“Straight Outta Gotham”

the phrase "what has hector ever done to me?" continues to haunt me

And it all came tumbling down

by: Snarkymuch

Rated: T

Warnings: vaguely referenced/implied past sexual abuse, referenced self-harm

Summary: Skip is released on parole, and that breaks something in Peter. He begins to shut down again. Tony is there for him when he needs it.

READ ON AO3

May wasn’t home when the call came, and Peter had answered the phone. There was no hesitation or prickling of his senses, nothing to signal how the one call would shatter his fragile world.

The voice on the other side of the phone had been cautious and polite, in a way that put him on edge. The woman asked for May but settled for Peter. He didn’t listen as she introduced and explained her position with the district attorney. The only part he heard was her saying, “Steven Wescott was paroled this morning.”

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Yooo i never thought about this before but u know how Jason literally died lmao and in some issues he has like autopsy scars apparently and i was wondering if you’d consider Jason with reader who he recently started dating and they hadn’t seen him shirtless yet and he’s kinda stressed about how they’ll react (maybe they already know what happened) to seeing the scars? Maybe just fluffy with slight angst if u will bonus points if they kiss his scars please

Jason knew his scars told a story.

Scars always came with a story.

Sometimes they were winded recounts of bravery and badassery. Sometimes the stories revolved around an incredibly stupid drunken night. Or a treasured childhood memory brimming with curiosity and consequence.

He had scars to fit the bill of each.

But the ones that were most daunting, most pronounced on his skin, were the ones that proved to him that he had been given a second chance of life.

It was a long twisted tale, in truth. One he wasn’t keen on dwelling over.

Yet, whenever he caught a glimpse of himself in the bathroom mirror, his mind forced him into a litany of cold, dark memories.

Coming back from the dead was tremulous on a whole. Seeing the raised ‘Y’ autopsy incision that started near the tops of his shoulders and ran all the way down to his navel was like a hard slap of reality to his face each time.

He had died.

He had died and he didn’t stay dead.

He was an unnatural, unearthly entity.

Sadness and something bitter like regret sullied his soul. The truth was a heavy burden to carry and his scars were the burning points at which the weight rested, concrete on his chest.

All of this— the pain and misery, self-pity and confusion— melted away when you looked at him. Stone turned to butter, and his chest was filled with warmth at your influence. As a whole person, he knew what he looked like, even when his scars were hidden. He was a tall guy with a white streak in his hair and eyes that looked like permanent contacts; he was used to being looked at.

With you though, when your eyes ran over him from tip to toe— in that quiet, shy way you had— he finally felt seen. You watched him with such fascination, such fiery intensity that he was sure you could see the shattered fragments of his soul. He was useless when you were looking at him and often, he would let himself fall into your gaze. Because, while it was harder to feel like he deserved the love in your eyes— it was just as impossible to deny you whatever you wanted.

And so, on a rainy night between soft giggling and wine and his inability to keep his hands off your skin, he finds himself torn between fear and desire. Hate and love. Life and what lay beyond death.

You’re in his lap, thighs secure around his hips and mouth just within kissing distance. He can’t get enough of you, a greedy lavacious voice begs for him to pull you closer. To steal you away into the night and show you all the unseen parts of the world until he found just one other existent thing in the universe that was just as beautiful as you.

But as you whisper his name, slow and warm like melted butter, he feels a dangerous tug of hesitation in his gut. You’re so willing to give, tender and deliberate in all your touches— never once moving your hands unless your instructed to. It’s almost like you know what he fears the most, like you know how much he needs the comfort of explicit, repeated consent.

He drags you down by the hand cradling your neck, bites at your mouth until your sighing happily against him. For a moment it’s quiet. Easy.

And then you shiver almost violently as he slips a hand up your shirt, palm flat against your lower back. Something heady and primal crawls into his chest and he loses himself then. The desire to press bare skin to bare skin claws at him wildly and he finds his own hands at the hem of his hoodie.

You freeze, heartbeat skipping up. Concern grows in your eyes, “Are you sure, Jay?”

He catches himself, swallowing thickly as tension settles coldly into the room. He isn’t sure. Guilt makes him recoil into his own skin, sick and nauseous.  Panic builds behind it, chases the air from his lungs.

How could you still see him as a regular guy if he showed you all the parts of himself that proved he was only pretending to be one?

“Jay,” you lean your weight off of him. “Take a deep breath. You’re okay.”

His queasiness settles. You’re always so good to him.

