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TREAT YOU BETTER

curly x reader | sfw

CW! gn reader, more platonic leaning but can be seen as romantic if you want, hurt comfort, j#mmy bashing, friends to best friends, pre-game

Summary! Simple, convince Curly that Jimmy isn’t good for him, and that he’s an asshole.

You stilled watching Jimmy talking to Curly.

Furrowed brows tightening when seeing how uncomfortable and stiff Curly had become when Jimmy started to expressing a certain amount of anger.

Too much anger.

“Jim, God- please-“

“No, it’s you that needs to do this! For me, or I’ll end up somewhere worse, and so will you.”

You grimaced at the language. You watched as Curly stepped back experimentally. Nervous and anxious around the angry man in front of him.

"God you know what! Fuck you Curly!"

Your eyes blinked rapidly as Jimmy walked away. It left Curly standing there with an opened mouth. Shaking clenched fists and clear incoming tears he chose to push down.

Softly, "Curly."

His body shook as he found you staring at him. Slowly you took his hands and led you to somewhere else in the mall. "Let it all out."

You pulled the man into an embrace. Curly's sobs were gut wrenching. Piled upon piles of repressed feelings were let out.

Softly you rubbed his back as he sobbed his loving heart out.

Curly was a man that cared too much, and didn't like conflict. Caring way too much about Jimmy who was horrible to him.

Curly was too good for that piece of shit.

Curly let that love affect everything. All to not upset the angry and manipulative Jimmy. You scowled at the thought of that man.

"Don't listen to that piece of shit, Curly. He's wrong." You whispered into the blondes ear.

"But-"

"Sshh. Don't talk." Hand goes up to his curls and ran a hand through them. Too far, maybe but it soothed the man in your arms.

"He's wrong. About you, Curly. You're not too much and it's him who is guilty. He's grown man that needed to take responsibility for his own actions."

Slowly, you pulled away. Your hands cupping the man's face firmly. Curly's eyes were puffy with red nose. Tears rolling down his cheeks as he stared at you.

"It is him who'll fall and only him. He's doing it to make it seem like it's your fault because he's dependent on you, Curly."

Curly didn't speak. He listened.

The screws were turning in his head as he listened to your words.

"Making you feel responsible for him then you'll fall for this little fuckery he's casting." You smiled. A laugh followed, "You're too kind and conflict avoiding, Curly."

You removed your hands from Curly's face. Still and frozen he watched you smile gently at him but firmness stayed.

"Don't settle for a piece of shit like him. No man treats his friend like that. Not like luggage, and clearly manipulating you like everything's your fault when it's his."

Curly nodded. He wiped his tears and snot away with his sleeve. "He's bad. To me?" A question and not a statement.

"Yes, he's bad for you. An asshole, Curly."

You squinted your eyes and saw how Curly was fighting himself in his head. "God, just what has Jimmy done to you, Curly."

You had a sneaking suspicion that if this continued then something would happen. Something terrible and Jimmy would do something terrible.

Something terrible to someone else, and Curly.

Curly wouldn't know how to help and it would be too late. It was best to put an end to this now, or else.

"That position at Pony's Express. Curly." Your voice was firm. Eyes practically glaring at Curly who froze up.

"I don't mean to be forceful but you can't allow Jimmy to be with you or on a ship with you or anyone honestly. I'd prefer it that way but if you do get him a job then make sure he's far away from you." You set a hand on Curly's shoulder.

"Or make sure he's set low on the ladder. He's gonna hurt people. He's gonna hurt you, Curly. So please." You begged.

"Okay...I see how he's...What he's done to me..." Curly spoke quietly. Still sniffling and tears still falling from his face.

He swallowed and cleared his throat. "Okay." He picked his head up.

Firmly.

Like a captain.

You smiled. Like a captain.

my (super)mannn he’s so adorable

DAVID CORENSWET as Superman Superman Featurette - Behind the Scenes Look

❝DOCTOR I CAN’T TELL IF I’M NOT ME.❞

-   ͙۪۪̥˚┊BATFAM X NEGLECTED!HEALER!READER ꒱ ˎˊ˗ 

There is only one thing you ever truly wished for in this life: a purpose.

Something that would justify your existence, that would give meaning to every breath, every wound, every sleepless night.

And you found it. Not in an empty promise or in the affection of others. You found it in your own power.

A selfish desire, yes, but undeniably yours. A purpose born not out of love, but out of need.

From that strange power growing inside you, the one that forced you to look at others’ suffering with cold, almost cynical eyes. As if every wound were a problem only you could solve. As if every scream of pain were a prayer meant solely for you.

You clung to that.

To the idea that your worth existed only in your abilities.

The ability to stop someone from dying in front of you. To rip death from their body with your own hands. To stitch broken flesh with threads that hurt, yes, but worked. That was the only thing that ever made you feel alive. The only thing that ever made you feel alive, needed.

For a while, it was enough.

For a long while, you were selfish.

