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yannawayne · 7 months ago

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not a weapon but a person—capable of loving and being loved.

SYNOPSIS: You get kidnapped and Damian snaps. TAGS: Graphic Depictions Of Violence! Genderneutral! Blood, Hurt/Comfort, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Kidnapping, Childhood Trauma, My Mother is the Worst Woman Alive and I'm her Favorite Son, Damian is Eighteen.

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽ ♱

A heavy thud. Ragged breaths. Then the sound of footsteps.

The same hands that had ruthlessly beat your kidnappers to a pulp—the ones that had pulverized flesh with blood splattered across his knuckles, the ones that had heard the crack of bones beneath his grip, the ones that bore the scars of countless cuts and stabs—now traced your cheek with a featherlight touch.

"Beloved."

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽ ♱

YOUR PALMS WERE PRESSED tightly against your eyes, wrists raw and burning from the rope that had bound them just minutes ago. Sobs slipped from your lips, eyes bloodshot, and mouth parched dry.

The rotting smell of the warehouse was an assault on your senses—an acrid mix of trash, harsh chemicals, and the faint tang of gunfire that lingered in the air.

There was a hushing in your ear as you leaned against a cloaked figure—Batman. Bruce.

His hand rubbed at your back, firm and steady, a grounding presence amid the chaos. His cape, dark and imposing, wrapped around you like a shield, blocking out the violence unfolding just in front of you.

Shadows danced erratically on the walls as Robin moved with lethal precision. Bodies fell unconscious, thudding heavily against the concrete floor. Blood splattered. Screams echoed. Each punch landed with a sickening crunch, bones breaking. Crates and debris were scattered haphazardly, wood and concrete slamming onto the floor.

Damian couldn't see anything but red.

His vision was tunneled, focused solely on the next target, the next blow, the next scream.

A swift roundhouse kick sent one assailant crashing into a stack of crates, the wood splintering under the impact. One punch connected with a jaw, the sickening crunch of bone breaking echoing through the air. Blood sprayed on his fist. Another one rushed toward him, brandishing a knife, but he disarmed the man with a swift twist of the wrist, jamming the blade into the attacker's palm. The man screamed, clutching his arm as red streaked his skin.

Damian's eyes flickered with a dark satisfaction as he watched the thug stumble backward, clutching at the wound.

One last man remained. One who had lunged at him from behind, grappling onto his back. Damian scowled and surged backward, driving both himself and his attacker into the wall with bone-crushing force. The man's grip loosened, a pained gasp escaping his lips as the air was knocked out of him.

"Fool," Damian spat, his voice dripping with venom. "Do you have any idea who you're dealing with?"

The thug whimpered, trying to scramble away, but Damian was relentless. He twisted sharply, dislodging the assailant and slamming an elbow into his ribs. The man crumpled against the wall, clutching his side, his eyes wide with fear and pain.

"You think you can touch those I care for and get away with it?" Damian growled. He didn't give the thug a moment to recover. He swung a powerful fist into the guy's face, the impact sending a spray of blood and teeth into the air.

"F-Fuck you, man!" The man yanked a gun from his waistband, but before he could even line up a shot, Damian’s foot kicked out, sending the weapon flying through the air. The gun clattered against the concrete with a deafening clang. With a snarl, Damian lunged forward, grabbing the thug by the collar and slamming him into the ground.

"H-Hey! Mercy! Mercy! I'm a-already down!" the assailant wailed, his hands clawing at Robin's uniform in a desperate plea. "The Bat don’t kill! You—you ain't gonna kill me!"

Damian's expression hardened, his eyes narrowing as his voice dropped to a low, menacing growl.

"I'm not Batman," he spat, the tone amplified and darkened by the modulator. "Every breath you take is a mercy I choose to grant. By the time I'm finished, you'll be begging for death."

He raised his fist, the tension in his muscles coiling like a spring ready to snap. The thug’s eyes widened in terror, his pleas growing frantic as he braced for the blow. However, just as Damian’s fist was about to land, a hand clamped down on his shoulder, grabbing onto his hand with a vice-like grip. Before he could react, Batman—Bruce—had tackled him, pinning him firmly against his chest.

“Robin,” Batman’s voice was firm, concern barely concealed. “That’s enough.”

Damian's struggle was fierce, his body thrashing under his father’s strength as he roared in fury.

“Let me go!” he screamed, his voice raw with anger. “I’m going to kill him for what he did to them!”

The anger engulfed Damian like a stormy ocean, dragging him beneath its violent waves. Visions of his mother’s face, his grandfather’s form, and accusing shadows surged from the depths, all condemning him. Damian’s cries erupted into a raw, guttural scream, gradually dissolving into ragged gasps as he battled the relentless tide.

Though Bruce had shaped him into a hero, a beacon of justice, and his family had offered him a fragile semblance of belonging, Damian was still his mother’s son.

The violence and anger roiling within him were like roots twisted deep within his soul. There was not a thing that could purge the primal rage and pain that had taken root before his first breath.

When he finally broke through the surface, baptized in blood and weighed down by sins that clung to him like chains, he sought you out with an urgent, almost desperate need.

A heavy thud. Ragged breaths. Then the sound of footsteps.

"Beloved."

Your hands were carefully peeled away from your eyes, and you met soft emerald eyes through a veil of tears. His hands moved to unlatch his cape, the soft fabric pooling around your form. His lips, speaking in his mother tongue, murmured a soothing litany of comfort, Arabic endearments flowing like silk. He pressed your head against his chest and you found refuge in the steady rhythm of his heartbeat.

Bruce watched the scene with a pensive look. His son's body had dwarfed you, broad shoulders and strong muscles enveloping your form like a shield. His head was tucked into your hair, his hands raking all over your tense and sweaty skin.

Damian had momentarily shed the hardened exterior he so often wore—a soldier with a heart that, despite its armor, occasionally revealed cracks. This was a side of him that often surprised people.

Because Damian Wayne was the farthest thing from soft.

He was all sharp edges. Poisonous, scalding words that could sear through the thickest armor of patience. Rough, nearly violent in his touch, like a blade pressed against skin. There was no gentleness in his movements, no softness in his gestures, only the relentless precision of a trained killer.

From the earliest moments he could walk, his life was an unending series of tests, each more grueling than the last. Each cut and bruise was a lesson. Failure was met with harsh punishment, success with silent approval. Affection and praise were as rare as mercy.

The League’s doctrine was ingrained in him: emotions were vulnerabilities, attachments were liabilities, and loyalty was owed only to the mission and the League. His purpose in the League of Assassins was clear—to be the perfect instrument of their will, a living embodiment of their principles.

Emotion was his enemy, a weakness to be purged. He was taught to suppress his feelings, to turn them off like a switch. Pain was an illusion, fear a phantom to be banished. He learned to compartmentalize his thoughts, locking away his humanity in the deepest recesses of his mind.

By the time he reached ten, he was a finely honed instrument of death.

A living weapon in a world that knew no peace.

It had taken Bruce eight grueling years to begin undoing the damage. And even then, he had barely scratched the surface.

Then there was you.

The trembling, warm-faced student Damian had introduced during his senior year—his partner for a science project, he said.

At first, the interactions were subtle—a fleeting glance here, a hesitant smile there. But as time went on, it became impossible to ignore the way your presence began to soften the sharp edges of Damian's demeanor.

Bruce had seen you both fall for each other over the months. And he saw hope.

You were the opposite of every lesson Damian has ever been taught.

To him, you were soft, in every sense. Soft movements, soft features, soft voice. Everything about you exuded comfort.

You made something he had always pushed down and shut away come to the surface.

You made him feel things—things he should not.

When you touched him with your soft hands, everything in him burned. The gentle brush of your fingers against his skin ignited a searing heat, a raw and unfamiliar longing that clawed violently at the walls he had worked so hard to maintain. Each touch chipped away at the concrete barriers of his training, breaking them down and leaving him exposed, aching for something he couldn’t quite name.

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽ ♱

Mania. Drake had called it, a wild obsession of his that could consume and devour.

Damian's arms encircled you like a lifeline, holding you close as though he feared you might slip away. His lips brushed against your temple, warm and tender, while his biceps pressed firmly under your chest, anchoring you in his embrace. The air was thick with the mingled scents of sweat, blood, and the lingering residue of fear.

And yet, amidst these odors, there was an underlying, almost imperceptible hint of Damian’s cologne—Arabian oudh. It was rich and smoky, with notes of aged wood, a faint earthy sweetness, and subtle undertones of leather and spice.

You buried your face into the crook of his neck, the fabric of his suit brushing against your cheek.

A Crush. Todd had chalked it up to puppy love, something that would eventually fade with time.

He lifted you effortlessly from the floor, his strength evident in his smooth, controlled movements. The way he adjusted his hold with such care to ensure your comfort spoke louder than any words could.

Warmth enveloped you—Damian had always run hotter, like a human furnace. On sweltering days, his clinginess (no matter how much he denied it) had been a nuisance, his heat making you feel as if your skin might melt off. But now, that same warmth was a comforting embrace, a welcome shield.

Infatuation. Grayson had suggested, thinking it was just a fleeting, intense passion. But there was something deeper in the way he looked at you, something that felt permanent and unshakeable.

“I am here. I am here, beloved," he spoke to you lowly. "It's alright now."

Love. His father called it.

In an instant, everything seemed to collapse around you. Tears welled up and streamed down your cheeks as you sobbed into his chest, each shudder of your body sending waves of anguish through him. Damian’s heart twisted painfully at the sight of you.

He has seen suffering—he has inflicted suffering. But this was different. Your pain was a torment he was helpless to alleviate.

Face twisted in guilt, he pulled you tighter against him, as though he could hold the world’s pain at bay if he just held you close enough.

A hand tapped at his shoulder, and he flinched, turning to see his father.

“The Batmobile is just by the docks. We can—”

“They're in shock,” Damian scowled. the fire back in his eyes. “Do you honestly believe they're in any state to be moved at this moment?”

Bruce’s gaze was firm. “Damian, we don’t have time to—”

“They need to be stabilized first,” Damian cut in sharply, his tone brooking no argument. He turned abruptly, striding towards the exit. “If you want them to survive this, we need to take care of them properly, not rush them into a car. I shall be outside.”

Without waiting for a response, Damian moved swiftly, the clatter of his boots echoing as he stepped into the cool night air with you. Once the warehouse door closed behind him, he turned his full attention back to you, his hand gently brushing your tear-streaked face.

He moved to press his forehead gently against yours, the warmth of his skin meeting yours in a tender connection. He could offer no verbal comfort anymore; words seemed woefully inadequate. Your cries gradually subsided as you drew comfort from his presence.

Love.

He lifted his hand to the side of his face, pressing a button. As his mask retracted, his eyes met yours. Damian knew that more than anything else, you loved his eyes.

Time and again, you found yourself drawn to them, unable to tear your gaze away. They were hypnotic—an exquisite blend of emerald green, green as vibrant as the leather cover of his sketchbook, flecked with gold and streaked with brown paint.

His eyes were windows to his soul, offering the only genuine glimpse into the depths of his emotions. In them, you could see his anger burning like a stormy sea, joy dancing like sunlight on rippling water, embarrassment flitting like a shadow, and pain etched as deep as his scars.

At times, his eyes grew gentle, revealing something much softer—something that made your heart swell and your knees feel weak. A love so pure and unexpected that it could melt the coldest of hearts.

Damian Wayne was the farthest thing from soft.

But in these soft, fragile moments he shared with you, where his heart beat in sync with yours, Damian found an unexpected calm. It was in these rare interludes, away from the brutality and darkness that defined his world, that he could truly be himself.

Here, he was not a weapon but a person—capable of loving and being loved.

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽ ♱

ao3: yenwayne

NOTE: I want to delve into the line I wrote: 'Damian is still his mother’s son.'

It's just to show his trauma, I despise Talia with all my guts.

Talia's control over Damian is a textbook example of manipulative conditioning at its most extreme. In psychological development, early experiences and parental influence are crucial in shaping one's self-concept. From his earliest days, Damian was deprived of a normal childhood. His personality, thoughts, and desires have all been sculpted by the League of Assassins from day one.

His anger, protectiveness, and sense of duty are manifestations of this—a child raised to be a killer, now struggling with the fragments of a humanity that was never fully allowed to blossom.

I'm not saying he hasn't changed!!! He has turned into so much more than the weapon they intended him to be. He is genuinely good. But the impact of such deep-seated trauma cannot be easily overlooked or resolved. It’s not something that can simply be swept under the rug or fixed overnight.

So, this was my attempt at capturing his character! I’m very open to constructive criticism since I’m new to the fandom. Please be kind and gentle with your feedback :)

#requests are welcome!#damian wayne x reader #damian wayne #batfamily #dc robin #damian wayne al ghul #damian wayne imagine #kinda lackluster TT #bruce wayne #batman

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purplepixel · 1 month ago

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As a parent, Big mama would be mother gothel on steroids. I dont think she's has ever shown an ounce of care for anyone she couldnt use later

idc if people write rise Splinter as a neglectful parent even if I don't totally agree with it (like you do you) but acting as if Big Mama would be the better parent you cannot be serious did we see the same character on screen or have you been away from canon for so long you've forgotten that she's the cruelest bitch on the show.

#i think about this from time to time #but i see it more with draxum #which HUH???#i wouldnt care bc fanfiction exists to do whatever #but i feel too many people genuinely believe these villains would be better then splinter #splinter is not the best #but hes not cruel #and none of these other characters would sacrifice themselves and the world for their kid #big mama would use her children as a shield and you cannot convince me otherwise #pixel blurbs

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imsobadatnicknames2 · 1 month ago

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Probably the most interesting experience I've had as a player in any edition of D&D was in a GMless campaign I was playing with my husband in B/X D&D a couple years ago.

I was playing a fighter who, through a combination of a not-so great constitution score and very bad luck in my initial hp roll, started the game with a maximum of 4hp. By contrast, my husband was playing a thief who, thanks to a very lucky roll and having an unusually high constitution score for a thief, started the game with 7hp, almost twice as much as my fighter. And he stayed having more HP than my character for most of the time we spend playing, because im B/X thieves require a lot less XP to level up than fighters, so even though my fighter would have eventually caught up in terms of HP at level 2 or 3, the thief was consistently a couple levels ahead of him.

Us being a party of only two people where the most combat-effective character could easily die in a couple hits (or even one if I was really unlucky) resulted in using a lot of ambush tactics to take advantage of the thief's backstab ability before combat started, and also a lot of avoiding combats and fleeing when I was at 1-2hp.

But also, since we were playing with a pretty common OSR houserule (often called "broken shield rules" or "shields shall be splintered") which essentially says that, if you have a shield, you can use it to block all damage from a successful enemy attack at the cost of your shield being destroyed, this eventually resulted in my character always carrying at least a couple spare shields with him. We decided that my character probably shouldn't be able to just pull out another shield from his pack in the middle of a fight, so it was a trick that I could use to save my ass once per combat.

Which had interesting consequences for the encumbrance and resource management aspect of the game, of course. Because consistently having to buy a couple shields every time we came to town was a significant expense for my character, but also, and most importantly, because in B/X most of your XP comes from the value of treasure that your party is able to gather and carry back to town. And this created an interesting conundrum for me because every extra shield I brought along was a chance for my character to survive a hit that would otherwise kill him, but it also meant possibly being able to carry less loot, and often resulted in us having to leave treasure behind and either accept that we couldn't have it all, or us getting stubborn and making plans to come back for the rest of it later, which resulted in some pretty interesting situations when coming back to dungeons where the denizens were probably prepared to deal with us if we came back.

So anyway. My point being, "annoying" mechanics like high lethality and resource management and carry weight are good and they can take you to amazing and unexpected places if you decide to actually give them a chance to shine instead of immediately excising your game of anything that's mildly inconvenient.

#ttrpg

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ewanmitchellcrumbs · 7 months ago

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Tear Down My Reason

Pairing: Aemond Targaryen x niece!reader Warnings: Canon typical incest, dubious consent with allusions to no consent, smut. Word count: ~4.6k

Summary: When Rhaenyra returns to King's Landing to petition Lucerys's claim to Driftmark, Aemond is eager for revenge for the loss of his eye. However, what he does not anticipate is the object of his ire becoming his niece instead of his nephew.

Author's note: No tag list. Follow @fics-by-ewanmitchellcrumbs and turn on post notifications.

Aemond sits in his chambers, beside the fireplace, one leg crossed over the other. His eyepatch is discarded on the table in front of him, his index finger absentmindedly running the length of the scar that ravages the left side of his face.

It had itched incessantly since he had learned the news that his half sister, Rhaenyra, and her family would be arriving in King’s Landing to defend Lucerys’s claim to Driftmark. His scar always grew irritated at the mention of Luke, a reminder of the boy who had permanently disfigured him and left him without an eye. It was a crime for which Luke had never been reprimanded, and so Aemond had spent almost a decade allowing his anger and resentment to fester, thinking of all of the ways he would seek revenge should he ever see him again.