“We don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do.” You brush a hand through his hair.  "Do you wanna watch something on Netflix? We could watch The Office?“

Too good, maybe.

"Do you remember …do you remember when I told you about how I….” He fumbles with words, “how I was …and then I wasn’t-”

“Dead. How you were dead?” You’re able to soften the blow of the words somehow.

He nods once, more of a quick jerk of his head than anything. “I have scars.”

“I know that,” you say, tracing your finger over a jagged one on his forearm.

“No. I mean I have autopsy scars.”

“Oh.”

The light from the TV pales the room, casts a deep shadow for him to hide in. Tears prickle his eyes before he can quell his emotions.

“We don’t have to anything you don’t want to do.” You parrot, “But I promise you those scars won’t scare me away. So….when you’re ready, I’m here.”

There in your eyes was the same quiet reassurance he couldn’t get enough of. Once more, he was seen. Heard. Understood.

My Favorite MLs from manhwas

1. Riftan - Under the Oak tree

Such an amazing and loving husband!!!!

2. Blake - I became the wife of the monstrous crown prince.

I quickly want this baby rabbit to grow up into a wolf, I mean into a man like his dad. His dad is hot though.

3. Raphael - The Villianese is a marionette

I love black hair male leads and this guy is sweet.

4. Max - Daddy, I don't want to get married.

As I said before, I like male leads with black hair + tyrants. But this guy is a blushing mess, throughout the whole manhwa. I could just make a collage out of his blushing face only. Just look at him!!!!

5. Heinley - Remarried empress

Do I even have to? Come on, though who read this manhwa surely knows that this guy is an angel.

(Actually, there are more male leads I love. But since the one post only allows 10 pics, maybe I'll do a part 2 later.)

featured on netflix: even a fool knows

A young film maker in high school is caught between reality and fantasy when an image of a person disrupts his thoughts, mind, actions, and every day life. Ahn Young-Tae slowly can’t begin to discern his imagination from what’s happening right in front of him. That is, until he sees that person in real life, and everything becomes clear.

(click for better quality!) 

Thorned Exhales

Pairing: Namor of Talokan x Shuri

Summary: The people of Talokan believe in the concept of soulmates. However, even after years of this tradition, nobody has ever seen the result of an unaccepted mate moreso, a fated partner who's another species from you until their King met the Wakandan Princess, Shuri.

Words: 2.4k

Tags: Stubborn Namor, Hanahaki Disease AU, Soulmate AU, Namor flirts with Shuri to change the subject lmao, Blood, Post-Canon.

had a random thought one day and wrote it down. It's not everyone's cup of tea but they fit the scenario better.

The people of Talokan believe in the concept of soulmates. 

After ingesting the luminescent flower their ancestors crushed centuries ago, the remnants of the petals sometimes resonate with another part of it from someone's stomach. And when it does, it forms a soulmate bond.

It activates the moment a Talokanil sees their fated mate for the first time and then they shall go through the typical period of courting, offering their hunts, fetching the shiniest and prettiest conch shell or giving out crystals found in the deep sea.

However, even after years of this tradition spiralling around their country, nobody has ever seen the result of an unaccepted mate moreso, a fated partner who's another species from you.

A violent hacks of coughs echoed in the empty hall as Namor faltered in his step, the burn on his lungs fresh and agonising with every wheeze. 

Everything hurts, from his throat, his chest and even down to his abdomen. Yet even then, he smiled at his cousin who stood beside him, worry marrying her face while he hacked his guts out.

There was something lodging itself at the back of his air pipe restricting his ability to breathe, even with no more coughs to bark out he continued, the apparent block in his throat a nuisance for such a busy day.

Then that's when he saw it.

In his palm lies a pretty blue petal, glowing lightly under the bioluminescent lights above them. It looked soft and innocent with its color and texture, only if it didn't have blood staining half of it.

Namora gasped beside him, her hands reaching to stop his palms from closing.

"K'uk'ulkan, this is a matter to be taken seriously."

It was, without a doubt, an important matter to discuss with the council. But if word spreads about their king weakening after their fight with the surface dwellers, it might spark a war between them and their reluctant ally. Not to mention, the possibility of bold fiends who'd dare challenge him for the throne.

The moment the petal fell into his palm, Namor knew it was best to keep it hidden for now.

He can't afford losing the only alliance they have, can't risk the only connection he has with her.

Closing a fist, he turned to her with a small smile. "A single petal won't hurt me, child."

"But this is not a mere common disease. This stems from the flower our ancestors—"

Namor stood up straight, crushing the petal in his grasp before disposing of it on the side as if it offended him personally and disrespected his mother. 