It didn’t matter if they used you. It didn’t matter if it hurt. If every healing left another scar on you. If every salvation cost you a little more of the little you had left.

As long as you could keep doing it—healing, fixing, protecting— the price didn’t matter.

Because at the end of the day, you could lie down on that mattress of emptiness and tell yourself: “Today, I made it worth it.”

Your existence and your power meant something.

Of course, you didn’t have a mother to share secrets with, nor guardians who offered you love. Only faces that came and went, and the bitter understanding that you were just another burden in a broken system.

Until, by some twisted stroke of fate, you had the “pleasure” of meeting your biological father.

Bruce Wayne.

Billionaire. Philanthropist. Playboy.

Batman.

Even so, none of that really mattered to you. What truly hit you was learning that you had to leave everything behind and go to Gotham.

That cursed city, that concrete jungle drowned in darkness and crime. Where dreams go to die and bodies, if they’re lucky, go to sleep.

Gotham wasn’t a home. It was a prison for someone like you. A place where meta-humans like you were enemies, threats, problems to be contained.

Your power, your only purpose, was stripped away with nothing more than a change of zip code.

And that was the cruelest part of all.

Not being able to use it.

Not being able to save.

Not being able to be useful.

Your existence, reduced to ashes, like the bodies of those you didn’t reach in time.

It must be poetic, right? The healer who cannot heal. The savior without faith.

They hate you. You've felt it. That visceral resentment from those who survived because of you, but still blame you for what you couldn’t stop. Screams, stares, choked pleas— all of them pierced your soul deeper than any weapon ever could.

For someone who once swore to save lives, it’s only natural that those you vowed and wanted to save now express their utter disgust and despair toward the false, horrific salvation you once offered them.

And now? Now you live among strangers.

An immense mansion full of absences. With brothers who seemingly don’t recognize you, and a father who doesn’t see you.

Your arrival in Gotham wasn’t exactly ideal, at least, that’s how you think you remember it.

It’s hard for you to remember that moment. You don’t hold on to unnecessary memories… none of it will make you feel alive again.

Apparently, your new father figure has several children. Some of them are already adults. With lives of their own far from the mansion, you don’t know much about them, they were almost always too busy to say anything to you.

You can’t understand them, can’t they come up with better excuses? You don’t want these people’s attention.

These people can’t help you with your abilities. They can’t make you believe you’re still allowed to use them freely.

No, these people are just strangers who stumbled into your life overnight and want nothing to do with the problem. Not even your new father had the decency or responsibility to try forming a bond with you.

Bruce Wayne was an absent father. Not in the way someone leaves and disappears completely, but in the kind of absence that feels stronger the closer the person is. A hollow physical presence, like a ghost made of flesh and bone. One who could look you in the eyes and still not see you.

He struggled to communicate, to make time for you, to even remember that there was now one more occupied room in that massive mansion of his.

He doesn’t know how to deal with you, and you don’t know how to deal with him either. At first, you wondered if the problem was you. If you had done something wrong. If the way you talked, walked—even breathed, was so bothersome that he’d rather bury himself in work than give you an hour of his time.

But soon, you realized something even crueler: You don’t need a father. You’re not looking for one. You’re not waiting for one.

What you need is a patient. Someone you can heal. Someone who needs you.

Because that’s what you’ve always done. Heal. And Bruce… Bruce simply refuses to be healed.

But he doesn’t understand.

When you approach him, when you seek him out, when you try to speak to him, all he does is throw up a wall made of cold words, as practical and impersonal as that damn business suit of his.

“I’m busy.”

“Not now.”

“We’ll talk later.”

“It’s for work.”

Always the same. Always excuses with the bitter taste of indifference.

Is this what having a father is supposed to feel like? Because if it is, then it doesn’t feel any different from your days in foster care.

At least there, you knew you were alone. Here, they make you believe you’re not… but you are, more than ever.

You’ve learned to observe the details, as always. It’s one of the few things you’re good at, aside from using your power.

You notice the tired look in his eyes, the dark circles underneath, the way his fingers tense around his pen like he’s trying to crush it. The stack of papers on his desk never gets smaller, it’s like it multiplies just to keep you at a distance.

And the subtle changes… that lower tone in his voice when he sees you, like he can’t even be bothered to raise it for you. The way his eyebrows furrow, not out of anger, just… annoyance. Irritation.

That’s what hurt the most.

So you stopped trying. Because if you kept going, you were only going to be reprimanded by the one you were supposed to please. You convinced yourself that you don’t need his approval. That you don’t need his love. That you’re better off without him.

But then, why is it that every time you walk past his office, you pause for a second, hoping that door opens, just once, without you knocking first?

Why do you still need him to see you?

Richard Grayson is the eldest. The first adopted son of Bruce Wayne. Everyone sees him as a beacon of hope, the moral compass of this family made of shadows and scars. And it makes sense. He has that bright smile, that genuine warmth the others can barely fake. He gives out hugs without being asked, listens patiently, laughs easily, and has that absurd gift of making anyone feel seen, at least, if you’re one of his.