He knows exactly when they have arrived the next day as he spars in the training yard with Cole; he spots the two dark haired boys circling, and takes a moment to lean against the table of weapons before him, steeling himself. He imagines grabbing a blade and carving out one of his nephew’s eyes in exchange for his. Luke had taken his left, perhaps he’d take his right, a fair exchange.

Snapped out of his reverie by Cole beckoning him forward, he picks up his blade and advances towards him. He knows that Jace and Luke will be watching, and so he works hard to put on a display that will show he’s no longer the sullen, little boy they used to torment. He is a man grown, a warrior that they should respect and fear. He ducks and weaves against Cole’s morningstar, throwing away his shield as it splinters under impact, until finally he seizes the advantage, the point of his blade directed towards his opponent’s neck.

“Well met, my prince,” Ser Criston tells him, “you will be winning tourneys in no time.”

“I do not give a shit about tourneys,” he utters, turning to face the two dark haired boys who stare up at him in shock. “Nephews, have you come to train?”

He is unable to stop the malevolent smirk that tugs at his lips, seeing fear in their eyes as they gaze at him. There is revenge enough in knowing that while he has advanced in training with the sword, transformed himself into a foe which any man would find themselves unlucky to cross blades with upon a battlefield, they have remained frightened, sniveling little boys that still cling to their mother’s skirts for protection. It is not enough to satisfy him though. Not yet.

Having bathed and changed, he joins his family in the throne room, as the court gathers to hear the petitions for the succession of Driftmark. He stands tall and proud beside his brother, sister and mother, as his grandsire sits the throne in his father’s stead.

His eye sweeps the hall, seeing Vaemond Velaryon, Rhaenys Targaryen and her granddaughter, Baela, standing to one side. On the other is Rhaenyra, Luke, Jace, Joffrey, his uncle, Daemon, and his daughter, Rhaena. And then he spots her.

Aemond had utterly forgotten of her existence; born a year after Jace, and a year before Luke, his niece. She is as tall as her mother now, and has her father’s hair - her real father’s hair - long, dark curls that, despite being half pinned up, fall almost to her waist. She is soft featured, with Rhaenyra’s striking blue eyes. It baffles him that a Strong bastard could be so pleasing to look upon, and he purses his lips in disgust, forcing himself to look away as he reflects back upon what she had been like as a child.

She never joined in with the relentless teasing that Aegon, Jacaerys and Lucerys had subjected him to. She had spent all of her time with Helaena, from what he can remember, the two of them sat side by side, Helaena holding up insects and describing them to her, as she flicked through the pages of books trying to see if records of them already existed, so that they could learn more about them.

The night that he had lost his eye, she had remained next to his sister, looking on with concern as he had his wound stitched closed. He remembered thinking it odd at the time that she was not with Luke and Jace, but his mind was so addled from the effects of milk of the poppy that nothing is clear, beyond the image of her mother bursting into the hall of Driftmark and tugging her away, back to her own family.

As the petitions are heard, even when his own father arrives unexpectedly, announcing he will sit the throne today, he finds his attention drawn to her, unable to focus on anything else. She appears to be a meek little thing, keeping her eyes downcast, seeming ashamed of her own presence in the room. A trait that all Strong bastards ought to possess, in his opinion. Yet as the moments pass by and she does not look up, he finds himself growing increasingly irritated that she won’t look at him, despite how desperately he wills her to.

“Her children are bastards!” Shouts Vaemond, before turning to Rhaenyra, his voice lowering, “and she is a whore.”

Elation spreads like a warm glow through Aemond’s body, his attention finally pulled away from his niece to look upon the horrified expressions of his nephews and half sister. Serves them right. Finally someone is saying it out loud.

When he casts his gaze back upon his niece, her eyes are still fixed upon the floor. However, he sees the subtlety with which her bottom lip trembles, the light flush of her cheeks. She is about to cry.

Look at me.

The room falls silent as Daemon’s sword slices through Vaemond’s head, and it is only then that her head snaps up, her eyes tear filled and wide with shock, meeting Aemond’s. He finds himself smirking again, a quiet victory. Not only had the legitimacy of Rhaenyra’s children been brought loudly into question once more, but now he had the attention of his niece. He had forgotten her in the passing of so many years, but now she is within reach again, he will ensure she certainly never forgets him. The next time tears fill her pretty eyes he wants to be the cause of them.

Aemond groans when his mother informs him that the following evening they are to dine as a family, a request from his father to unite them all, having reestablished Luke’s inheritance. He resents the idea of breaking bread with people he does not like, that do not like him, to have to sit at the same table and make pleasantries with the boy who half blinded him.

But she would be there. He wonders where she is now. Her mother had been swift to hurry her from the throne room after the decapitation of Vaemond Velaryon, and he is unsure of which apartments within the Keep she now occupies.

He finds himself stalking the corridors of the usually unoccupied quarters of Maegor’s Holdfast, his eye scanning every closed door, wondering which is the room that she occupies. He pulls to a stop at the top of a staircase as he sees familiar long, dark curls flowing down slender shoulders, disappearing into a doorway before it closes behind her.

Her chambers are unguarded, and before he has a chance to stop himself, his feet carry him down the steps towards them, his knuckles rapping at the wooden door. It’s only when he hears the rustle of movement from the other side that his mind begins to race.

What if she is not alone?

What did he even intend to do if she was unattended?

He briefly considers turning on his heel and leaving, however, no sooner has the thought occurred to him than his niece is opening the door, startling at the sight of him, lips parting in shock. She is even prettier up close, despite her reddened eyes and tear stained cheeks.

“Aemond?”

Despite the confusion that laces her voice, it is soft and dulcet toned. He wants to hear her say his name a hundred times over, for it has never sounded sweeter than coming from her lips.

He inhales deeply through his nose, preparing himself to speak. “You are understandably upset by that business with our uncle and Vaemond. I have come to check on you, to make sure you are alright.”

Her eyebrows raise for a moment, blinking a few times as she regards him carefully. “Oh…that is…kind of you. My mother has said I ought to rest.”

“Perhaps you might welcome some company?” He offers. “It would be unwise for you to be alone after witnessing something so bloody.”

She draws back a little at the suggestion, her mouth opening to speak before closing again, her brow furrowing.

Aemond fights the urge to smile at her hesitation. Reaching forward, he crooks a finger beneath her chin. “Do I frighten you so much you cannot bear to be in the same room as me?”

Gasping, she shakes her head fervently as his hand drops away. “N–no! It is just…it has been such a long time, and the last time I saw you, you…my brother…your eye…”

He cocks his head, pushing down the resentment that bubbles to the surface at the mention of what had happened to him. “But have you not heard? My father is hosting a dinner for us all tomorrow, to unite our families once more. There is no need for you to be so cautious, allow yourself to be reacquainted with your uncle.”

Her gaze lowers for a moment, as she appears to consider his offer. “Yes, I suppose that would be nice,” she finally says, looking back up at him.

She steps to the side, allowing him to enter.

Too easy, he thinks to himself as he steps inside. There would be almost no sport in this if the fight she means to put up is so feeble.

He strides into the room, hands clasped behind his back, noting the lack of personal effects within the space, a reminder that she is a visitor. This is his home, not hers. He has the upper hand.

“Apologies, Uncle,” she utters nervously, shifting from foot to foot as she fidgets restlessly with her fingers. “I had not anticipated your visit, this room is ill equipped for guests. I have no chair to offer you.”

“That is quite alright,” he tells her amicably, forcing a soft smile before sitting upon the edge of the bed. “We are family, are we not? Such formalities are not necessary.”

He pats the space beside him. “Come, join me, we have much to catch up on.”

She hesitates a moment, before sitting next to him. There is something about the feeling of the dip in the mattress beside him, combined with the floral scent of her filling his nostrils that sends the thrill of a shiver through his body, and he turns to look at her, eyeing her much like a cat would a mouse.

Such a pretty little thing.

“I am truly sorry, for what Luke did to you,” she begins, “I—”

He waves a hand dismissively, forcing down the anger that threatens to burst forth. “Let us speak no more of it. It is in the past. Tell me, how is life upon Dragonstone treating you?”

She chews her lip, hesitating a moment before she speaks. “Truthfully, it is lonely. I miss King’s Landing. Jace and Luke have one another, and mother is preoccupied with her pregnancy and Joffrey and the babes. Daemon pays me no mind, and while I am grateful for Rhaena’s company, I can tell she misses her sister. I am a poor substitute for Baela.”

He hums with faux concern, allowing a moment of silence to present his next words as thoughtful. “You could never be a poor substitute for anything. And I expect you will soon be away from there anyway. I can imagine you have no end of suitors all vying for your hand.”

The hint of a blush turns her cheeks pink as she casts her gaze downward. “No, not yet. I have overheard Rhaenys talking with my mother. They wish to betroth Baela and Rhaena to Jace and Luke. There are no such plans for me. What about you? Are you to be married?”

“Not yet,” he says softly, meeting her eye as she looks up at him. “I have been waiting for the right woman to capture my interest. Perhaps it is fortuitous that we both find ourselves unattached?”

“What do you mean, uncle?” She asks, her brow furrowing slightly.

“Baela and Jace, Rhaena and Luke,” he shifts his hand across the bed, entwining his fingers with hers. “You and I.”

She gasps softly, though she does not wrench her hand away as he had anticipated. “Is this some sort of trick, Aemond?”

“Not at all,” he reassures her, moving closer. “What better way to unite our family once more?”

“We hardly know each other,” she utters softly.

“And yet you have scarce left my thoughts all these years,” he lies. “Let me kiss you.”

Before she has a chance to respond, he is pressing his lips to hers. She stiffens at first, taken aback by his forwardness, but soon responds, her supple mouth moving against his. He brings his hand up to her cheek, cupping it softly, the skin soft as peach fuzz beneath his calloused fingertips.

She sighs softly as he deepens the gesture, her inexperience showing as her tongue retreats from his as it slips into her mouth. It serves only to stoke the fire that rages within, tightening his breeches as the sensation of her saliva causes his cock to swell.

Pulling away from her mouth, he moves his hand from her cheek, sinking it into her silky curls, anchoring her in place as he places hot, open mouthed kisses to her jaw and neck, making his way down towards her clavicle, relishing the way her head tips back slightly and her eyes flutter closed.

Tugging down the neckline of her bodice, he fights to suppress a groan of desire at the sight of her bared breasts, the hardened peaks ruddy and inviting. She is putting up so little resistance that it emboldens him to press forward, capturing a rosy bud between his lips and suckling as his tongue flicks against it, causing her to arch and mewl.

A whore, just like her mother, he thinks, shifting his attention to the other and repeating the same motion. His blood feels like liquid fire in his veins as her breaths turn to soft pants. One hand massages the breast that he is currently not latched upon, while the other creeps beneath her skirts.

It is only when his fingertips ghost upon the top of her stocking that she suddenly pulls free of him, eyes wide and breaths ragged as she hurriedly readjusts her dress.

“We should not have…forgive me, I…” she stumbles over her words, flustered and looking on the verge of tears again, before hurrying from the room, leaving Aemond alone on the bed.

He growls in frustration, smacking his hand down upon the edge of the mattress. “Ilibītsos,” he mutters angrily. Little slut.

When he returns to his own chambers, he comes harder than he ever has before, such is the force with which he fists his cock, imagining the entire time that his niece is splayed beneath him, sighing softly with pleasure as she had for him earlier that day.

As his pleasure induced haze wears off, a feeling of shame settles over him. He does not quite understand how his infatuation with her has taken hold so quickly, but now that it is, he is unable to shake it. Worse still, when she ran from her bedchamber, what if she had gone straight to her mother and told her of what he had done to her? It would be a disgrace from which he would never recover if his own mother were to be privy to such information.

He hides himself away the next day, embarrassed to face any of his family for fear they will know of his transgressions, until finally he is summoned to the feast that he has been dreading.

Much to his surprise, the entire day has passed without angry confrontation or a tongue lashing from his mother, and as he enters the dining hall there are no looks of shock or disgust to be met with, simply the shy smile of his niece as she looks up at him from her seat between her two brothers.

She has not told anyone, and she does not appear to regret what had transpired between them.

Aemond settles into his seat at the head of the table with a smug sense of pride. The dinner is a tawdry affair, musicians playing tunes he does not care for are stationed in the corner, while endless trays and bowls of food are brought out to them all.

He listens to his family toast to each other with a sneer, watching with barely concealed anger as Jace invites Helaena to dance. His only reprieve are the shy glances and smiles that his niece directs his way across the table. Perhaps all is not lost.

It is not until a suckling pig is brought out and settled before him that he is no longer able to contain his temper. Seeing Luke smirk at him, a reminder of the pig he had been taunted with in place of a dragon as a child, is too much. Is it not enough that his nephew has taken his eye, but now he continues to mock him too? He will not stand for such an insult.

Abruptly, he slams his first upon the table, halting the music and chatter within the room, as he rises from his chair, raising his wine cup.

“Final tribute,” he announces, eye scanning the room, careful not to include his niece in his speech, lest he foils the plans he has especially for her. “To the health of my nephews; Jace, Luke, Joffrey. Each of them handsome, wise…strong. Let us drain our cups to these three strong boys.”

The ensuing scuffle passes by in a blur for Aemond, resulting in him pushing Jace to the floor before they are all dismissed to their quarters. He hangs back, out of sight, waiting for Jace and Luke to disappear from sight, before striding after his niece.

She whips around, looking angrily up at him, eyes blazing with fury. “Why would you do that? You’ve ruined everything!”

“Forgive me,” he utters gently, taking her hands in his, “I lost my temper, but you have to know that my anger was never directed at you.”

She sighs, her shoulders sagging. “Jace and Luke’s betrothals were announced tonight. I was hoping we could announce ours too. Now my mother will never agree to it.”

Pride and satisfaction swell within his chest as he gazes down at her. He raises an eyebrow. “You wish to marry me? I had thought you were refusing my proposal, considering how quick you were to flee from me yesterday.”

“It all happened so fast. I have never been touched in that way before, and I allowed it to frighten me, I am sorry for it. But having had time to think on it, I do want to be your wife.”

He smiles down at her, seeing eye shining malevolently. “Then let the news of our betrothal be the balm that soothes all hurts upon the morrow.”

She smiles happily at him. “Then I shall bid you goodnight, Uncle.”

“So soon? I thought perhaps we might pick up where we left off yesterday.”

She flushes a delicate red. “Would it not be better to wait until we are wed?”

“I will not push you further than you wish to go,” he whispers, before kissing her deeply, walking her backwards into her bedchamber.

He is quick to cover her body with his own as she topples back against the softness of the mattress, kissing her fiercely as his hands push her skirts roughly up and over her hips.

“I thought you did not wish to push me?” She whispers breathlessly, pulling back from his lips.

“I shall not, talus,” he reassures her, his fingers absentmindedly stroking her the bare skin of her thighs, “but that does not mean I will not make you beg for it.” Niece.

Kissing her deeply once more, he shifts down her body, dragging her small clothes down and off of her leg in one fluid movement, before spreading the plushness of her thighs, his single eye drinking in the glistening sight of her cunt spread out before him.

He smiles to himself as he drags the tip of his tongue through her folds, hearing the way her breath hitches, his hands forcefully holding her down, keeping her still, as she attempts to buck her hips. He almost groans at the tart taste of her, his mouth quick to envelope her, alternating between sucking messily at her pearl and laving the flat of his tongue against her.

She writhes, pinned to the bed by her pelvis by his forceful grip, wanton sounds of pleasure escaping her as she clutches the bed sheets so tightly her knuckles turn white.

Lapping greedily at her as she falls apart against his tongue, he almost spends in his breeches taking in the sight of her arched back, tousled hair, ruddy cheeks and trembling thighs. But he is not finished yet.

The moment she settles back against the bed, her body spent and pliant, he begins his assault anew, this time crooking two fingers inside of her, rubbing urgently against the rough patch inside of her as his tongue focuses purposefully on her sensitive nub. The desperate sounds she makes are music to his ears. She is impossibly tight, he wonders how he will ever fit inside, but is all the more determined to find out as he sends her hurtling and crying out once more into the throes of another torturous release.

“Stop, stop!” She whines, attempting to back up the bed away from him, as he attempts to settle his face between her thighs a third time. “I cannot take it anymore.”

“If I am inside of you, it will not feel quite so intense,” he whispers, not moving an inch from where he lays between her legs, his chin shiny and sticky with her arousal.

“We are not yet married, Uncle, we should not,” she protests feebly.

“But we will be,” he insists, “so what does it matter? And I am afraid I have not had my fill of you, talus, so we shall have to continue as we are if you do not wish for me to be inside of you.”

“Gods…please…no…anything, just no more of that, it is too much.”

He smirks at her ruined state, bringing himself up towards her face, his voice dark. “Beg me for it.”

“Please, Aemond, please,” she cries, “put it inside, I cannot stand anymore.”

