and old velvet. Shadows spilled behind each figure seated there.

To her left: an elegant being—very tall, cold, resplendent in ivory silk and quiet malice. Next: a man—slouched, arms folded, cigar in one hand, teeth bared in a lazy grin, sunglasses covering his eyes. Across from him: a creature, not human, hunched and murmuring to himself, half hidden by rot. And beside him: a seated woman in black, silent beneath her veil, her puppet grinning and chittering atop her lap.

And above them all, wings folded like a cloak, stood an imposing figure. Clearly the one in charge, her gold mask still in place.

“She was found in the forest beyond the pass,” The winged woman said, her commanding voice echoing through the stone. “A castoff from an unknown location. Feral. Half-alive.”

A pause.

“And still... she survived.”

The figures stared at Aris. She stared back, slowly lifting her head. Her red eyes met theirs—each in turn—and did not waver.

She was striking in a way none of them could name. Not beautiful, not masculine, not feminine. Something in between. Her face sharp, jaw strong, her presence undeniable. There was elegance beneath the grime, and rage beneath the silence.

Aris licked dried blood from her lips and sat back on her heels. Her voice, when it came, was hoarse and raspy but steady.

“So. Who the hell are you all supposed to be?”

A long pause.

The tall woman in white raised an elegant brow. “You’re bold, for a creature in chains.”

“I’ve been in chains before.”

The man with the cigar chuckled. “She’s got a mouth on her. I like her.”

“She's disgusting,” the tall woman muttered.

“She's interesting,” the masked, winged one corrected. “An Umbrella experiment. One that escaped."

Aris's jaw flexed. “You know them.”

The puppet laughed. “Everybody knows Umbrella, dog-girl.”

The fish-like one muttered something unintelligible.

Aris glanced at each of them again. “You’re not with Umbrella,” she said slowly. “But none of you are human either.”

The woman in the black veil remained silent although her puppet cackled manically.

Aris’s gaze returned to the tall woman. “And you especially… think very highly of yourself.”

A tense beat. Then Alcina stepped forward, hands clasped in front of her.

“You may address me as, Lady Alcina Dimitrescu. Of House Dimitrescu, ruler of the castle in these mountains."

The man smirked and tipped an imaginary hat. “Karl Heisenberg. The pleasure’s mine.”

The fish-like one wheezed, “S-Salvatore Moreau…”

The last woman said nothing. Her puppet chirped, “That’s Donna! And I’m Angie! We’re a package deal!”

“And I,” the winged figure said, stepping forward at last, “am Mother Miranda. The one who offered you a choice—through survival.”

Aris narrowed her eyes. “You kidnapped me.”

Miranda smiled faintly. “You escaped them. You lived. That makes you... mine. You are unstable, Aris Zakarian. And dangerous. I offer you to the Four Lords as a gift. Whoever can tame you—may keep you.”

“You called me by name,” Aris rasped. “How do you know who I am?”

The winged woman stepped forward slowly, her boots silent against stone.

“I’ve read the reports. Test Subject E-3127, female, captured in 1983 near Yerevan. Exceptional aggression. Heightened regenerative capability. Lycan mutation—uncontrolled. Escaped containment after thirty-seven days. Confirmed kills: thirty-one.”

Aris’s expression didn’t change, but the red in her eyes flared.

“Aris Zakarian,” Miranda said smoothly. “Umbrella broke your body. But not your will.”

A pause. Miranda’s voice turned sharper.

“You are unstable. Dangerous. A failed weapon. But you survived. And that means... you belong to me.”

The other Lords shifted slightly—disturbed, amused, intrigued.

The man in furs chuckled. “So she’s one of theirs. A leftover.”

The puppet squealed, “She’s got a number! That means we can take her apart!”

The hunched one muttered about infection and contamination.

The tall woman, Alcina, arched a brow and folded her arms. “She reeks of dog. Of course Umbrella would make something so crude.”

Aris looked at Miranda, blood drying on her cheek.

“You think you own me because of a file?”

Miranda’s smile was paper-thin. “I don’t think. I know.”

The cold didn’t bother her. The stares did.

She was hearded through Castle Dimitrescu by the Countess herself. She could feel the woman's yellow gaze burning into her back.

The halls around her blurred—marble, gold, velvet, chandeliers. Overkill. Wealth built on bones. She barely registered the castle’s grandeur. She was too focused on what lay ahead.

Or below.

The silence was colder than the dungeon air.