He couldn't deny his cousin's claims because he, too, grew concerned for his well-being after seeing him spit out a bloodied petal. It wasn't unusual for him to get sick as he catches a cold every century at least so he paid no heed to his coughs before. Turned a blind eye to the relentless tug of string at the back of his mind leading him into the direction where the Black Panther herself is.

He has felt the unusual tightness and heaviness on his chest ever since he met the noble princess of Wakanda's gaze full of hatred and felt her bloodthirst from outside the ruined throne room. One of the factors that helped her win against him at the beach.

He realised many things in that one moment, where she held his spear over her head, ready to take his life. Yet the biggest conclusion out of them all was his soul being tethered to hers.

The soulmate bond is nothing but a distracting one, he always thinks as he watches everyone around him become fools on chains following the hymn of the ocean. Drawn like the crew of the ship walking into the sea to pursue the sirens' sweet lullabies.

Everyone thinks he's immune to the soulmate bonds due to his godship, imagine their shock once they find out who he's tethered to.

"My king, you must inform the council of this! We must find a cur—"

It was a relief that all of Talokan knows not of the consequences of being rejected by their soulmate but if his cousin continued to nag, it won't take long for somebody to realize the secret he wishes to keep.

No one must know that his soul hooked itself with the Panther of the surface.

Namor brings a finger to her lips. "Not a word of this encounter shall escape between us."

"But—"

"It is unprecedented, yes, but I am a god who has lived for hundreds of years, I will not die from a simple illness."

Nobody has ever seen the results of a mate being rejected in all of those five hundred years Talokan has existed, much less than a Talokan's soul being tethered to a human. This event is something to be written down for research, to be overjoyed for, but with the life of their king involved, not a soul would rejoice.

Namor didn't want his cousin to feel pity for him nor did he want her to worry, so he kept his other symptoms hidden away.

He smiled at her, his pink bottom lips stained with crimson and Namora's body prickled with goosebumps, the crease between her eyebrows deepening.

He reaches to iron them down with his thumb, there was no use for worrying for him. As he said before, he has lived through wars and famine throughout those five centuries of living, a petal won't kill a god.

"Believe in your king, I am alright."

He launches into another hacking fit and Namora could only stand and run her hand up and down his back. She doesn't shed tears often, she's a soldier and the king's closest aid, she wasn't allowed to show weakness for the fear of disappointing Namor.

But for this one time, she let a single droplet fall from her eyes. 

"Aiii, what did I say about worrying about me?" He says, voice hoarse from sore throat as he wiped her tears away.

"Talokan can't bear the loss of its king, I cannot think of a future where you don't get to lead it."

He laughed but was abruptly stopped by a couple of coughs. "I'll be fine, child. Don't cry, I will not die of any illness."

He repeated them to console the woman but in truth, he was also convincing himself. Namor didn't like the mystery of his illness, scared of it even but like any other hardships he has went through, he'll live.

With that, Namor continues down the hall leaving his cousin alone in the corridor, staring at his retreating back. Wide shoulders that used to look firm whenever she stared at it at every battle were now slumping as his body shook with another fit.

Namora felt helpless, stuck between following her king's orders of not uttering a single word of his condition outside the two of them and running to their reluctant ally, Wakanda, for help.

Their technologies are more advanced than any other nation, despite both having access to vibranium, it was them who handled and mastered the ore to aid them and fit it to satiate their nation's needs.

With the brain of the current Black Panther, Namora is sure she'd find help and medicine for her king from the princess. 

Other than her pride and loyalty as a Talokanil getting shattered by telling their previously-enemy nation of their king's illness, Namor's orders weighed on her shoulders like chains connected to the ground, his words are concrete, she had no choice but to follow his whims. 

But once it all becomes too grim, Namora pledged to herself to shed all pride and approach the princess for help.

She stayed silent, trusting her leader a little more as she guarded him whenever he performed his daily task of patrolling the borders and when he surfaced to meet the royalties of Wakanda to discuss their reluctant alliance and the Americans continued threats on the nation and its resources.

‘‘Why can’t we attack their vehicles before they enter Wakandan territory? Or eliminate the whole country altogether to remove the headache once and for all?” Namor suggested nonchalantly as he sat comfortably on the cushioned seats of the new throne room, paying no mind to the stink eyes he received from the other royals.

The Wakandan King scowled. "Why do we even bother inviting you in here when all your mouth can spout is war?”