He grins wolfishly, as his fingers move to the lacings of his trousers, untying them and shucking the material past his hips.

Sucking in a steadying breath, he places the swollen head of his cock against the wetness of her opening, his eye flickering to her face for any signs of hesitation. She still looks utterly wrecked, her expression one of hazy bliss, her eyes glassy. Taking this as silent permission, he presses forward, hissing through his teeth at the resistance he is met with.

She whimpers softly, in clear discomfort, as he continues to push inward slowly, looking between her face, her brow furrowed and lips parted, and where their bodies are joining together.

He feels something give way, before he is fully rooted within her.

Her maidenhead.

Aemond fights the prideful grin that wants to spread itself across his face. His nephew had taken his eye, now in turn he had taken his niece’s virtue.

He stills, waiting for her to adjust, before moving slowly, dragging his hips back before pushing softly forward, repeating the motion. He desperately wants to snap his hips against hers, to make her cry out in pain, to disregard her comfort, but he is not a monster, he reasons. Her innocence soaking his length is payment enough.

Remembering how her body had responded so positively to his affections the previous day, he tugs down her plunging neckline with two fingers, freeing the softness of her breasts, leaning down to press gentle kisses against them, before suckling a nipple into his mouth.

She moans quietly, her body loosening up, becoming less tense beneath his, making it feel more pleasurable for him in turn. He means to be gentle with her, he really does, but feeling her grow wetter around him makes it impossible for him not to speed up his thrusts, driving into her faster, harder, causing her to whine and whimper as he trails his mouth across her chest. So lost in the sensation of her, he barely registers her delicate fingers clutching desperately at his hair and shoulders.

He knows he is done for when she squeezes around him, he knows he ought to pull out, to spill himself across the creamy white skin of her lower belly and thighs, but she is so warm, so wet, so tight around him that he cannot bring himself to leave her. He finds himself chasing his own end inside of her, his hips moving of their own accord, until finally, with a blinding white heat that tingles at the very base of his spine, he groans loudly, pulsating and spending inside of her in hot, powerful spurts.

Allowing himself a moment to settle against her, he basks in the warm afterglow of his peak, before pulling slowly out, disentangling his limbs from hers as his breath comes in shallow pants. He kneels up on the bed, pulling his trousers back over himself and fastening them. He allows himself to drink in the sight of her, her dress and hair in utter disarray, the sticky mess between her legs, her kiss swollen lips and faraway stare. Utter perfection.

It is not until he stands from the bed, smoothing over his clothing and hair with his hands that she finally comes back to reality and pulls herself up to rest upon her elbows. “Where are you going?”

“Back to my chambers,” he says coolly, “I have gotten what I wanted.”

“What do you mean?” She asks, worry lacing her tone, her eyebrows knitting together.

“Your bastard brother took my eye. Now I’ve taken the only thing that makes you worth a damn.”

Her voice wobbles, tears rimming her eyes as they widen in realisation, pulling at her dress to cover herself. “You said you would marry me…”

“I lied.”

“Why?! Why me?!”

He shrugs. “You made it easy. You might want to have the maester brew you a tea though, unless the bastard also wants a bastard.”

“I will tell my mother,” she whispers tearfully.

“Go ahead. I will deny it. Who will believe you? If you birth a silver haired babe, there is nothing to suggest that it is not a result of my brother forcing himself upon you, or perhaps our uncle. Your mother was younger than you, I believe, when he first started to show an interest in her. So if I were you, I would have the tea brewed and keep quiet, unless you wish to be branded a whore as well as a bastard.”

“You are a monster!” She spits, shoulders shaking as she sobs.

“Drīves, talus,” he utters, turning to leave her bedchamber. “Ñuha drīva issa.” Justice, niece. I have justice.

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witherby · 19 days ago

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HI HI. SAME ANON :33anon here!!!

omg???? jfc christ? that was so good im shaking my cup for more 😭 i think the fact my ask is being used as a power shower is silly... i love it keep up the good work!

(side note ive done metamorphosis may i be 🎆anon.... i will be yapping at you on a later date o7)

Welcome to the club 🎆 I am smooching ur cheek

Hahaha...wouldn't it be so silly....if I used your ask again.....to post the second part hahahaha.....isn't that the silliest idea hahahaha.........

The Littlest Wayne: Uncertain Home

(Part 2 of 2)

Masterlist is Here!

"Let me make sure I've got this straight."

Everyone stiffens in their seats. When Batman says things like that, it means he is very, very close to yelling. Batman never yells unless his patience has reached its limit, his emotional threshold has bubbled over, or he hasn't slept in over six consecutive days. Given his usual activities, it could very well be a combination of the three, and the current situation is not helping.

"You —" he points a gauntleted finger at Manhunter, "— realized my child was showing signs of developing their powers six weeks ago, and told no one."

He turns to Superman and Diana next, talking through clenched teeth.

"And then you two, today, realized the same thing, indirectly told them they would no longer have a place in my home, and then they vanished under your cape."

He places his hands on the meeting table. Inhales. Exhales.

"No one attempted to reach out and express their concerns to me, the father, in either incident."

He slams his fists on the table. The wood splinters under the impact. Everyone flinches with it.

"AND NOW MY CHILD IS MISSING! DID I FORGET ANYTHING? DID I LEAVE ANYTHING OUT!?"

The silence afterwards is deafening. Bruce yanks his cowl off and slams it to the floor, running his hands through his hair.

"The Watchtower is under lockdown until further notice. We do not leave until either I find my kid, or I figure out how to track them down."

"Batman," the Flash chimes in, "I feel for you. This is a bad situation, but we can't all stay here; I have to —"

Bruce rounds the table and crowds Barry into his seat with near-inhuman speed. His eyes are wide and wild and his teeth are bared.

"We do not leave until I find them."

The lights briefly turn red and an automated voice comes over the intercom, alerting them that lockdown protocols have initiated. The heroes watch as blast shields cover the windows and the Zeta tubes deactivate, effectively blocking their only ways out.

Green Lantern re-enters the room from the observation deck with a determined expression.

"Checked the monitors and surrounding galaxy. Skies are clear, and earth-side we should be fine for at least a couple hours, so I went ahead and triggered the protocol."

"Hal!" Barry protests. "C'mon, I'm gonna be late to work again! It's not as easy for some of us to maintain our civilian covers, you know!"

"Well, then it sounds like we gotta find our missing Mouse fast."

Bruce presses a button on his gauntlet and pulls a small ball out of it, rolling it to the center of the table. A hologram screen pops up and shows a picture of you sitting in Tim's lap and enthusiastically looking at something on his computer with him. To the right of the image, a wall of text begins to appear, detailing observations made about your growth, health, and development of your powers.

"You already knew," Diana mutters, like the words have been punched out of her. Clark holds his head in his hands.

"Why didn't you tell us then, huh?" Oliver frowns. "Didn't think we could benefit from that information?"

"My child, my discretion," Bruce hisses. That shuts Ollie right back up. "This is everything I've been able to passively observe about their ability. They can latch onto any shadows in their immediate vicinity, up to a range of approximately one hundred feet, and until now has only used them for pathfinding, like solving puzzles or looking for small objects. What just happened today with Superman's cape is the first discovered instance of them being able to traverse into darkness itself."

"That's why the Watchtower is locked down," J'onn realizes. "If they can only travel so far with the shadows, chances are high that they're still in here."

"Yes."

"How do we pull them out if we find them?" Arthur speaks up, arms crossed. "Last I checked, no one else has shadow powers."

"Do what you can without risking injury to them or yourselves. If you can talk them out, that will be the ideal tactic. Any more questions?" Bruce waits a few seconds for anyone to speak up, then dismisses the holo-screen and rises to his full height. "Then everyone fan out, cast some shadows, and get to work."

Arthur is having no luck. He checks the furniture that was already casting shadows, like tables and beds and appliances, to no avail. Calling to you and feeling around those dark spaces isn't gonna get him anywhere.

Clark and Diana had picked up his cape and hunkered down under the fabric, gingerly asking you to please come out, Uncle Clark and Auntie Di are very sorry they implied what they did, they never meant to scare you, please please please come back.

Barry is zipping around the whole tower, checking high spaces and low, calling for you with a mixture of urgency and concern.

Ollie uses his body to cast a shadow under the fluorescent lighting and Dinah crouches in the space of it, patting the ground gently and urging you to appear. She insists everyone is worried and looking for you because they want you to be safe.

Bruce is frantic. He's visually very composed, but Hal can see the tremble in his hands as he slowly and methodically checks every single shadow he can find or create for signs of you.

"Bruce," Hal mutters, watching him check his cape for the fifteenth time in just as many minutes. "Bruce, sit down and breathe for a bit."

"Don't mention breathing," Bruce snaps. "This is unprecedented. I'm working with zero useful information and three of my teammates contributed to this situation in the first place. Can they just exist in darkness forever, or is there a limit before they get spit back out? Can they even get back out? Is there oxygen wherever they are? Are they safe or in any kind of distress? If you don't have answers to these questions or haven't found them yet, I don't want you talking to me."

He turns to check his cape again and almost runs right into J'onn.

"There was a shadow moving in the training room," he noted. "When I approached to investigate, it melted away. I found it important to tell you that Flittermouse seems to be active and uninjured judging by the ease in which that shadow moved."

The Manhunter leaves them again, phasing through the walls to continue searching for you. Bruce pulls his gloves off and rubs his face, sighing.

"Hal."

"I forgive you," comes the immediate reply. Hal places a hand on Bruce's back and offers him a thin smile. "You're a dad who's scared for your four-year-old kid. I think you're entitled to a little bit of bitchiness."

Bruce hums.

"Just a little bit, though. Like fifteen percent more bitch than your baseline. Which is to say, if you talk to me like that again I'm going to make a giant cartoon hammer and beat you to death with it."

Both men hear you giggle. Their heads whip around in the direction of the sound, and find a small, child-shaped shadow moulded into the corner. It's a strange thing, to look at a shadow with no source. It would be frightening if it wasn't you.

"Mouse?" Bruce immediately calls, stepping towards you. The giggling stops and the shadow shrinks. He crouches down, palms extended. "No no no! Don't go, don't go anywhere, please. Can I talk to you?"

You don't respond. Bruce isn't entirely sure if you can, in your current form. You haven't run away yet, however, so he inches just a bit closer.

"I'm...there's...." He stops and starts, searching for the best words to use. "Mouse, there was a misunderstanding. No one is making you leave. I'm not going to give you up or send you away, I promise."

"...m e t a h u m a n..." you mutter. Both Bruce and Hal shiver. It sounds like darkness itself whispering directly into their ears, faint and echoing and all-encompassing.

"Yes, that's what people with skills like yours are called," he confirms.

Your shadow doesn't move for a while. Bruce shuffles closer, palms extended, and is about to ask you to come out, but then your entire form wobbles and starts shrinking even more.

"...n o m e t a s i n G o t h a m..." you say, and the sadness in your voice is so potent Hal has to brace himself against the wall.

"No!" Bruce says, pressing his palm against the wall just a second too late. You dissolve and disappear. "That's not — ffffffuck."

He presses his forehead to the wall and closes his eyes, taking slow, deep breaths to avoid screaming. It takes a while.

"They're not going to talk to me," he eventually says. "They're scared of me, of that damned rule I —"

He cuts himself off and rubs a hand down his face.

"You have to do it."

"Me? Specifically?" Hal asks.

"You're their favorite uncle." Bruce pushes himself off the floor and rests his hand on Hal's forearm. "They adore you. They ask when you're going to visit Gotham again all the time. If anybody's gonna get them to understand that they're not in any trouble or danger of losing their family because of something I did, it's gonna be you."

"Whoa. No pressure," Hal says. He knows it's true though — you absolutely adore Hal, and the feeling is mutual. You feel almost like his own kid. He's just as scared as Bruce is about your current situation. "Okay...alright, I got this. Listen, tell the others that Mouse probably isn't gonna come out for 'em. Go hang out in the meeting room and gimme an hour alone. I'll bring them back."

Bruce nods, but he seems hesitant to leave the part of the hall where they spotted your shadow. Hal gives him a small nudge and he eventually turns away, his boots clocking softly against the floor.

Hal inhales slowly, holds it, then exhales for a count of ten.

He's got this.

He does not have this. Hal walked into an empty corridor and flicked all the lights off, choosing to sit in the darkness and try calling out to you for almost thirty minutes. There's been no luck.

He sighs and uses his ring to construct a small bear, illuminating the immediate space around him in green, and makes it walk around.

"Y'know you used to love playing with my constructs," he murmurs. "We had this game I made up, where you would chase after whatever toy I made as fast as you could and try to catch it. I let you win a lot."

He makes a construct of you as a much smaller infant, not yet able to walk, crawling eagerly after the bear.

"You'd grab the little toy and hug it tight, and then come show me you got it. And I'd scoop you up and give you a cookie before we did it all again. We had to really tone down the cookie part because you got sick one time. Bruce made me sleep on the floor for a week. Not even one of the million couches in the manor. The floor. It was the worst."

He hears the surrounding darkness around him giggle. Hal leans against the wall and heaves a large, relieved sigh.

"Hey, kid," he says softly. "S'good to hear you."

You don't respond. He tries not to feel discouraged, instead seizing the opportunity presented.

"I'm not gonna ask you to come out, but if you don't mind...I'm kinda lonely. D'you think we could play that game again?"

Hal vanishes the constructs and makes a new one — a small, stuffed bat toy. He makes it flap its little wings and flop in circles.

"Think you can catch it? This one's a bit feisty."

Nothing happens for a few seconds. Hal feels himself growing nervous, and he's about to abandon the idea and suggest something else, but then the bat just vanishes. The construct is sucked up into the shadows, like darkness itself came up and hugged it into the void. A knot in his chest comes undone.

"That," he says, "was awesome. Okay, here's another one. Even feistier than the last."

This goes on for a while. Hal makes something for you to chase, you emerge from the dark just long enough to pull it in with you, and the process is rinse and repeat. Eventually, though, you come out of the shadows more and more, staying out of it longer and longer to chase around the conjured toys, until you're just tossing them into the shadows with gleeful little cheers.

"Got it!" You cry, jumping up to reach another one, this time shaped like an owl. You're panting from exertion and grinning widely at Hal, just standing and hugging it to your chest. "I win?"

"You win again," Hal agrees, expression painfully fond. He adores you wholeheartedly. "C'mere and get a victory hug, kid. Don't have any cookies on me, but we'll do a raincheck on that."

You go to him easily, practically collapsing in his lap, and rest your head against his chest while you idly pet the glowing owl toy. The area is bathed in dim green, enough to see each other without strain but still casting more than enough shadows for you to hide in again if you wanted.

"Fantastic job," Hal murmurs, kissing the top of your head. You nuzzle into his chest even more, hiding your face. "We definitely have to do that again some time. Don't you think?"

You start to nod, but the motion is jerky. You hesitate, then shrug, hugging the toy tighter.

"Oh, Mousey," he says, running his fingers through your hair. "You didn't think your powers would make Uncle Hal stop wanting to play with you, did ya?"

You slowly nod again, curling in on yourself.

"Well, that's just plain wrong. I love you, honey. Everybody loves you, y'know? You're smart, and adorable, and soooo much fun to be around," Hal insists, giving you a quick squeeze. Your mouth twitches like you're trying not to smile. "And it's gonna be way more fun now that you have cool shadow powers! Hide and seek might get a little challenging, but we'll make it work."

"...and Daddy?" You mutter. "Will he...want to play, too?"

"I know Daddy would love to play any game you wanted," Hal swore. "Daddy loves you more than anything in the whole wide world. And you know what else?"

"What?" You ask, lifting your head. You look at him with wide eyes and furrowed brows, hanging onto his every word.

"Sometimes Daddy makes mistakes. Like creating dumb rules he shoulda broke years ago."

You look away, snuggling further into Hal.

"What if...Daddy don't wanna break the rule?" You whisper.

Hal curls around you almost protectively, kissing your head again.

"Then he's a big, smelly dummy, and I'll take care of you instead," he promises. "You can live at my house, and I'll still bring you to the Watchtower to hang out with everyone and play games, and maybe, if you're extra good, I'll take you on vacation in outer space. I'll show you things you've never seen, like planets with four moons, and people as tall as skyscrapers, and space food that turns your hair all different colors. It'll explode your tiny head!"

"Nooo!" You giggle, grinning. "I don't want a exploded head!"

"Hmm...you drive a hard bargain kid," Hal says. "Okay, I won't give you explodey-head food. But only because you said so."

He lets you get your laughter out, then gently pats your back to regain your attention.

"I know you're very scared," he says, "but I promise this doesn't change the fact that you are so, so incredibly loved. I bet if you gave the others a chance, they'd be more than willing to prove it. Especially your dad."

You tighten your grip on the owl in your arms, bottom lip wobbling for a moment.

"Could you give him a chance, Mouse?" Hal asks. "If you don't want to, that's fine. We can work an arrangement out and always try again a different day. But I know he would be really, really excited to see you again."