They passed servants who flattened themselves against the walls. One dropped a tray when Aris met her eyes. Aris bared her teeth at her, chuckling to herself when the woman squeaked. Might as well try to enjoy herself and scare some people while she still could.

The scent of blood grew stronger with every step. Older. Deeper.

Finally, they reached a thick iron door set into damp stone. He captor moved around her, unlocking the cell door, pushing it open. The cell beyond was plain—stone floor, iron chains, a single rusted ring in the wall.

Home.

For now.

Alcina shoved her inside. She staggered but didn’t fall.

The door slammed behind her, bolts sliding into place. She turned slowly, lips cracked and dry, muscles aching.

Alcina stood at the threshold, just beyond the bars. She said nothing at first. Just looked at her—like one would study a flawed diamond. Or a misbehaving hound.

“You didn’t flinch,” Alcina said finally. “Not even when Miranda read your file aloud.”

Aris met her gaze. “You didn’t blink when she said I killed thirty-one people.”

Alcina’s lips twitched. “I’ve killed far more than that.”

A long pause stretched between them.

Then Alcina stepped closer, her gold eyes catching the torchlight.

“You’re not human. You’re not one of ours. You’re a mutation in the dark. A mistake. What exactly do you expect to become here?”

Aris took a slow breath.

“Whatever I choose.”

A beat of silence. Then a dry laugh, low and elegant.

“Bold. And stupid.”

Aris stepped closer to the bars. The chains on her wrists dragged.

“Is that why you’re afraid of me?”

Alcina’s face shifted. Only slightly—but Aris saw it.

Just enough.

Then the Countess straightened, smoothing her gloves.

“I’m not afraid of mutts,” she said. “I break them.”

And with that, she turned.

Her heels clicked as she walked away, fading into the echoing corridor.

The torches hissed.

The silence returned.

Aris sat down in the far corner, knees drawn up, back against the wall.

She closed her eyes and listened. The jangle of chains. The mice in the walls. The blood in the stone. The scraping of weapons against stone as the beings who carried them dragged them along the floor.

She had been caged before.

This time, she was already planning how to choose the moment she’d walk out.

The dungeon stayed quiet after the Countess left.

The torches burned low. The air was thick with rust, damp stone, and old blood. Aris kept still, her breathing even, her mind sharpening. Pain had a rhythm. She’d learned how to move through it.

So she noticed—immediately—when something changed.

A breath. A shift in the air.

Someone was watching.

She didn’t look up, but her eyes flicked toward the far wall—just beyond the bars, where the shadows thickened near the staircase.

A girl. Young, red-hair peeking out from a black hood, barely more than a wraith in a dark dress. Watching.

Not hiding. Not approaching.

Just... watching.

Aris tilted her head slightly.

The girl blinked, then vanished up the steps like smoke, a faint chorus of buzzing following her.

Aris didn’t move. Didn’t speak.

But a faint, dry smirk ghosted across her mouth.

“Curious little thing,” she muttered. “You’ll be back.”

And with that, she leaned her head back against the stone and closed her eyes.

#resident evil #resident evil village #alcina dimitrescu #bela dimitrescu #cassandra dimitrescu #daniela dimitrescu

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candlemouse · 3 months ago

Text

Gotham’s Most Eligible Kidnappee

5.8k words

When Bruce Wayne and Clark Kent get kidnapped together, Clark tries his best not to fall in love with someone that Batman hates.

Clark tended to look on the bright side of things. So when one of his coworkers desperately needed someone to cover a fundraising gala in Gotham, he had twisted it into an opportunity to eat a nice dinner and have a quiet evening. He even maintained this in the face of Lois’ laughter and her postulation that he’d either die of boredom or of toxic smog before the night was over.

However, as the night wore on in the stuffy, perfumed ballroom, he found his will to prove Lois wrong waning. He needed fresh air. He needed to get out. With a quick X-ray scan of the facility, he spotted a path to a balcony and followed it like a dehydrated man to an oasis in the desert.

Once outside, the night air didn’t even offer relief, because true to Lois’ earlier words, the air quality in Gotham bordered on uninhabitable. Nevertheless, Clark leaned against the balcony railing and scanned his eyes over Gotham. He tried his best to see the beauty in it, but for once even his positivity failed. It qualified as the only area in which Batman outpaced Clark in idealism.