Shuri waved M’baku off. “Let us not fight here like childrens. We need a solution as soon as possible. I don’t think agent Ross can—”

Then the most horrible chances happened and Namor started coughing violently. Namora arose to her feet in muted panic and in a blink, she’s supporting his body that shook with his coughs, standing in between him and the eyes of the panther if he ever barked petals once more.

This earned the Wakandan royalties’ attention, eyebrows knitting as they awaited for him to calm down. But when it relented after a few seconds passed, Shuri spoke up with her eyebrows knitted.

“Namor, do you need medical help? I can fix you up in my lab.”

But the feathered serpent king waved her worries off. His ribs constricting around his laboured heart at the call of his second name, he has never minded the use of it until it was the Wakandan princess who uses it. His heart throbs as he's once reminded of her distaste for him.

If only he wasn't driven by anger, he wouldn't have to suffer as much as he does now.

He coughed out another bloodied petal and he closed his palm around it, thankful for Namora's body blocking their sight. They mustn’t know.

“There is nothing to worry about here, princess.” He grinned. “Iron that creases between your eyebrows. If not, I would start mistaking it as your concern for me.”

Instantly, the princess’ worried expression crumpled into disgust and he laughed boisterously, an ache in his chest resurfaced and launching him into a small fit. He rose to his feet, not noticing how worry graced Shuri’s face once more as he wiped the blood from his lips discreetly.

But he wasn't fast enough when the smell of iron reached Shuri’s sharp nose and the hair on her nape stood at attention, no doubt alerted by it.

She wasn’t foreign to its smell and the symptoms the Talokan king displayed, if anything, she thinks he caught the same sickness her brother had. Seeing the concern from her face, King M’Baku spoke up from beside her.

“Are you sure you don’t need our aid?”

“I am worried about those coughs, I can smell the blood from here, Namor.” Shuri added.

He froze. Of course, the panther could smell it.

He doesn’t want to discuss his well-being further, he needs to retreat back into the ocean with Namora, the pain blooming in his chest almost unbearable as it shears another long line into his chest, its seams burning deep into his lungs.

“It’s been months already, princess. How about calling me by my real name?”

Shuri groaned. “By Bast’s name—”

“We are thankful for your offer but we must get going.” Namora butts in, foreseeing the path the current conversation will take. A frustrating scene of push and pull between a stubborn princess who only wants to help and a stubborn king who doesn't want it.

With a bow from her, she subtly held up Namor as they exited the throne room.

The apparent worry and panic in her face wasn’t missed by their allies. When M’baku heard the mention of blood, despite all of the horrors their reluctant ally had rained upon their nation, he felt uneasy for letting him off when they knew the symptoms all too well since it was the same illness that took their previous king, T’Challa.

The Feathered Serpent god might've cost their previous Queen's life and destroyed their city but they're merely humans who felt sympathy for others, an ugly feature of their mortality no matter what angle Shuri looks at it.

The princess doesn’t know how to react. She should be overjoyed at the timed life her mother’s murderer has yet here she is, worried beyond belief. Shuri could see the wicked grin N'Jadaka is giving her from the ancestral plane, could feel it even and her blood pressure arose once more.

She doubted her ancestors and the late queen would be enthusiastic to hear such a thing from her. 

“Are you sure you smelled blood from him?”

She turned to M’baku. “Yes, it worries me.”

If the man was surprised at her admission, he didn’t express it, nodding soundlessly instead as he stood up from his throne, taking his staff with him.

“Let us watch where it’ll lead us for now, it seems that god doesn't want us to meddle. But I am sure that cousin of his will soon find us if anything were to happen."

Shuri couldn't find it in herself to deny his words yet the worry settled deep in her gut remained unmoved. She massaged her fingers as she stared at the setting sun outside floor to ceiling glass panes behind the throne, thoughts muddled with possibilities and needless worries.

on a more serious note my feelings about harry potter remain complicated and leaning negative but on the whole i’ve become more defiant about what i’m willing to let people take from me. i refuse to let that woman take the joy that harry potter has brought me at various points in my life away from me. i refuse to let her actions taint memories and diminish the friends i found through a mutual interest. i was literally part of the wedding party for two of my best friends last month and i met them both a decade ago on hp tumblr. she can’t take that from us. she’ll have to rip the love from my cold dead hands.

This is the angst I need today 😌

“I stand in a valley watching it / and you are not there at all” (A Burning Hill - Mitski)

Redraw of a piece I posted a year ago! Comparison under the cut

2023 vs 2022

Really happy with the progress I’ve made since last year :D