You stare at Hal, face tight in contemplation. He waits patiently, continuing to rub small circles in your back.

His patience is rewarded when you bury your face in his chest again, nodding.

"Want daddy," you whisper. Hal settles you more securely in his arms and immediately rises to his feet, relishing the burst of satisfaction and relief in his chest.

He takes you back into the meeting room. Bruce immediately stands up from the table when he spots you curled up in Hal's embrace, hands twitching like he wants to hold you himself.

He moves with all the carefulness of someone approaching a wild animal. His face is uncharacteristically open, broadcasting his worry for you and relief that you're unharmed.

"Hi, sweet pea," Bruce mutters, silk-soft, and that's all it takes to make you start sobbing and reach for him. Your father doesn't hesitate, sweeping you up and giving assurance after assurance that you are just as treasured and loved as you've always been, that he is so happy to be your dad, that you belong in Gotham and that will never change no matter what.

The lockdown gets lifted from the Watchtower. Several heroes, after conveying their relief and gratitude over your safety, take their leave. Diana and Clark stay behind to apologize profusely, both to you and Bruce, for implying that you would ever be unwelcome in your own home just for being different. It's easy for you to forgive them, but Bruce is grinding his jaw a bit, so they excuse themselves for the night and take their leave.

"Well." Hal claps his hands together and yawns. "I'm ready for a drink and a bed. What do we say we hit the road, huh? C'mon, B, let's get Flittermouse back home. I've hit my daily quota for adventure."

Bruce nods, walking with you back to the Zeta tubes. You've already nodded off in his arms, drained from your stressful day.

"Thank you, Hal," he says, preparing to warp home. "Come by after the kids are in bed. Let me repay you properly."

"Y'know, normally I'd be all over that," Hal smirks, "but I'm seriously beat. Can I cash my reward in tomorrow?"

Bruce gives him a small smile. "Whenever you want. Come by anyway, if you like. We don't have to do anything."

"Yeah, okay. I'll see you later, then." Hal crosses his arms and relaxes against the corridor wall, smiling down at your dozing form. "You take care. Both of you."

Bruce thanks him again, disappearing in a flash of light. When Hal drops by later that evening, he finds his boyfriend asleep with you in his arms, clinging to his shirt and drooling on his chest as you coast peacefully in Dreamland.

Before joining the cuddle pile, he finds that sitting on the nightstand, written in a combination of pen and crayon, is a contract holding both yours and Bruce's signatures:

The rule against Metahumans in Gotham is hereby null and void forever and ever.

Signed by: Daddy & Mousey

#batfam x reader #littlest wayne au #long post #batlantern #🎆#Uncle Hal is your favorite and that's forever uncontested

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agreeeeeeeeeee · 26 days ago

Text

I Can Do It With A Broken Heart | S.R.

feat. Steve Rogers x fem!reader

SUMMARY: You and Steve broke up, but life as an assassin for SHIELD goes on, no matter how grueling. little did you know, Steve was suffering too, and reality is far from how it appears.

CW: MDNI 18+, smut, breakups, protective!Steve, assassin work, mentions of blood and death, Steve is a bit of a munch (but he still tops you), happy ending

AN: inspired by "I Can Do It With A Broken Heart" by Taylor Swift from her album The Tortured Poets Department.

divider by @saradika-graphics

Steve left you on a random Tuesday afternoon. No fanfare, no warning, no discussion. He barely even looked at you when he shattered your heart.

In the two years you'd known him, and the six months you loved him, you'd never seen him so callous. He'd looked at motorcycles with more affection than he looked at you in that moment.

You didn't understand, couldn't understand, but it didn't matter. Your relationship was over, and your life felt like a held breath ever since.

He said he'd love you all his life, but for a man that's been alive for a century, six months was barely a blip. You were barely a blip.

But you couldn't dwell, couldn't break down like you wanted to, because you were one of the top assassin's at SHIELD, and missions didn't care about your feelings.

So you were sent out into the field, day after day, week after week, with a smile on your face and your shoulders thrown back, never ever missing your mark. And still, SHIELD demanded more of you.

Fortunately, you could do it with a broken heart.

“Agent L/N, report to Fury’s office for assignment,” the earpiece in your ear crackled to life, jarring you from the workout you were pretending to do.

“Another one? Seriously?” Nat said, looking up from the squat rack, sweat glistening along her hairline.

You shrugged. “The fun never stops,” you said with a half-hearted smile, and she rolled her eyes, returning to her reps.

As quick as you could, you pulled an oversized hoodie over your sports bra and retied your ponytail, which has fallen into sweaty disarray during your workout.

Normally, you'd change into your suit, but when Fury called, he didn't like to be kept waiting.

You take the elevator direct to his office, and when the doors roll open, you're greeted by Nick Fury, Sergeant Barnes, and, of course, the back of Steves head.

His hair has grown a little longer since you were together, and your fingers itched to run through it, to scratch his scalp in the way that makes his dark lashes flutter, to tug on his roots in the way that makes him groan low in his throat…

You shook yourself and slapped on a smile. “Good morning, Nick,” you chirped, sauntering into the room.

“Morning, sunshine,” he said, offering as close to a smile as he could manage. “Have a seat.”

You perched on the edge of Bucky’s table, and he gave you a stiff nod in greeting . Steve didn't look up from the open file in front of him, but you could tell by the angle of his shoulders that he wasn't happy.

Nausea twisted in your stomach, your heart splintering a bit further, but you kept your expression pleasant.

“Would it kill you two to be a little more cheerful?” Fury quipped, and Bucky snorted. “Could all use a little more sunshine around here.” Fury winked at you, and you winked back.

Steve’s fingers tightened on the file, but you chalked it up to its contents.

“Little Miss Stabs-a-lot seems to be managing just fine for all of us,” Bucky said, his voice dry even though his eyes were smiling.

That's you, managing just fine.

Fury chuckled and passed you a similar file to Steves. “Your target is Lugoff Isaacson, HYDRA weapons director.”

You flipped through the file, finding a laundry-list of diabolical misdeeds, as well as a number of altercations with the two men beside you.

“Dinosaur’s couldn't hack it?” You teased, but only Nick laughed.

“Unfortunately, Mr. Isaacson lives like a hermit, and the only people allowed in his company are fellow HYDRA agents—” Nick paused, bracing his hands on the desk. “And pretty women.”

You heard Steve's teeth grind together, and Bucky glanced over at him, but you kept your eyes on your boss. “When do I leave?” You asked, already rising.

“Nick, she can't go in there with Isaacson alone,” Steve snapped, pushing the file away from him. His voice was rough and low, menacing, and it sent a chill up your spine.

“She certainly can,” Nick rebuffed. “Unless you want to go with her?”

Steve glared at Nick, so sharp it was practically lethal, but didn't say another word.

You felt like he stomped your heart beneath his boot, and were seized by the urge to fall at his feet and beg for a reason why he would do this to you. But instead, you flipped through the file, finding your orders in the back. “Flights at 2:30. I need to pack and get a blowout. I'll update when I land.” You tucked the file under your arm, blew Nick a kiss, and flitted back to the elevator, not sparing Steve a second glance.

He certainly wouldn't look back at you.

“How many is that this month?” You heard Bucky ask as the doors started to roll closed.

“15,” Fury answered, pride clear in his voice. “She's our most productive assassin to date.”

Steve's POV

“Don't give me that look, Rogers,” Fury droned, avoiding Steve's eye.

“She's not some goddamn chess piece you can just play however you want,” he bit, barely contained anger simmering underneath the surface. It took every ounce of his willpower to keep his mouth shut during that meeting, to not grab you around the middle and run for the fucking hills.

The thought of Isaacson, that slimy rat laying a hand on you—it made Steve's mind bleed red with rage. He knew you could handle him, knew you'd make quick, clean work of the kill, but the things you'd have to endure to get that perfect opportunity…

He couldn't bear it.

“Thats exactly what she is,” Fury said, snatching the file from in front of Steve. “It's what you all are.”

Bucky scoffed, crossing his arms over his chest, and Steve rose from his chair, bracing his hands on the table to lean into Fury’s smug face.

“I'm done playing your fucking games. And if you think I won't take her and leave, then you don't know me very well,” he growled.

Bucky got to his feet, metallic arm flexing as tensions mounted.

“Oh, I know you, Cap. I know you'll do whatever you need to do, move wherever the fuck I want you to move, so she stays on the damn board. Right?”

Steve grit his teeth. “And when we leave, whose going to come after us? Him?” He gestured to Bucky. “Nat? Thor? Quill? Whose it gonna be?”

Fury narrowed his eye.

“Because here's the thing you've never understood. Without us, there is no fucking SHIELD. You broke us up so she'd be free to your dirty work right? Without my interference?”

Fury scoffed and went to back away, but Bucky was standing directly behind him, blocking any escape route.

“She likes it—”

“It's killing her.” Steve cut him off. “When's the last time she had a day off? A vacation? A job that wasn't too hard for another agent, but too low profile to send us? Hm? Call her fucking sunshine while your burying her alive.”

“Steve,” Bucky warned, and the table cracked beneath Steve's hands.

“It ends now. Either SHIELD takes care of her, or I do.” Steve pushed off the desk and stormed out of the room, taking the stairs to get to the control room faster.

Nat was already there. “She just got to her apartment. Steve, she's—”

“I want eyes on her 24/7, and a team waiting to deploy within twenty miles of Isaacson bunker,” he ordered.

A chorus of ‘yessir’s’ answered him, and he sunk down in the vacant swivel chair, steepling his fingers as he watched the entrance to your apartment building, a SHIELD van idling just outside.

“Cap, listen.” Nat leaned against the control panel beside him. “This has to end, before she fucks up.”

“I know—”

“No, you don't. At this level of burnout, one misstep and that's it.”

“I know!” He barked, and the surveillance workers all jumped. “I'm fixing this. I just need a little more time.”

“She might not have time.” Nat pushed off the panel. “It might not be this mission, but it could be the next one, or the next. Stop being a fucking coward and fix it before it's too late.” She stormed off, leaving Steve staring at the monitors, his heart in his throat.

He was going to fix this. He had to fix this, before he lost you for good.

You hurried out of your apartment, dressed in slacks and blouse, wrapped up in a leather trenchcoat. The driver jumped out to greet you and took your bag, and you slipped into the backseat.

He flipped the camera to the car feed, a wonky fisheye from the dashboard, and saw you check your mascara in the mirror, faint smudges of black under your eyes, your nose kissed pink.

You'd been crying.

“I'm gonna fix it, baby,” he muttered to himself, wishing you could hear him somehow. “I promise.”

Reader's POV

You took out Isaacson without any issues, just smiled and tried to ignore the way he groped your thighs, ogled your tits. He made it too easy to slit his throat.

And as soon as you returned, there was another assignment, and another, and another, until you didn't even bother going home anymore. Which was well enough for you. You didn't care to sleep in the bed Steve held you in, or the couch you'd watched his favorite black and white movies on. Didn't care to eat in the kitchen where you taught him to make your mother's signature recipe, or shower in the stall he'd washed your hair in when you were sick. It was better to stay away from all the little reminders that you didn't imagine the whole thing.

You pretended to love being busy, treated every mission like a birthday gift, and pushed forward. Until, you were assigned to work at the Winter Gala.

SHIELD hosted the annual event as an excuse for the team to rub elbows with politicians, diplomats, and executives. You'd be masquerading as a guest, of course, but in reality you were on intel duty, eavesdropping on conversations and flirting trade secrets out of the most powerful people in the world.

One of the few perks of still being anonymous to the world.

You were dreading it. A night filled with romantic music, dancing, and drinks, watching Steve schmooze with women twice as wealthy and twice as powerful as you? You'd rather choke on your own dagger. But you were determined to look fabulous, a young woman in her glittering prime, and maybe you'd feel something besides emptiness.

Tony had a gorgeous ball gown sent to your apartment that probably cost more than your annual salary, and you spent three hours on your hair and makeup for the occasion, mainly because you kept crying it off. But at the last minute you steeled yourself and carpooled with Nat to Stark Tower.

She wolf whistled as you climbed into the car, looking downright stunning herself. “I know I'm not supposed to comment, but that fossil is going to lose his fucking mind.” She chuckled, tearing off down the street.

“Lose his mind?” You snorted inelegantly. “I can barely get a ‘hello’ out of him.”

Nat looked at you sidelong, the expression sharpened by her eyeliner. “And why do you think that is, babe?”

You didn't dare comment, didn't dare think about it. You'd never get through the night if you clung to a razor thin thread of hope.

The party was in full swing when you arrived, and you came in separately from Nat to forgo any suspicion. With a glass of champagne in hand, you circled the party, trying to tune out your own thoughts so you could absorb all the conversations going on around you.

But the noise completely stopped when your eyes met Steve's across the room.

He was dressed in an immaculately tailored Navy blue suit, with a crisp white shirt and brown leather loafers. His hair was styled back from his face, his beard freshly trimmed, and he was staring at you like hunter through a scope.

“Y/n, sweetheart, come with me for a moment,” Tony appeared to your left, startling you out of your reverie. “There's someone I want you to meet.” He winked, and you flashed a toothy smile, even though you felt like screaming.

“Lead the way, Mr. Stark,” you cooed, for the benefit of anyone in earshot.

Tony led you away, but you could feel Steve's eyes burning a hole in your back, tracking you through the crowd.

“Alex, this is Lydia, the daughter of a colleague of mine. You both attended Stanford!” Tony lied through his teeth to a handsome, dark haired gentleman, and you picked it up without delay.

“Oh, of course! It's such a pleasure to finally meet you!” You gushed, sliding onto the stool beside the stranger. “Tell me, what was your favorite time of year on campus?” You brushed your fingers along his forearm, noting the model of the Rolex on his wrist, the designer of his suit.

“Fall, of course. Can't beat those colors,” Alex grinned, and you fawned like it was the most ground breaking thing you'd ever heard.

Tony left you to it, and twenty minutes later you were tucked into a booth with Alex, his arm slung over your shoulders, and his phone face up and unlocked right in front of you. Oblivious to the way you scanned every message that came through.

Alex leaned closer, his nose brushing the shell of your ear, and you had to swallow a shiver of revulsion. His hand came up to cup your cheek as you wracked you mind for a way out of this—

“Sorry to interrupt, Mr. Trevais, but I need to steal Lydia for a moment.” Nat appeared suddenly beside the table, looking smug, and Alex scowled.

“Right now? Really?” He argued.

“I'm afraid so.” Nat batted her lashes and Alex immediately caved.

“Fine, I'll see you later then?” He winked, alluding to the room key he slipped into your bag a few minutes prior.

“Perhaps.” You winked back, playing coy, and he grinned like a fool. “What's going on?” You hissed as Nat led you out of the party and down an dark, empty hall. "I was in the middle of something—"

“You'll see,” she whispered back, stopping at a door and doing a quick sweep before pulling it open and ushering you inside.

The door slammed shut behind you.

“Nat, what—”

The lights came on in the room, dim and golden to reveal the luxurious study you were standing in, all black leather and granite, shelves of books and expensive furniture.

But you barely registered any of that, because Steve Rogers was waiting for you by the window. Moonlight kissed his face, highlighting the flawless angles on his bone structure, and your mouth ran dry, your heart falling through the floor.

“Uh, is there a problem, Captain Rogers?” You asked, propping up the professional barrier despite the urge to launch yourself at him, the need to kiss him, or strangle him, pushing against the underside of your skin.

When he looked at up you, the air was sucked from the room. His eyes were stormy, fogged with sorrow, water collecting on his lower lashes.

“You really have turned espionage into an art form,” he chuckled, his voice thick with emotion. “Like you're having the time of your life.”

You stared at him, dumbfounded.

“But that's not true, is it? You're as miserable as I am.”

You shook your head. “I—I’m fine.”

He huffed a laugh, pushing off the window sill. “You put on a good act, honey. But I can tell when you're performing.”

You narrowed your eyes at him, indignation flaring in your gut. “What do you want, Steve? You haven't spoken to me in months.”

He grimaced, a look of genuine pain crossing his face. “Y/n, I—”

“You disappeared for two weeks after dumping me out of the blue. You refuse to take missions within a hundred miles of me. You won't even train at the same time." You were yelling, unable to stop once you started. You'd kept it all bottled up for so long, there was no forcing it back now. "You've barely looked at me, Steve! It's like we never happened, like I made it all up in my head!”

“Because it was killing me!” He shouted back, and you flinched, tears pricking behind your eyes. You could count on one hand the amount of times Steve Rogers raised his voice, and it was never at you.

“You left me!” You yelled, your voice cracking at the edges.

“Because I had no choice! They gave me no choice.”

Your stomach dropped. “W-what?”

He pinched the bridge of his nose, trying to regain his composure. “Fury, SHIELD, they threatened to send you overseas if I didn't. To some desolate base in Russia.”