Speaking of, Clark wondered what the guy was up to tonight. The dark night sky showcased a few stars, but no bat symbol, and Clark’s vision found no masked vigilante hopping from roof to roof. Was he having a night in? Or just fighting crime somewhere Clark’s eyes couldn’t pierce?

Also, considering Clark was in Gotham, should Clark suit up, fly over, and say hi after the gala? Or would that be too weird? It wasn’t really acceptable to say he was in town and stopping by out of convenience, because, theoretically, Clark could stop by anytime he wanted in five seconds flat from Metropolis. Or was that overthinking it?

Clark had broken the ice so recently, and he couldn’t imagine losing the ground covered for a quick hello. So, maybe he shouldn’t. Or maybe that would be a good step? Or—

“Bored?”

A voice startled Clark, a flashing red sign that he had been too engrossed in his thoughts to pick up on the person’s footsteps, and he turned to see none other than Bruce Wayne approaching him. His toned chest peeked out through the top two unfastened buttons of his shirt, and his bow tie hung loosely around his neck. Bruce swirled a glass of champagne in his hands, and sported a rouge on his cheek that could’ve been someone’s lipstick or a reaction to the cold. Simply put, he was even more breathtaking in real life than on the cover of GQ.

He settled on the railing next to Clark, tossing him a glance as he waited for an answer.

“A little,” Clark confessed, mind already running through what he knew of Bruce Wayne and how involved he was in this shindig—so how much Clark should say. As a journalist, he wasn’t new to talking to the rich and powerful, but talking on a secluded balcony at night was something different altogether and those details clouded his mind.

Bruce laughed. “I’d rather crawl through hell for an eternity than spend another second listening to Mr. Sorch drone on. I’m Bruce Wayne, by the way.” He looked Clark up and down, a smile growing. “And you are?”

Red pricked at Clark’s cheeks, something only attributable to blushing hot blood since his kryptonian genes prevented the chill of the cold, but Bruce didn’t need to know that. “Clark Kent. I’m with the Daily Planet.”

“Metropolis?”

Clark nodded.

“But, you’re not from there, no?” His eyebrow and smile hinted that he had seen something—Clark’s accent, his manners, who knew?

“No, no. I’m from Kansas.” Clark smiled, thinking of home. “It’s very different from the city.”

Bruce barked out a laugh. “I bet.”

“Have you ever lived anywhere other than Gotham?”

“No.” His eyes swept across the skyline, a hint of adoration brightening his eyes. “I could never leave this place. It’s home.” He turned his gaze back to Clark, noticing the polite disagreement in his eyes. “Gotham’s an acquired taste.”

Clark smiled. “I didn’t say anything.”

“You didn’t need to.” Bruce stretched, showcasing his muscled physique, and when his arms came back down, one of them landed on Clark’s arm. He leaned in, closer now. “I could show you around if you’d like. But I do have a final destination in mind.”

Clark blinked. Was Bruce fucking Wayne propositioning Clark right now? What the fuck? Sure, this was normal for Bruce maybe, but absolutely not for Clark. He didn’t know what to say. Bruce obviously exuded attraction, like a statue chiseled from granite, but Clark didn’t really do casual really well, but also his twenties were going to come to an end soon, and if there was a time for anything, wouldn’t it be—

“Put your hands up and don’t say a fucking word.”

Fortunately, at that moment, four men in black riot gear and shiny pistols dropped onto the balcony from some hidden place above—again Clark couldn’t believe he had gotten too distracted to notice—and encroached on the two.

Now, Clark rose his hands swiftly even though he knew bullets couldn’t pierce him because his press pass said Clark Kent and not Superman, and the bullets would most definitely pierce the man beside him, celebrity playboy billionaire or no. Clark looked to the man in question, expecting to see fear that he would have to assuage, but instead Bruce wore a face of boredom and frustration.

“I really can’t say anything?” Bruce said as one of the men stepped forward to tie Clark’s hands behind his back. The rope cut into his wrists in a profoundly uncomfortable way, but it didn’t distract from the absolute fear that Bruce’s insubordination sparked in Clark. “I thought you guys did this so often because you enjoyed my riveting conversation.”

A second man pulled Bruce’s hands behind his back and wrapped the same rough rope around his wrists. He leaned over to Bruce’s ear. “Shut it, asshole.”

“See?” Bruce winked in response to Clark’s wide eyes. “We even have pet names.”

Read the rest on ao3!!

#batman #superman #superbat #fanfiction #Bruce Wayne #Clark Kent

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