You couldn't believe what you were hearing. This couldn't be real. “Steve, that doesn't make sense—”

“You really think I would leave you like that? That I would just throw away what we had? I was trying—” his voice caught in his throat. “I thought I was protecting you. But they lied to me.”

You were shaking your head, backing away. You couldn’t take any more empty words, any more bullshit—

Steve rushed toward you, catching your face in his large hands before you could turn away. “Baby, listen to me,” he said, softening. “They wanted me out of the way so you would be more likely to do whatever they wanted. When we were together, we were working less, we were happier, we cared about something that wasn't SHIELD, and they couldn't stand it.”

“But Fury—”

“Is a manipulative fuck that took advantage of your broken heart.” You gasped at his language, usually reserved for sex or intense fighting. Steve lowered himself to his knees, his hands gripping the curve of your waist and shaking you. “I need you to believe me, honey. I'm begging you. I would never have done this if I knew the truth. I'm so sorry for hurting you, and I wish I could take it back. But I can't, all I can do is tell you the truth.”

“You didn't want to leave me?” You asked, voice barely above a whisper.

“Of course not.” He rested his forehead on your belly, drawing a shaky breath before looking up at you again, pleading with big, blue, watery eyes. “I-I love you. And I agreed because I was terrified to lose you completely but then I—I did anyways because I'm a fucking coward.”

You wiped a tear from his cheek with your thumb, the last of your trepidation falling away. “I love you too, Stevie,” you said, and he surged upwards, slamming his mouth to yours in a ruinous, bone-melting kiss.

He parted your lips with his tongue, possessing your mouth in a display of dominance you rarely saw from him. He licked along your teeth, groaning low in his throat as you dug your nails into his hair, pulling him impossibly closer. He tasted like black coffee and something sweet, like he'd hit the dessert table instead of the bar, and it made your heart flip.

God, you'd missed him.

Your lungs screamed for air, an affliction super soldiers didn't contend with, and you were forced to break the kiss to breathe.

“Cameras?” You panted, craning your head back as Steve planted wet, open-mouth kisses down your jugular.

“This is Fury's personal study. No cameras,” Steve mumbled against the peak of your shoulder, his hands all over you.

You scoffed. “Of course, because he can have priv—”

“Forget about him.” Steve captured your lips again, and you nipped at his lower lip for cutting you off. He backed you against the desk, breaking the kiss to toss you up onto it.

“Forgotten,” you replied, breathless as you looked into his eyes.

“I haven't told you how beautiful you look yet, have I?” He asked, leaning back a bit to take you in, your chest heaving against the deep plunge of your dress, lips kiss-stung and eyes bright.

You shook your head, tossing your hair over your shoulder with a smirk.

“I love this color on you,” he murmured, rubbing the hem of your dress between his thumb and index finger. And your makeup—”

“Steve.” You grabbed him by the lapel and tugged him closer, bringing his face down towards yours. A flare of arousal twinged between your legs, you loved when he let you manhandle him. “I know you're trying to be a gentleman and not fuck me without some proper flirting, but it's been months. I need you.”

Steve smiled, leaning forward to lay you back on the desk. “You don't need me, honey,” he hummed, kissing down your sternum while his hands moved your dress up your legs. He looked up at you when he settled between your thighs. “You've proven that you're a force all on your own. And that's okay, you don't have to need me, as long as you want me.”

You nibbled your lower lip, processing his words. He was right, you'd proven that you could live through heartbreak, that you didn't need him to carry on. And as much as it hurt, and as much as you missed him, there was something liberating in that knowledge.

“So, do you want me?” He asked, grazing his thumb over the gusset of your panties, maddeningly light.

“Yes, I want you,” you answered, threading your fingers through his blond hair and urging him forward.

He chuckled, smiling up at you, then pulled your panties to the side with his middle finger and flattened his tongue against your slit, licking a firm stripe up your pussy. Your head fell back onto the desk when he sucked your clit between his teeth, wasting no time in his pursuit of your pleasure.

Steve, for all his propriety and politeness, loved nothing more than feasting on your pussy. He was sloppy with it, rough and self-indulgent, as if making up for the decades he went without it. He often stayed until you were overstimulated and orgasmed-out, weakly trying to push his head from between your legs while he lapped up the mess you made for him.

“Missed you so damn much,” he mumbled against your pussy, eyes fluttering closed as he drove his tongue into your entrance.

“Missed you,” you whined, your hips bucking up into his mouth as he devoured you, lashing every one of your sweet spots with expert precision.

His hands tightened on your hips while he massaged your clit with his tongue, and even that fraction of his real strength was enough to leave a dull ache. The reminder of his true strength made your head spin, your mind empty. You may not need him, but there was something thrilling about being able let go while you were with him. Trusting that he would keep you safe and you could just be.

He licked one last stripe up your pussy before pulling back, kissing his way up your body. “Baby, I need you,” he mumbled, nosing into your neck. You could feel just how badly from the ridge beneath his trousers, his hips rocking slightly into yours. “Please, can I fuck you?” He asked, unlatching his belt with a flick of his wrist, and a shiver rolled up your spine at the desperation in his voice.

“You want to fuck me?” You repeated, toying with him. You reached between your bodies and pulled out his cock, thick and long and flushed, and pumped it once, twice, smearing precum down his shaft.

He moaned, hot and breathy against your skin. “I know I hurt you, and I still have to make up for that, but I just—fuck, I need to feel you. Please, please let me make you come on my cock.”

“Just start slow,” you cooed, petting his cheek when he lifted his head in excitement. “Been awhile since I took you.” You glided his cockhead through your folds, his breath hitching when you notched it at your drooling entrance.

Gently, he eased his hips forward, sliding in one inch, then another. "Shit, honey. Have a little mercy," he panted, his muscles bulging against the fabric of his shirt, tendons in his neck flexing.

You groaned, releasing his cock to grab hold of his shoulders, nails biting into his shirt at the stretch, bright and burning.

“Gotta relax, baby. Let me in.” He gently guided you thigh up and around his waist, squeezing the fat of your haunch in reassurance. He moved a little deeper, and you both gasped when your walls clenched around him. “So goddamn tight,” he rasped, drawing his hips back a bit, assuaging some of the discomfort before easing back inside, coaxing your muscles to loosen for him.

“Fuck, Steve,” you panted when he pushed a little deeper, your eyes rolling back in your head when he grazed your g-spot.

“Almost there, doll. You can do it,” he encouraged, reaching up to hold your face. He caught your gaze, smiling a little when your eyes struggled to stay focused, lashes fluttering. “Starting to feel good?”

You nodded, pleasure spilling through you as your body accepted him inch by inch, until finally, you felt his pelvis press against yours.

“There we go,” he purred, leaning down to kiss your forehead, your cheek, giving you a few more seconds to adjust. “Good girl, takin’ all that cock.”

He ground into you, stifling a fractured moan against your shoulder when your pussy made an obscene squelching sound, dripping wet for him. You were on another planet, tingling head to toe as waves of pleasure crested. Every beat of your heart had you clenching around him, full to splitting, and you wanted more.

“Please, baby, need more,” you whined, trying to rock your hips against his, but he was too heavy for you to do much.

He braced his hands on either side of your head, sweeping his eyes down your body as you squirmed beneath him. He chuckled, the sound low and almost malicious. “Need more?"

He drew his hips back and delivered a punishing thrust, two, three, five, until you were all but screaming, unable to do anything but lay there and take everything he gave you.

"How's that for more?" He asked, his cock brutalizing your cervix and stretching you beyond your limits, molding your pussy to the shape of his cock. Ruining you with a fervor that made your head spin.

Your peak was rapidly approaching, winding tighter and tighter with every thrust until you were half-mad with desperation, clawing at his forearms by your head and leaving pink, raised lines across his flesh.

“Gonna come for me, baby? God, I missed this little pussy—feels so good,” he grated, bringing one of his hands down to circle to your clit, firm and deliberate. Exactly what he knew you needed. “That's my good girl. C'mon, I’m right there with you—” Another thrust and he sent you both flying over the edge, sparks exploding behind your eyes as the orgasm ravaged your body, flaying you open.

You grabbed onto his arm, desperate for something to ground you as you soared, his hips still thrusting erratically as he pumped you full of his release.

Crack!

The desk suddenly tilted beneath you and Steve whisked you up into his arms, still buried inside you. You clung to him in shock as the desk collapsed to floor, sending all of Fury's belongings scattered across the carpet.

"Are you alright?" He asked, searching your face.

You nodded, easing your grip on him.

Steve adjusted you, lifting and lowering you onto his cock, and you gasped, still sensitive from the lingering orgasm, and mildly shocked by his lack of reaction to what you'd just done.

“Steve, we—”

“We did,” he hummed, kissing along your neck as he caught his breath, lazily working you over his length to wallow in the last dregs of pleasure. “And if he has a problem, he can take it up with me.”

“I think he's going to have a problem,” you snickered, and Steve smiled.

“And I'll deal with it.” He eased himself out of you and set you on your feet, straightening your panties and pressing a tender kiss to your lips. You felt like you were floating in a dream, in disbelief that you had your Steve back, that he never really was gone in the first place.

“How are you going to deal with it?” You asked after righting your dress and he had tucked himself back into his trousers.

Steve pulled you back into his arms, like even that moment of separation was more than he could bear. “Depends on how much of a problem he has,” he replied, smirking. “I told you, forget about him. I'll handle it for us.”

Us. Your knees went a little weak at the word. “Yes, Captain,” you replied rising on your toes to kiss his cheek.

Thank you so much for reading!

Likes and reblogs are always appreciated. My inbox is open for requests, check my pinned post for fandoms & characters!

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ladymercysletters · 4 months ago

Text

NSFW Alphabet - Cregan Stark

Word Count: 2,864

A/N: I have no words, other than I now have many thoughts about sex on furs. NSFW 18+ only!

A = Aftercare (what they’re like after sex)

As much as he seemed like a solid silent brute when you first met him, upon your marriage bed Cregan was soft with you. Easing you through your maidenhead and doting on you afterwards. He removed the stained sheets from beneath you with ease before returning with wine for you. He cares for you the same every time you finish. Soft touches and demands to the maids that they bring in wine and some food after, tucking you up into the furs from the end of your bed and drifting off to sleep with you.

B = Body part (their favourite body part of theirs and also their partner’s)

Cregan often trained with his shirt off. Partly to harden his body to the cold of the north, but also to intimidate his opponents. When he notices you watching him train from one of the wooden walkways he can’t help but put on a show. Roaring as his sword comes down on the shield, splintering it in two; he makes sure to roll his shoulders when his back is turned from you, flexing the muscles that show there. He is most proud of his strength and he loves that you watch him, satisfied that he can protect you from anything and anyone.

When it comes to your body he is in love with every part of it. Your soft hair that catches the snowflakes when they fall, to your cheeks that glow with warmth when you’re huddled up to the fire in the great hall. But he’s most enamoured with your legs. He loves how strong they are from horse riding. It’s the hidden aspect as well; he knows they’re there under all those layers and folds of your dresses. He enjoys helping you out of your clothes in the evening, trailing a hand slowly up your legs, feeling how they grow warmer as they get to your centre. And then the lovely treat between them, only for him to enjoy, hidden.

C = Cum (anything to do with cum, basically) - Winter is coming and so is he!

Cregan loves to cum inside you. This is well documented (thank you to every fanfic writer here!) There has barely been a time where Cregan has wasted a drop outside of your body. His favourite place is where he can breed you; the thought of his seed filling you completely and seeing you all round and lovely with his child sends a jolt of something through his spine every time he thinks of it. He loves to see you splayed out for him, your white shift not even fully removed in the haste of your love making, watching from above as your breasts move in time with his thrusts, your face flushing and soft moans pushing from your lips has him doubling over you to make sure he doesn’t spill a drop.

D = Dirty secret (pretty self explanatory, a dirty secret of theirs)

Cregan doesn’t really have any dirty secrets. There’s nothing he hides from you and to be honest, nothing he particularly finds shameful enough to keep a secret. There is nothing shameful in loving ones wife isn’t there? That being said, a blush forms just at the tops of Cregans cheekbones when he thinks of how his hips stutter and the groans roll from his tongue when you rake your nails down his back. That little spot right at the base of his spine, just as the skin of his buttocks gets a bit more sensitive. Right there, if your nails trail down to that spot his hips will stutter and twitch between your thighs.

E = Experience (how experienced are they? do they know what they’re doing?)

Cregan has a bit of experience before your marriage, but not as much as most men perhaps. He first lay with a woman when he visited an elder cousin south of Winterfell who took him to their silk streets; and he’s had his share of women when away in battle. Those women always seemed to know where there were plenty of men, and when you think you may die there’s no harm in going out with a bang.

F = Favourite position (this goes without saying)

Mating press. Face down ass up. Any way he can bend you and bed you he will. He especially loves these two positions as he can get so deep inside you; flipping you over or propping your ankles over his broad shoulders, both are excellent ways to view his wife in his eyes. If he had to choose, mating press would be his favourite. He once got caught up in the heat of the moment and had to steady himself as he thrust into you. It just so happens that he steadied himself by placing his hand on your abdomen. The shock of feeling the movement of his thick cock inside you sent a bolt straight down his spine. He didn’t last long after that.

G = Goofy (are they more serious in the moment? are they humorous? etc.)

Despite Cregan’s initial intentions in looking for a wife, you married for love. He had never met a woman as witty as you. With every sly jab from one of his men at your being from the south, you batted back with a comment of your own – leaving many stumped in response. Cregan loved your sharp tongue and teasing grin as you bounded past him on your horse. When you were wed this did not stop. Your laughter translated to more heated moments, when he has you pressed against a wall and you would tease him for being so eager for you; or when you shared the warm springs and giggled together at the thought of someone finding you in a compromising position.

H = Hair (how well groomed are they? does the carpet match the drapes? etc.)

He’s a hairy man. But not hairy like a bear, hairy like a wolf – an inverted triangle covering his chest, with a long dark trail leading directly over his navel and into his breeches. His back isn’t hairy at all, much to your surprise, but his forearms and legs display a similar coating of dark brown hair.

I = Intimacy (how are they during the moment? the romantic aspect)

Cregan can be incredibly romantic. His lack of any close family and betrayal by some has left him without really love or intimacy for most of his life. But despite this, he isn’t a cold man. Many a night has been spent sprawled out on thick furs in front of one of the great fires; Cregans body covering yours as he makes love to you. He holds you tenderly afterwards, looking down on your peaceful face he draws a strand of hair away from your face, turning it in his fingers – amazed by the softness. He’s amazed by the softness of all of you. Amazed that you’re his.

J = Jack off (masturbation headcanon)

He’s got himself off more times than he’s ever prepared to count, lonely nights in the castle or on the road necessitating this. When you wed this wasn’t something he thought he would need to think much of anymore. But during one feast, when you’d both had your fair share of wine, your hand had wandered to his breeches. First a hand on his knee, then higher. Then, just as he took a swig from his cup, over the thin material of his best trousers. Your small hand wriggled inside his trousers gripping him tightly. Cregan looked over at you and thought of how casual you looked, not a mark on your face would suggest where your hand was at that moment. Even as you carried a small conversation with a maid clearing some plates and replacing your wine, your hand continued its smooth movements up and down his growing cock.

K = Kink (one or more of their kinks)

BREEDING KINK! BREEDING KINK!

Once the immediate delight in coupling with you has faded the first thing on his mind when sharing abed with you was what your children would look like. How good of a mother you would be and how you would look cradling his babe. How you would look growing his babe – all round and waddling through the halls. Curled up in the furs that lay over your bed. He’d make sure to hunt the finest fur he could for your first born, make sure you’d both be safe and warm. As soon as he got that thought into his head it was the only thing on his mind every time you fucked. He’d whisper the filthiest things in your ear about how good you’d look swollen with his child – evidence of you were his, his love.

L = Location (favourite places to do the do)

Hi favourite place to have you will always be his bed, your shared bed. He loves that you always sleep together – and everyone knows you do. It’s ones of the worst kept secrets in Winterfell that the lord and lady haven’t used their separate bedrooms since they wed. And if Cregan gets his way, you never will.

M = Motivation (what turns them on, gets them going)

He can keep quite a good lid on his urges in general. He knows his duty and he never shirks from it; but when you glide past him in the hall to get to your ladies in waiting, when he’s got his mean around him discussing the days business, his eyes flicker up and over to you – and he can see how the bodice of your dress is just a bit tighter than usual, or you’re wearing a lighter fabric over your arms that is practically sheer. Little things like that, that show just a touch more flesh or expose the delicate softness of your neck. Those things just remind him how only he has seen you bare, and it makes him want it again.

N = No (something they wouldn’t do, turn offs)

He’s seen some things in brothels he’d rather not have seen. Some men using bodily fluids Cregan would never think erotic and doing things to women that made his stomach turn. He hated even thinking about those things, especially when he was with you.

O = Oral (preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc.)

He would live between your thighs if you would let him. We’ve discussed that he is a thigh man but by the gods; having both of your legs over his shoulders, stroking up and down the fat of your thighs as he buries his face in your cunt. He’s so skilled with his tongue. As much as you may expect him to be rough and a bit clumsy, he isn’t with his face. He nudges you open with his nose first before starting off with gentle licks into your core. If/ when he does use his fingers it only when he’s got you absolutely soaking wet and he can feel the tremor in your thighs.

P = Pace (are they fast and rough? slow and sensual? etc.)

It very much depends on how you’re both feeling. Sometimes he needs to take you slow and soft; tracing his rough fingers over your soft exposed skin and kiss every inch of you. Other times, especially when you’re ovulating and decide to go and watch him train, the two of you barely make it somewhere alone before he’s got you in the air and inside you.

Q = Quickie (their opinions on quickies, how often, etc.)

He’s not a huge fan of quickies. For one, he doesn’t like having to perform under pressure – not that he can’t! He just likes to savour you. Even if you’re both so desperate for each other and clothes off you both still want to take as long as you like; knowing you can tease each other until you can’t take it anymore or have each other again and again if you wish. The possibilities are endless with enough time.

R = Risk (are they game to experiment? do they take risks? etc.)

He’s down for most things but I don’t think he’s one to experiment off his own back. He’s more of a tried and tested kind of guy; if he knows something gets you off he’ll do it over and over. You need to be the one to take risks and suggest new things to try.

S = Stamina (how many rounds can they go for? how long do they last?)

The man is a beast, and his stamina is that of a hunting wolf. Some nights he can go three rounds, with breaks in between, each one making him more ravenous for you. Even if he just can’t go another round he still loves making you cum, just once more. Kissing up your leg before laying lazily between them as he eats you out so slowly; building your pleasure until you break like a dam one final time.

T = Toys (do they own toys? do they use them? on a partner or themselves?)

He’s not really one for toys; he’d much rather use his own body to pleasure you. That being said he’s not opposed to tying you up. He loves to watch you squirm for him. Maybe once you’re both comfortable enough and Cregan has had time to think about different ways to take you, he uses one of the ties to blindfold you.

U = Unfair (how much they like to tease)

He doesn’t particularly get off on it himself; though if you’re into it and he can see how much you’re loving it, of course he’s going to tease the hell out of you until he can get you to cum again and again. He’ll tie you up to stop you touching yourself or reaching out for him and trail a gloved hand over your soft stomach. The leather cool and rough against your warm skin. Cregan loves to watch your muscles twitch and goosebumps raise on your flesh. He loves to go slow when he teases you; the way you get impatient and start begging for him makes him feral.

V = Volume (how loud they are, what sounds they make, etc.)

Cregan isn’t that loud, he’s more of a grunter. He’s a stern rough man and he doesn’t particularly want others to hear him or know what you’re getting up to. But the deep grunts and groans that slip past his lips, getting muffled by your shoulder as he doubles over you, vibrate right through to your very core.

W = Wild card (a random headcanon for the character)

At your wedding he put his cloak on you, bringing you under his protection and into his family. As a symbol of your marriage and in honour of the fact that your children will carry on his line, he loves to fuck you on his cloak. He lays it out on the bed and throws your naked body onto it – both of you giggling as you know what’s coming next. Its not just about carrying on your line though, it’s the memory of having you laid out for him on there when he wears it outside. Others seeing his cloaked figure as a terrifying symbol of the power and strength of the North; but Cregan also knows that he’s had you screaming his name again and again on it, soaking your scent into the fabric of it. If he risks it he’ll sometime draw his nose closer to the inside of it and inhale deeply.

X = X-ray (let’s see what’s going on under those clothes)

Cregan is completely in proportion to the rest of his body. His girth always surprises you and, if you’re not prepared, still stings a little. And he’s a good 7 ½ inches, if not more. He can get so nice and deep inside of you; he stretches you out gently at first, making sure you can take him before he pushes into you. If he’s in the right position you can almost feel him at your cervix; he loves to get you into positions where he can feel himself through your stomach, knowing he’s so deep inside you and can breed you so easily.

Y = Yearning (how high is their sex drive?)

He’s very good at controlling himself. His appetite isn’t insatiable – he has duties and responsibilities, and as much as you distract him, he is perfectly capable of holding off. That being said, if you tease him too much; the neckline of your dress lowered to distraction or some particularly lingering touches and soft words, expect a long night later on.

Z = Zzz (how quickly they fall asleep afterwards)

He has the entire weight of Winterfell on his shoulders. As much as he loves to lay and talk with you after a long day, more often than not he falls asleep very quickly. You were talking to him one evening about a letter sent from your cousin in the Riverlands, only to hear soft snores from behind you.

#cregan stark #hotd #cregan stark smut #cregan smut #cregan stark imagine #cregan stark x reader #cregan x reader #cregan imagine #hotd imagine #my writing

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writingforatwistedworld · 1 year ago

Note

Hi!! I really love your writting🥰 i would like to request for the self-aware au, Reader hiding behind them after being chased by some particularly pushy NPCs with Rook, Trey, and Jack please❤️

Self-aware au

I do not take any responsibility for you reading this no matter which age group you are from!

WARNINGS: Yandere themes, murder, description of violence, blood, obsession, stalking

Trey Clover/Jack Howl/Rook Hunt-Hiding behind them

Ah, what a nice day. In fact, it is perfect for trying out that recipe with that dough that needed to rest for a while

Or rather, that was his plan for the day until he suddenly heard two pairs of footsteps rushing into the dorm kitchen

And no, it was not the kind of footsteps that spoke of joy like the ones of his siblings did. from time to time, it sounded panicked

Just a second later you entered the kitchen with an octavinelle student, the latter one trying to catch up to you

Before the baker could figure out what was going on, you were suddenly behind him, using his body as a shield

Oh… oh!

Was this guy harassing you?

How dare he? How dare-

Deep breaths. Very deep breaths - would be something he would have said to himself if he wasn't this angry

By some miracle, he was able to hold himself together

He was this close to loose his reputation as "that nice hat wearing baker"

A strict look towards the student and you were finally alone with him

For you the whole thing was over but for that student?

Suddenly the poor lad fell ill, claiming that he had stomach problems

Heck, he couldn't even keep his food down

Such a shame... Trey surely hoped he would survive

Who else could he secretly gift those cakes? You? Oh no... It's just that he experiments with some new recipes...

Ignore that bottle in the cupboard

Jack is someone who keeps his friends very close and is not afraid to stand up for them

Only that he saw you as someone more precious than a friend

So when he saw you running away from a student and slipping behind him he saw the world just a tiny bit tinted red

The young wolf beastman isn't someone who uses violence just because he can do or feel like using it

(Honestly, at this point he is more like your little dog than some fearsome wolf)

Just because he didn't turn the student into very biological and mushy fertiliser for the flowers then and there doesn't mean he was calm though

Grabbing the not so nice company of yours, he told you to not worry and leave your little problem to him

Ah yes, Jack Howl, that kind acquaintance of yours

How nice of him

But you know, there are also tales about wolves acting as if they are kind just to devour you

Of course Jack didn't do that

Does not mean that things went as peaceful as you thought they did after you left

Jack usually keeps his instincts under control but on that evening he had to cut his nails very short and scrub his hands

Anyone would be horrified after the sensation of calcium breaking under their hand, splintering like old, dried out wood under a saw

He should feel guilty but... it was hard to do so

Which brings us back to a sink being used by a certain beastman

Geez, some things are so hard to get off of skin once it dries, wouldn't you agree?

First of all, it's a wonder the hunter wasn't watching you from a tree (or something like that... who knew bushes could walk in this world)

If he had he would have immediately revealed himself by slithering in between you and that oh so foolish first year

But alas, apparently a miracle happened and this time it was you seeking out him

When Rook heart the certain sound of your shoes hitting the ground he was swivelling around, a poem about his devotion towards you already on his tongue...

And them you hid behind his arm curtains (you know, their dorm uniforms sleves)

Did hiw beloved Overseer, perfection and liberatir in person finally choose him as their most favorite- no? Ok that's cool too

If this was any other situation he would have started a speech in his wannabe French, stating how short he was by your rejection

But right now he had to deal with your little stalker (don't try to act all innocent, Rook, you did the same many more times than they ever could without being noticed)

Trying to calm you down the hunter brought you to Pomfiore

And nothing weir happened

No I am not joking, Rook was his usual normal self (if we want to call at best flirtatious remarks and at worst frantic devoted ramblings normal)

From then on you were much closer to the hunter

Especially after a body was found

And oh, how grateful Rook was for not having the time to get rid of the body on that day

Of course, he had noticed how ce fou followed you two to the dorm

How trusting you were when he told you that he wanted to get you two something to drink...

And there the parasite still was, lingering around the entrance of his dorm

The only regret Rook had was finishing his job so quickly

It was always such a bore whenever his prey wouldn't squirm

Well, at least you were now close to him

Just be careful, the hunter was also back then the one bringing her highness a false heart. Who knows how much he would lie to get you all to himself?

Uh and… maybe don't open that box he has in his room in a cooler. He told you he keeps some sort of trophy in there and I think that is all we need to know

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simplygojo · 5 months ago

Text

The Witch's Surrender

Authors Note: Here is my entry for a fun collab event, Monster Mash, hosted by @nanamiscocksleeve for a spooky szn! I encourage every writer to join in, I had lots of fun writing this ;) This was a great way for me to practice my smut writing...which is definitely a little rusty, lol.

Thanks for hosting this event Ray!

🎃 Happy start to the spooky szn 🎃

Pairing: Satoru Gojo x f/Witch!reader

Word Count : 2.1k

Warnings : 18+ content, SMUT!, fingering, intercourse, dirty talk

The forest was silent, except for the crackle of cursed energy and dark magic swirling in the air. The moon was full, casting a silver hue over the earth beneath it, setting the tone for that crisp Halloween night.

Gojo stood casually at the edge of the clearing, his white hair tousled by the breeze, a smirk curling on his lips as he eyed you. Power pulsed between you, thick and intoxicating—but the heat in his gaze had nothing to do with the battle.

The two of you had fought before, and it was always a draw.

You enjoyed causing trouble for the jujutsu sorcerers; you liked watching them struggle to keep up. But Satoru Gojo was a different story.

Gojo had been sent on a solo mission to hunt down a powerful witch—you.

Your tight black dress clung tightly to your body, though it was now ripped in a few places due to the battle between you, exposing just the right amount of skin to the cool autumn air. You lifted your wand to point toward the white-haired man, throwing your pointed black hat to the side.

“They really sent me for you? I almost feel bad,” Gojo taunted, voice low, playful. His eyes, impossibly blue, gleamed with something far more dangerous than any amount of cursed energy—desire.

You squared your shoulders, the wand in your hand crackling with magic. “Don’t get cocky, Satoru. You’ll regret it.”

Gojo Satoru, the strongest sorcerer, eyed you with his signature smirk, but you could see the calculating glint behind those cocky blue eyes. “I knew you were strong,” he drawled, casually adjusting his blindfold, “but I didn’t think you’d give me this much trouble.”

Magic exploded from your wand, ripping through the air with a loud bang. But Gojo dodged with infuriating ease, his Infinity shimmering in the air as he closed the distance between you in a blur of speed.

With a wave of his hand, a barrier of pure cursed energy shot toward you. You barely managed to deflect it, the force of the impact sending you skidding back, your boots digging into the earth.

In the blink of an eye, he was gone.

You barely had time to react before he appeared behind you, his hand raised to deliver a blow. But you were ready. With a flick of your wand, you summoned a shield of dark energy, the force of his attack clashing against it in a violent burst of light and shadow.

Gojo let out a low whistle as he jumped back, his grin widening. “Not bad, witch. But let’s see how you handle this.”

He moved faster than you could track, his Infinity shimmering around him as he launched a series of cursed techniques in your direction.

You dodged with precision, your own magic swirling in the air as you countered with a blast of raw energy.

The ground trembled beneath your feet, trees splintering around you as your powers collided. You finally had an opening; you readied your aim to finally bring this battle to an end, but he vanished before your eyes.

“Too slow,” he murmured, appearing behind you, his breath hot against your ear. “But god you’re pretty, I’ll give you that.”

Before you could retaliate, his one hand snaked around your waist, pulling you flush against his chest while the other held both your wrists tight above your head.

The fight was still fresh, but your pulse quickened for an entirely different reason now.

You could feel every inch of him pressed against you—the firm muscles of his chest, the heat radiating off him, the unmistakable bulge growing hard against your lower back.

“Gojo—” you breathed, your wand dropping from your hand as his grip on your wrists tightened.

“Getting distracted?” he teased, his voice a smooth, teasing purr. His hand slid down your body, tracing the curve of your hips. “God, you look even better up close.”

“Let’s call this a draw,” he murmured, lips brushing the shell of your ear. “I think I found something a little more interesting to play with, hmm, pretty witch..”

The words sent a shiver down your spine, and before you knew it, he had you pinned against the nearest tree. His mouth was on your neck now, nipping and sucking, leaving a trail of heat in its wake.

God, you wanted him—bad—and the worst part was that he knew it, he knew it because this is what happened…every. fucking. time.

You gasped loudly, struggling to keep control, but the way his fingers skimmed over your waist, under the hem of your soiled dress, was driving you insane.

You felt a wet heat build between your legs as you squeezed your thighs together—a weak attempt to suppress the inevitable.

His mouth claimed yours in a hungry kiss, all starvation and dominance. His tongue slid against yours, hot and demanding, while his hand roamed freely over your body, grabbing your tits roughly.

You moaned into his mouth, the taste of him intoxicating, head spinning as he pressed you harder against the rough bark of the tree, it piercing the exposed skin on your back.

“Satoru—” you gasped when he pulled away, his lips trailing down your throat, over your collarbone.

“Say it again,” he growled, his voice rough with lust. His hands found the waistband of your pants, tugging them down in one swift motion, leaving you bare beneath him. “Say my name.”

Your breath hitched as his fingers dipped between your thighs, finding you already wet for him. You did as he asked, “Fuck, Satoru.” You moaned in reaction to his teasing touch on your pulsing cunt.

He chuckled, low and dark, fingers teasing over your clit, circling the sensitive nub with slow, deliberate strokes.

“Already soaked?” he taunted, voice thick with arrogance. “And here I thought you wanted to fight.”

You whimpered as his fingers worked you with precision, each stroke sending sparks of pleasure racing through your gummy walls. Your knees buckled, but Gojo’s body pinned you firmly to the tree, his breath hot against your neck as he continued his torturous rhythm.

“Ohhh,” you whimper, head falling back against the tree as he works you over with skilled precision, each thrust of his fingers drawing you closer and closer to the edge.

"That's it, pretty witch," he coos, his lips ghosting over your skin. "I want to hear you beg for me."

You clench your jaw, refusing to give him the satisfaction, but it’s a losing battle.

The pressure builds and builds, and when his thumb grazes your clit while his two long fingers continue to pulse in and out of you, you can’t stop the broken–put pornographic—moan that escapes your lips.

"Good girl," he purrs, his fingers quickening their pace, fucking you with a practiced, almost lazy confidence.

“You’re so good,” you whimpered, hips bucking into his hand, desperate for more.

“Good girl,” he murmured against your skin. “Now let’s see just how well you can take me.”

In one smooth motion, Gojo brought you away from the tree that had previously acted as your fucking-post, and turned you so your back was to him, and his large bulge was pressed up against your ass.

He reached one of his hands to roughly cup your tit, twirling your hardened nipple between his fingertips. His other hand left your dripping cunt, and he brought it up to your mouth, holding out his fingers for you.

“I want you to have a taste before I get to. I bet it's so sweet.” He growled, his voice laced with desire, his eyes watching your sweet lips, as you took his long fingers in, sucking them dry for him.

Once you finished sucking the life out of his fingers, he let out a satisfied sigh before roughly sticking them back into your warmth, moving them around, feeling every inch of your insides.

You let out a loud whimper as he did so, feeling his cock jump against your ass in response to your seductive noise.

He removed his fingers once again and inserted them into his own mouth, You were left panting—no—gasping for air as he enjoyed your sweet nectar.

“God…I was right, baby you’re sweet like candy.” He said in a low whisper before undoing his pants with one smooth hand motion, freeing his hard cock.

You barely had time to process it before he lifted your dress up over your hips, exposing your ass to the crips air.

He pressed the thick head against your entrance, teasingly slow, the heat of him making you dizzy.

“Beg for it,” he growled, his voice a dangerous whisper.

You didn’t want to give him that satisfaction quite yet, so you bit your tongue. But he sensed your hesitation and reached his hand up to your neck, his grip firm but not painful.

“You know,” he murmured, his breath hot against your ear, “I’m not even close to being finished with you.” He placed a sloppy kiss right under your ear as he tilted your head back. “Now beg for it.”

His demanding voice sent you well over the edge, your body trembling with need. “Please, Satoru! I need you now. P-Please fuck me.”

That was all it took. With a low groan, he thrust into you, stretching you wide as he buried his thick mass deep into you.

The sensation was overwhelming—he was so big, filling you completely, the stretch almost too much, but the pleasure hit just as hard.

Your screams could probably be heard from miles away, but you couldn’t help it. Your eyes were wet with tears from the sheer pleasure of his dominating rhythm, and your mouth wouldn’t stop letting the world know his name.

“Fuuuck,” Gojo groaned, his head falling to your shoulder as he suddenly slowed his rhythm savouring the way your walls clenched around him. “So fucking tight.” He moaned as he pushed himself further into you than either of you knew was possible.

“Satoru—oh god—” you gasped, your voice breaking as he angled his hips just right, hitting that spot deep inside you that made your vision go white.

Your nails dug into his lower arms as he picked up the pace again, each thrust harder, deeper, the sound of skin slapping against skin filling the quiet of the forest.

The friction sent sparks of pleasure shooting through your body, each movement bringing you closer to the edge, as he held your back up against his chest so he could watch how your tits bounced as he fucked you.

He smirked against your neck, one hand sliding down to rub your clit in time with his thrusts. “That’s it, pretty witch. Cum for me.”

Your body obeyed instantly, pleasure crashing over you like a wave as your orgasm hit.

And then you’re falling—tumbling over the edge as pleasure crashes through you in waves, your body shaking as he coaxes every last ounce of pleasure from you.

You yell out his name, a trail of moans follow closely behind as your walls clench around his long cock, his own eyes rolling into the back of his head with pleasure.

“Fuck, that’s it,” Gojo groaned, his hips stuttering as he chased his own release. With a few more rough thrusts, he buried himself deep inside you, spilling hot and thick as he came with a low growl.

For a moment, the forest was silent again, the only sound your ragged breathing as Gojo slumped against you, still buried deep inside.

He pressed a soft, almost tender kiss to your temple, his usual cocky grin returning.

“Don’t you just hate when a battle ends in a draw..” He teased, his fingers wiping away some of your orgasm-caused tears with a smug look on his face.

“You’re fun,” he whispered, pulling out slowly, a trail of his cum dripping down your thighs. “We’ll have to do this again sometime.”

You couldn’t speak, but you readjusted your dress and picked up your wand from the muddy forest floor, still reeling from the intensity of what just happened.

But as he pulled away, adjusting his clothes with a satisfied smirk, you knew one thing for sure—this wouldn’t be the last time Gojo Satoru got the best of you.

“Oh, and Happy Halloween, pretty witch.”

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risestarkiss · 1 year ago

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Being Big Red

Rise Ramblings #312

In “What Was Meant To Be” and “What They Became,” I discuss how the turtles were created by Draxum to be weapons and then how the boys were embraced by Splinter to be a part of the Hamato clan.

I also discussed how Splinter viewed television as a window into his former life. He used television as a means to drown himself in a never-ending cycle of reminiscing the past and mourning his former self.

Splinter’s crushing depression, though never voiced, impacted the turtles’ emotional growth and development. As a result, all four brothers had to cope with their father’s lack of attention and his expectations for their lives in their own way…

However, I believe that no one had more pressure placed on them than Raphael Hamato.

Raphael is naturally easy-going, sweet, fun-loving, and supportive. But, as the oldest/biggest turtle, he became the impromptu leader of their little team by default. Consequently, he takes on several different roles for the sake and well-being of his family.

Their day-to-day training regimen is directed completely by him.

He is the boys' moral compass and who they go to for guidance.

He's the team’s backbone, support, and backup, which often cumulates in him acting as a physical shield when things get rough.

And, most significantly, Raph is the leader even when he himself wants nothing more than to crumble to pieces.

Raph is so physically imposing, strong-willed, and devastatingly kind-hearted that it’s easy to expect these roles from him.

But, Raph is also just a child.

In reality, these roles should never have been Raph’s to bear…

Parentification is a process in which a child or adolescent is forced to act as a parent to their siblings (or to their actual parent) through providing emotional support (Emotional Parentification) or physical support (Instrumental Parentification) in order to maintain the household.

I believe that Raphael was subjected to both, but was especially subjected to the former.

All of the roles described above are the roles of a supportive parent to their children (or Sensei to their students.) To verify this claim, you needn’t look further than the roles that Splinter encompassed in any other iteration.

With Raph, none of this responsibility comes naturally. He has to work hard to live up to the pressures and expectations placed onto him, resulting in a dissonance between his responsibilities and his true nature.

I believe that you can see the evidence of this dissonance in his chosen form of dress.

Have you noticed that when Raph casually dresses himself, he mostly wears white?

Even Donnie picked up on this trend when he chose outfits for his brother in "The Clothes Don't Make The Turtle." (See "The Fashionista" for a full breakdown on Donnie's impeccable fashion sense.✨)

Yet, when Raphael is filling a role, or dressing to impress others, Red is his automatic go-to.

It’s almost as if the title of “The Red One” was not one that he chose, but one that was merely placed onto him.

But I digress...

Raph is able to be a pseudo-parent to his brothers and serves to fill in the gaps that their actual father could not fill. However, with no outlet for his own insecurities, all of that pressure had no relief.

And, if you understand chemistry, pressure, with no release, creates an explosion.

“Acting out” is an unhealthy defense mechanism in which one expresses their unacceptable feelings through physical actions.

In this case, the "unacceptable feeling" is disappointment, not at his brothers, or with his father, or with any external force, but with himself. And with no outlet and with no one to turn to for support, that disappointment turns into red hot anger.

He’s so disappointed with himself, in fact, that he reaches his breaking point.

Then finally, finally, he opens up.

And at long last, he gets the support he so desperately needed.

Thus, he is able to ultimately let it all go...

It's so lovely to see that his family does not disappoint.

○○○○

Next | Being Baby Blue • Being Purple ○ Part One • Being Purple ○ Part Two • Orange, Baby!

Finale | Being Hamato Yoshi

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callsigns-haze · 4 months ago

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Down Bad

Pairing: Tyler Owens x Reader

Summary: Tyler and Y/N's serene day of hiking turns into a life-threatening battle against a sudden tornado, forcing them to rely on each other to survive.

Warning: Contains scenes of natural disaster, injury, and intense peril.

The day had started out perfectly. Tyler and Y/N had been storm chasing for days, but the weather had been eerily calm. No storms, no action—just clear skies and a gentle breeze. So, they decided to take a break from the chase. Tyler suggested they head out to a secluded spot he knew—a serene lake nestled in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by dense woods and rolling hills.

As they hiked to the lake, hand in hand, Y/N marveled at the beauty around them. The sky was a deep, endless blue, and the sun cast a warm glow over the landscape. It was hard to believe that just a few days ago, they had been in the middle of a raging storm, chasing after the very thing that now seemed like a distant memory.

Tyler led her to a spot by the lake where the water was still and clear, reflecting the sky like a mirror. They set up a small picnic and spent the afternoon talking, laughing, and enjoying each other's company. It felt like they were the only two people in the world—completely isolated from the chaos of their usual storm-chasing adventures.

After a while, Y/N leaned back against Tyler’s chest, sighing contentedly as she watched the ripples in the water. “This is perfect,” she murmured, her voice soft and peaceful.

Tyler smiled, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. “I’m glad you think so. We needed a break from all that excitement.”

But as they sat there, a subtle shift in the air caught Tyler’s attention. He felt a sudden drop in temperature, and the gentle breeze that had been blowing all day suddenly stilled. He glanced up at the sky, his eyes narrowing as he noticed dark clouds forming on the horizon.

“Y/N,” he said, his voice tense, “we need to go.”

She looked up at him, her brow furrowing in confusion. “What’s wrong?”

“The weather’s changing. We need to get back to the truck, now.”

Y/N’s heart skipped a beat at the urgency in his voice. She quickly gathered their things as Tyler helped her up, and they began to make their way back along the trail. But as they walked, the wind picked up, howling through the trees with an almost unnatural force. The once clear sky was now a swirling mass of dark clouds, and the sound of distant thunder rumbled ominously.

Tyler’s grip on Y/N’s hand tightened as they quickened their pace. The truck was still a good distance away, and the storm was moving in fast—too fast.

“We’re not going to make it to the truck in time,” Tyler muttered, glancing around for any kind of shelter.

Y/N’s heart raced as she realized the severity of the situation. “What do we do?”

Before Tyler could respond, the wind roared with a deafening intensity, and the sky above them seemed to split open as a massive funnel cloud descended from the heavens. The tornado touched down with a force that shook the ground, tearing through the landscape with terrifying speed.

“Run!” Tyler shouted, pulling Y/N along as they sprinted towards the nearest cluster of trees. The tornado was closing in, its monstrous form bearing down on them with a ferocity that defied comprehension.

They barely made it to the trees when the full force of the tornado hit. Tyler threw himself over Y/N, shielding her with his body as debris flew through the air. The sound was deafening—a mix of roaring wind, splintering wood, and the distant wail of the tornado itself.

“Stay down!” Tyler yelled, his voice barely audible over the chaos. He held onto her tightly, his heart pounding as he prayed they would make it through.

But then, without warning, a large piece of debris slammed into Tyler’s back, knocking the wind out of him. He gasped in pain, collapsing onto Y/N as the world around them seemed to disintegrate.

“Tyler!” Y/N screamed, her voice laced with panic as she felt his body go limp on top of her. She struggled to push him off, her heart racing with fear.

The storm raged on, but Y/N knew she had to move. Summoning all her strength, she managed to roll Tyler off her and get him onto his back. His face was pale, and blood trickled from a gash on his forehead. His breathing was shallow, and his eyes fluttered open with difficulty.

“Y/N,” he whispered, his voice weak. “You have to get out of here…”

“No,” she said firmly, tears streaming down her face. “I’m not leaving you. We’re getting out of this together.”

She looked around, trying to find any sign of shelter or a way out. The tornado had moved on, but the damage was catastrophic. Trees were uprooted, debris was scattered everywhere, and the once peaceful lake was now a churning mess of water and mud.

With no other option, Y/N decided to find help. But first, she needed to get Tyler to safety. She managed to drag him to a small hollow beneath a fallen tree, shielding him as best as she could from the elements. His injuries were severe, but he was still conscious, his eyes locked onto hers with a mixture of pain and determination.

“Stay with me, Tyler,” she urged, her voice trembling. “I’m going to find help.”

He nodded weakly, his hand gripping hers with what little strength he had left. “Be careful…”

Y/N kissed his forehead, her heart breaking at the sight of him so vulnerable. “I will.”

With one last look at him, she turned and ran towards the truck. The landscape was unrecognizable, the trail completely obliterated by the storm. But she pushed forward, fueled by the need to save the man she loved.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, she reached the truck. Miraculously, it had survived the tornado, though it was covered in debris and mud. She quickly grabbed the first aid kit and a radio, desperately trying to get a signal.

“Please, someone, come in!” she shouted into the radio, her voice shaking. “We need help—Tyler’s hurt, and we’re stranded!”

Static filled the airwaves, and for a moment, she feared no one would hear her. But then, a crackling voice came through.

“This is Rescue 4—we’re en route to your location. Hang tight, we’re coming for you.”

Relief washed over her as she grabbed the supplies and ran back to Tyler. When she reached him, she found him barely conscious, his breath shallow and labored. She quickly began to treat his wounds, using everything she had learned from their countless storm-chasing expeditions.

“Tyler, stay with me,” she whispered, her hands trembling as she bandaged his head. “Help is on the way.”

His eyes fluttered open, and he managed a weak smile. “You’re… incredible…”

Tears welled up in her eyes as she held his hand, her heart aching at the sight of him so fragile. “Just hang on a little longer, okay? We’re going to get through this.”

Minutes felt like hours as they waited, the sound of approaching sirens finally breaking through the silence. Rescue teams arrived, and Y/N watched in a daze as they carefully lifted Tyler onto a stretcher and rushed him to the waiting ambulance.

She rode with him to the hospital, never letting go of his hand. The paramedics worked quickly to stabilize him, but Y/N could only focus on his face, willing him to stay with her.

By the time they reached the hospital, Tyler was in critical condition, but alive. Y/N was forced to wait outside the operating room, her heart in her throat as she prayed for his survival.

Hours passed before the doctor finally came out, his expression grave but hopeful. “He’s stable,” he said, and Y/N nearly collapsed with relief. “It was touch and go, but he’s a fighter. He’s going to make it.”

Tears streamed down her face as she thanked the doctor, her heart filled with gratitude. When she was finally allowed to see Tyler, she found him awake, though weak and bandaged.

“Hey, you,” he whispered, his voice hoarse but full of affection.

Y/N smiled through her tears, sitting down beside him and taking his hand. “Hey. You scared me.”

“I’m sorry,” he said, his eyes softening. “But I knew you’d get us out of there.”

“You’re not allowed to scare me like that again,” she said, her voice shaky with emotion. “I can’t lose you, Tyler.”

“You won’t,” he promised, squeezing her hand weakly. “We’re in this together, remember?”

Y/N leaned down and kissed him, her heart overflowing with love and relief. “Always.”

As they lay there, the storm outside finally began to calm. The sky cleared, and the first rays of sunlight broke through the clouds. It was a new day—a new beginning.

And they had weathered the storm together.

@lonewolf830 I absolutely loved this idea!

tagging some:

@senawashere

@saviorcomplexrry

@cevansbaby-dove

@saynotononsense

@missdottie

@willowisp7

@taorislover94

@eloquenceinpurple

@86laura11

@rosiahills22

@jessicab1991

@kmc1989

@shanimallina87

@eternalsams

@teen-antisocial

@katiemcrae

#tyler owens x reader #tyler owens x you #tyler owens fanfic #tyler owens #twisters fanfiction #tyler owens imagine #tyler owens x y/n #tyler owens smut #dad!tyler owens

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lactoseintolerentswag · 1 year ago

Text

Rise Characterizations Pt. 2!!

In the first part I went over my character writing notes for Raph, so we're doing Leo next!!!

Leo Character Notes

Language Habits:

First the obvious, makes a lot of puns and one-liners. Think corny super hero movies

Does poke at New Jersey often in said one-liners

Mumbles/talks to himself out loud often

Starts a Lot of his sentences with, "Okay--"

Often will add on, "haha, you're hilarious", when he's trying to tease or antagonize someone

Similarly to Raph he will also verbalize his attacks/actions, "kick and punch"/"punch and kick", "land safely"/"and he sticks the landing"

Also will verbalize when he's trying to make a portal, "come on portal", "it's portal time", "portal power jitsu"

We all know "hachi machi"

Tendency to also make noises when fighting, "yah"/"wah!"/"hah!"

That little ohohoho laugh can signify as his battle cry/excitement, or his nervousness depending on context

Same case as the above with "hoh boy"

Will stutter on words to emphasize them, "l-l-l-l-lame!"

The first to jump onto an "I told you so" or "I was right"

Mixes Spanish into his sentences, most notably "bueno", "vamanos", "hermano(s)"

Messes up science terminology, "reprogramulating"

Says "indubitably" when he's up to something (which Raph recognizes)

Out of all the brothers, he does poke fun the most

Refers to himself as "Leon"

Refers to others (mostly strangers/acquaintances) as "bub"/"bud", or "chief"

Personality:

Dramatic, Leo will always play things up 110%. Sometimes this is to cover up his insecurities, to cheer up his brothers, or to annoy said brothers. Also plays into his extreme responses to stressful situations

The fun brother, aka mikey's advocate. He takes his role seriously as the face man, who keeps things fun and cool for his brothers. It's an easy role, and he gets to make his family laugh or roll their eyes. He's. Sillay

Perceptive, this is why he knows exactly what buttons to push, but he's not a great communicator when it comes to the bigger picture. This also plays into his manipulativeness that he uses to put chaos into his family (i.e. lair games), puppet villains (i.e. Big Mama) into his motives, and change the battlefield

A closet nerd, implied to remember more jupiter jim lore than the rest of his brothers and has a ready to go impression of the reptiles of planet reptilica

Competitive to a fault, he tends to get lost in the competition when it comes to his brothers. Part of his dramatism is showing off, and he's weak to being called or associated with the term "champion". Competition is a way he gauges his self worth

Has a strong desire for the inherent admiration and trust of his peers, more than outright praise (both are wanted) unlike Donnie. This damages his communication skills because he just expects his brothers to trust him while he puts on a persona of nonchalance as protection from failure

Defensive, of himself through being snippy or sarcastic, but also defensive of his brothers' own well-being. He may be the one to poke the most fun, but he's also the one to jump to his siblings' defense out of any of the brothers. Sort of an "only I can do so and so to blank" mindset

Martyr complex, prioritizes the safety of his family over his own safety

Gets attached to people he considers family Quickly, those he doesn't consider a part of his family he has little sympathy for but once that connection is there he's already ready to use his body as a shield

Freeze response, tends to freeze up in response to danger or stress. Often shown to curl into a ball or stand silently (as opposed to his constant chatter)

Miscellaneous:

The third to unlock his mystic powers

Nicknames: "baby blue" by splinter, "nardo" by donnie

Sweats an ungodly amount

Uses spit to annoy his brothers/enemies (licking an item to claim it as his, wet willies)

Can beat box

Always chooses left in mazes or when lost

Next up will be Donnie :>

#rise of the teenage mutant ninja turtles #rise of the tmnt #rottmnt #teenage mutant ninja turtles #tmnt #rottmnt leo #rottmnt leonardo #character analysis #long post #fanfic #writing #critter talks

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barefoothighlander · 2 years ago

Note

Ghost with a fem reader who used fake her own orgasms? Poor girl doesn't want "trouble him" :(

headcanoning that Simon would be deeply offended if reader faked her orgasm with him, his ego is too big to take that hit.

warnings: mdni (18+), est relationship, oral (fem rec), first orgasm, fingering, not proofread

“What was that?” He stops his movements, his face is inches from yours as he leans over your frame, the warmth of his breath blowing across your skin.

“I came” You bat your eyes at him

“No, you didn’t”

“I did, it’s fine keep going” You wriggle your hips, urging him to move, he furrows his brows at you, sitting back on his legs as he pulls from you.

“Why are you lying?” His tone isn’t angry, more curious or concerned as he watches you sit up against the headboard. You pull your legs toward your chest, growing nervous under his gaze as your eyes dart around the room, refusing to settle on his.

“M’not lying Si, I finished”

“Not to be crude but I know what it feels like when a girl cums, and I’ve heard your real noises, those weren’t them”

“They were I’m just, tired I guess”

You move to pull the covers over your form, shielding yourself from his stare,

“Love, if something doesn’t feel good you can tell me, we’ll try something else”

“No it feels amazing, believe me, it’s just” You try to think of your words as he places a soft hand on your leg,

“Just what darling”

“I don’t want to trouble you is all, have you go out of your way to make me finish”

Ghost swears his heart splinters at your words, your tone striking right through him,

“C’mere” He extends his hands to you, settling back on his legs as his arms wrap around your waist, tugging you onto his lap. You settle your arms around his neck, his warmth transferring to your skin like a blanket as he peppers light kisses over your shoulders and neck.

“Love, you’d never trouble me, especially with this believe me, nothing turns me on more than hearing your noises, or feeling you squeeze me”

He places a kiss on your lips before pulling back, gazing at you with his dark eyes,

“I’ve just, never had one before”

“Ever?”

“I mean by myself yeah, but not from another person”

His hands squeeze your waist, “Can I?”

You furrow your brows at him in question, urging him to explain,

He leans in, his lips ghosting over your pulse point “Let me make you feel good, please love”, and how can you say no when he has you melting in his grip, his dark eyes staring into yours as his accent thickens.

You bite down on your lower lip, nodding your head as he smirks, his hands shaking around your back, laying you down as his lips travel down your bare skin, nipping and licking at the flesh.

He trails a path towards your sex, sucking at the skin around your hips as his hand play with your breasts, kneading the flesh as he pinches your nipples between his fingers.

He wastes no time in spreading your thighs for him, allowing his lips to settle just in front of your sex as his eye stare up at you, gaging your reaction.

He flattens his tongue, licking a stripe through your folds, watching the way your jaw falls open as your heel digs into the flesh of his back, pulling him in closer, you can see him grin against your skin as he presses his tongue against your clit, licking up and down against the bud, sending shock waves through your nerves.

He circles your clit with his tongue as his fingers trace over the skin of your inner thigh, teasing their way towards your entrance before sitting just atop your hole, forcing you to clench around nothing.

“Si, please” Your hands reach for him, trying to grab at his skin as his free hand snakes up the sheets, tangling his fingers into yours, allowing you to ground yourself through his touch as he slides his fingers into your weeping pussy, pushing past his second knuckle to brush deep inside you.

He buries his face in your cunt, his lips locked around your clit as his tongue flicks over it, the sounds falling from your lips are music to his ears, his satisfaction shown through the hums he makes against your core, the vibration has your head falling back against the pillow as the coil inside you burns.

You arch into him, craving more and he gives it to you, curving his fingers to brush against your sweat spot over and over, your own knuckles are white from the grip on his hand, the heels of your feet keeping him close to you as you come undone.

“Taste so sweet, look so perfect like this lovie”

His praise shoots straight to your core, like butterflies in your stomach your arousal continues to build, your slick coats his chin, dripping onto the sheets below as his fingers pump into you, he can feel the way you clench down on the digits with every flick of his tongue.

“Want you to cum for me, need to hear you”

He squeezes your hand, your gaze shifting down to him as his eyes lock onto yours, you watch him with hooded lids. He releases your hand, allowing you to thread your digits through his hair while his settles in your lower stomach, keeping your hips pinned as you squirm under him.

“Don’t stop. Gonna cum.”

High pitched whines escape your lips, writhing under his tongue as you fall apart, your hands gripping the sheets while your muscles tense around him, he works you through your high, a groan of satisfaction as he tastes your spend, your noises filling the air.

He lets you come down slowly, extending your orgasm slightly for his own pleasure as he detached from you, placing small kisses over your thighs and stomach before moving up the bed to lay next to you. You’re breathless as you stare at him, your hand finding it’s way to his bare chest as your fingers trace over the skin.

He lays on his side, one hand settled over your waist while the other plays with your hair, watching as your body settles from its high.

“How was that?” His thumb traces over your jaw,

“How long could you do that for?”

He releases a puff of air, “Hours, definitely hours”

You smirk, “Good”.

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readerstories · 4 months ago

Text

When You Touch Me - Wolverine x male reader x Deadpool 1/?

God I'm a sucker for a soulmate au. (AO3) (Part 2) (Part 3) (Part 4) (Part 5) (Part 6) (Part 7) (Part 8) (Part 9)

Warnings/tags: male reader, canon-typical violence, enemies to friends to lovers, eventual smut, slow burn

Wordcount: 2347

Summary: You’ve heard many stories about how people met their soulmates. Everyone crazier than the last, ranging from typical meet cutes, meeting with one of them at death's door, in war, meeting at your soulmate's wedding to another, and everything in between and outside of that. You had just never expected to add yours to the crazy list, meeting yours in a fight, only realizing after trying to kill each other for at least half an hour. And you certainly don’t expect to have another.

Other info: About this au - Soulmates find each other through touch, which establishes a mental link that lets feelings through, and if solid and built up enough over time, simple thoughts/words can also come through. Some bonds are purely platonic, about ⅓ in total. Multiple soulmates are not unheard of, but rare, more common with platonic soulmates.

Quickly about the reader - mercenary/gunman/thug for hire. Great shot with pretty much any gun, has two knives as backup weapons, has fought with swords before. Looks wise he has hair and is shorter than Wade and Logan, but I try to keep no specific height in mind while writing. Has a few scars scattered over his body, but nothing specific as of yet. Does not want a soulmate, thinks it just leaves people vulnerable. Lives on his own in an apartment he owns and is content with his life.

All you were, really, was hired help.

All you were supposed to do was stand around and look scary with a few other tugs in a warehouse with high shelves stacked with crates, while your employer (a generous word for the drug dealer that hired you) met with another drug dealer.

It had gone tits up the second a man wearing a red and black spandex suit and katanas on his back of all things came crashing through a window.

You had dived for cover, because there are gunshots ringing out in the milliseconds after the glass shatters. You curse, reaching for your gun, with just one single 10 bullet magazine, because your stupid employer had insisted you only needed one when you asked for more. So to have something more you had your adamantium knives strapped to each thigh, hidden enough under your black joggers.

You curse under your breath, cause this is fucking awful. You hear gunshots over and over again, people are dying, wood from shipping crates are splintering, metal is hitting the floor.

And there’s talking.

Fucking talking.

“Come one guys, your aim is all off! Did none of you ever train on the neighborhood cats?”

Well, more like yelling. Because even though the warehouse wasn’t empty, it still had an echo. You are used to the loud sounds, it fuels your adrenaline as you peek out from behind the crate you are using as a shield.

The man, you are just going to call him Red for now, is flipping and bouncing between crates, avoiding any big hits. A few bullets graze an arm, but he doesn’t seem to take notice as his own bullets find their marks, bodies dropping around him. He’s nimble and quick about it, taking down guys from both sides with equal gusto, and you find yourself just watching him carefully. He’s almost elegant, light on his feet, and a jab or taunt spewing out of his mouth every few bullets.

Careful not to alert Red or anyone else about your position, you shift, gun in hand watching him saunter over to your employer, the last man standing. Well, not really, since he’s down on his knees, begging for something incoherent while fat tears and snot roll down his face.

“Newsflash asshole, I don’t care for your tragic backstory that the writer won’t let you talk about.” Red raises his gun, one last loud bang filling the warehouse before it’s quiet once again.

“Last fucking one, my counting skills once again making me win.” Red claps his hands together, before moving his hands to his hips, looking around the warehouse. “What a fucking mess.” He shakes his head, and you see your opportunity now that he thinks it’s all over.

You move up, pulling the trigger as soon as your gun is aimed right. Red doesn’t even get to turn before six bullets go through his chest, two through his throat, and the last two finding their mark in his skull. You shouldn’t use all your bullets on one target like that, but still you do. Red drops like a sack of potatoes, and you draw a sigh of relief, lowering your gun as you too look around the warehouse. You’re glad it’s far away from anything else, because it should take at least a few hours before the cops are alerted, and by that time you would be far away from this warehouse that is by now covered in blood, bullet casings, and dead men.

Your earlier relief turns into utter confusion as you hear shuffling, and when you turn back towards where Red’s body is, you see him shake his head where he lays crumpled on the floor, and seconds later he’s on his feet with a groan.

“Okay, good shot whoever that was.” You gape, words slipping out of your mouth without meaning to.

“What the fuck.” Red’s head snaps towards you.

“Oh, there you are.” His voice is light, almost like he’s halfway into song. “I would return the favor, but I’m fresh out of bullets so this will have to do.” He pulls out the katanas strapped to his back. You grab your knives, managing, somehow by the grace of whatever runs this universe, to bring it out just in time to block both katanas that were coming at you in tight formation.

“Oh so you weren’t just happy to see me.” Red jokes, and though you can’t see his face under the mask, you are pretty sure he is grinning. You grunt, because there is no way for your brain to form words as you parry another attack from him, retreating.

You are in no position to attack, so all you do is stop his, and try to escape, backing off. Or rather, you try to, but Red is not letting up, so all you end up doing is walking backwards through the warehouse in a vague path between boxes and shelves as he attacks.

He manages to get a few slashes here and there to connect, but they are shallow, just enough to draw blood and sting. One on your left arm, two on your right arm, three on your left leg. You wonder if amounts are on purpose. He seems to take it all as encouragement, laughing, keeping up his quick attacks.

You don’t know you hold out, breathing heavy, arms and hands hurting with how you are clutching and shielding with your knives like your life depends on it.

Because it 1000% fucking does, that’s why you manage.

Red finally lets up, just enough that you can create some space between the two of you. You don’t dare to actually turn and run, certain he has no moral code of cutting down someone from behind. So you just try to slowly create even more room between the two of you as you watch for his next attack.

“Oh I am having fun!” Red tries to clap, but he just knocks the hilts of his katanas together. “Though we are just a little unevenly matched here.” He sounds like he’s breathing just a little bit harder at least, even though there are no cuts next to the bullet holes riddling his suit. He tilts his head for a moment, then bends down, and then there’s a katana sliding over the floor, bumping into your boot. You look down at it, before looking back up at him.

“Come on, pick it up.” Shifting your knives into one hand, you keep your eyes on the white eyes of his mask as you bend down and pick up the sword.

“Oh yeah, look at me during.” You ignore his comment, feeling the weight of the katana in your hand. It’s heavy, but perfectly balanced, feeling perfect as you spin it in your hand a few times, the hilt still warm from Red’s earlier hold.

“Hot.” Red says as he twirls his second katana, mimicking you. Once more ignoring him, you put your knives back in their sheats. “Do you have them there to distract your enemies by making them think you are going to jerk off mid-battle?” You snort.

“No, they are there so they are more hidden, and more difficult to grab.”

“If you wanted my hands in your pants all you had to do was ask, baby.” You think Red is winking at you through the mask. You roll your eyes, taking a deep breath.

“Shut the fuck up.” With both of your hands on the hilt of the katana, you are ready to defend yourself from his first attack.

“Ohhh, you remind me of someone. I think the two of you would get along, he’s also a man of few words. Maybe I’ll let you live so you can meet him and fight him too, more material for my spank bank.” He definitely winks this time, then you are defending yourself from another attack from him. It pushes you backwards, again, but this time, you are able to attack back.

Though you can’t help but wonder if he’s letting you, just indulging you. Because you can feel how strong he is when you parry his strikes, you felt how strong he was when all you had was your knives.

It’s a dance, a dance he lets you participate in as you block, attack, block, attack, block. Redirecting his sword coming for your throat so it splinters wood instead of flesh.

“How did you learn to fight like this?” Wade asks, almost spinning as his energy is redirected away from your body. He is at least breathing a little heavier, and for some reason, you find yourself having a little fun, even though you think you know how this is going to end.

“I was a loser in high school. What about you?” You speak through gritted teeth, the sound of metal on metal filling the warehouse as you block another attack. You don’t even know why you ask him back, but it feels right.

“Something similar.” It’s still kinda hard to tell, but you think he grins under his mask as you attack back.

You do get a few cuts in, deep enough that it slices through his suit and the skin underneath, but it leaves you with little satisfaction as you see the cuts heal in seconds. Though at least his suit can’t fix itself, growing more tattered by the minute as new slashes and old bullet holes make a mess of it.

“So you are not just a pretty face, there’s some skills there.” You frown, anger flaring, and you are about to say something, but with a quick move that you have no opportunity to block, and that truly demonstrates the difference between the two of you, he nicks you with just the tip of the katanta, just on the left corner of your mouth. You startle, but on instinct your tongue goes out to lick at the blood now sliding down to your skin. It just gives you more motivation to strike back, a big one that leaves behind what could almost be called a titty window on his chest, showing textured skin underneath.

“Ohhhh, freaky.” Red taunts, slicing your chest too, though your skin doesn’t heal when metal connects after slicing through your shirt like air. You curse, adrenaline causing your ears to roar, and the world to go a little fuzzy at the edges. You touch your chest, fingers coming back bloody, watching Red. Your own katana pointing towards the floor, ready, but down as you breathe heavily.

“Leaving yourself all open for me? You shouldn’t have.” Red coos, and that is what you are counting on. Letting him attack you straight on, thinking you have given up, so you can shove the katana through his skull, killing him again, and leaving you at least a few moments to high tail it out of there.

It’s what the plan is.

It does not work out like you intend it to.

It goes in a whole new direction.

Because when he comes close enough, you manage to get a hold on his shoulder, which gets you a hopefully not deadly slice over your abdomen for your efforts. You are moving quickly, seconds away from stabbing the katana through the bottom of his jaw. But then your fingers touch a bare spot on his shoulder where his suit had gotten torn, and there’s a sparkler going off in your brain, a sizzling sensation that settles in the back of your head as feelings of excitement, adrenaline, and happiness that are not your own speeds through your mind.

You gasp out loud.

You can’t help yourself.

Because you know what that was.

And there is no fucking way.

WHAT. THE. ABSOLUTE.

FUCK.

Fucking no.

A soulmate.

You have a fucking soulmate??????

And this is how you fucking meet him????

In all of your turmoil, you have dropped the katana that was destined to go through Red’s skull. He is a few paces behind you, not immediately attacking, just watching you as you turn around in your now mostly frozen state.

“Wh-”

“Touch me.” Red blinks, owlishly even with the white eyes of his mask.

“Wow, so forward. You know, con-”

“Shut the fuck up.” You march over to him, and in what seems to be confusion he lets you tug the glove of his hand that is not holding his katana. You interlace your fingers, the motion absurdly tender for the moment that is currently playing out. You see his eyes widen behind the mask, and you are sure his mouth opens and closes several times even hidden as it is.

“What the fuck.” The words are so soft out his mouth that you are not even sure he said them. Not that it matters, because a second later he is wrenching his hand back like you burned him. He runs past you, and you watch as he picks up his katana where you dropped it, and then keeps running after that brief slowdown, heading towards a door you hadn’t noticed while you were fighting. You startle yourself into action finally, following him, but he’s out the door before you can reach him.

On the other side there’s a hallway, and his back is quickly retreating, and all you feel is panic. You are not sure which of you it is coming from.

You try to keep up with him through multiple hallways, but he’s fast, getting out of the building before you do. It’s enough of a headstart that you only see backlights and hear the roar of a motorcycle speeding away.

You run over to where the cars you all arrived in earlier are parked, but of fucking course all tires are slashed. Not like you had any of the keys anyway, but they would have been easy enough to find in some dead man's pockets.

“Fucking MOTHERFUCKER!” You know he can’t hear you, but you hope Red feels your frustration through your bond as you punch the hood of a car, denting the metal.

(Part 2)

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