Because with you, it was always different.

From the beginning, Richard seemed kind. Seemed. But between that warmth and you, there was always a distance, like someone had drawn a curtain between the two of you. You heard his apologies more than you heard his actual voice.

“Sorry, I have to head out right now.”

“Sorry, I was already on my way to Blüdhaven.”

“Next time, I promise.”

He was always rushing. Always busy. Always somewhere else. And you… you’re not someone who believes in empty promises.

At first, you thought it was just bad luck. That maybe if you insisted a little, if you found an excuse, if you caught him in the kitchen, he might stay for five minutes. Just five. But those minutes never came. And you started to notice a pattern. How his demeanor shifted the moment you walked into the room. How his smile became more diplomatic. More rehearsed. How his footsteps sped up when he thought you weren’t watching.

You didn’t want to admit it at first, but something inside you began to whisper an uncomfortable truth; He was avoiding you.

And then you understood. If Richard Grayson, the kindest, the most human, the most "big brother" of them all, couldn’t be around you, then what was the point of trying with the others? What could you possibly expect from Jason, who barely speaks to you? From Tim, who seems more invested in his computer than in actual people? From Damian, who can barely tolerate his own shadow?

So you did the same. You avoided them. One by one. You decided it wasn’t worth it. That if you weren’t going to be a real part of this family, you weren’t going to pretend.

It’s easier that way. It doesn’t hurt as much if you’re the one walking away first.

But sometimes, when you see them laughing together from the staircase, or hear Richard speaking so fondly of the others, a part of you wonders if it was ever really your choice to walk away, or if they’d been leaving you behind from the very beginning.

Your suspicions didn’t take long to confirm. All it took was talking to a few of your supposed brothers to realize the pattern repeated itself.

Jason, Tim, Damian…

Each one was a story unto themselves. Each one was a maze of traumas, masks, and poorly calibrated emotional responses. But if you had to describe them in one word, it would be: inaccessible.

The second of your brothers was Jason, and from what little you could gather, because no one seemed eager to talk about it much, Jason had died. And then he came back. It wasn’t a metaphor. It wasn’t an exaggeration. He had been buried, and now he was not. That simple statement was enough to provoke a morbid curiosity, almost scientific. What had changed in his body? Did he suffer from partial necrosis? Brain damage? Did his muscles regenerate? What residual effects did resurrection have on human physiology? Everything in you screamed to investigate. To dissect. To understand.

It was a dangerous thought. You knew that. You repeated it to yourself like a mantra: too tempting for your own good.

But what confused you the most wasn’t his condition, it was his behavior toward you. Jason had this aura of latent violence, like dynamite that could explode with the wrong spark. But that wasn’t what kept you away. Not entirely. It was his inexplicable rejection.

You didn’t understand it. You didn’t provoke him. You didn’t talk to him, you didn’t interfere, you didn’t cross the line. And yet, his gaze was always sharp. As if your mere presence triggered something in him. Irritation. Annoyance. Maybe even disdain.

You wondered if it was your fault. If the way you were, the way you spoke, the way you were, simply bothered him. But you couldn’t find an answer. And though you wanted to, you knew that getting closer would be too risky.

Because you’ve seen the broken walls. The misaligned doors. The tables split in two like they were made of paper. You’ve felt the tension in the air when Jason enters a room and isn’t in the mood. And you know, without needing confirmation, that his punches aren’t soft. That his rage doesn’t distinguish between the guilty and the witnesses.

So, you avoid him.

Not out of fear exactly, but out of caution. Self-preservation. You don’t want to be the next crack in the walls of this house.

Tim was a different kind of strange. More than Jason, though in a completely different way. His oddity didn’t stem from aggression or visible trauma. It was more subtle. More internal.

Almost clinical.

You observed him, like you observe everything. With that gaze of yours that searches for patterns, inconsistencies, vulnerabilities. And in him, you found many.

Surprisingly, Tim was brilliant. Not just "smart for his age," but one of those cases where the brain moves faster than the body. Too fast. So much so, that sometimes it seemed like his body gave up halfway through.

The dark circles under his eyes were a constant. His responses were slow, as if they had to pass through a filter of a thousand thoughts before being verbalized. He walked like his mind was too heavy for his spine to carry. A shadow carrying ideas. You were surprised he hadn’t fainted yet from the combination of insomnia, chronic stress, and mild malnutrition.

No one asked you.

No one thanked you.

But still, you started leaving him food. Food that could sustain him without causing a stomach collapse. Nothing too obvious, of course. A yogurt here. Cut fruits there.

Something easy to eat between keystrokes. You allied yourself with Alfred in that small act of silent intervention. The old butler seemed to notice, but he never mentioned it. And you never confirmed it.

Tim would probably assume it was all Alfred’s doing. In fact, you counted on it.

Not because you wanted to keep it a secret. But because you knew that if he suspected you were behind something so... "thoughtful," it would only make him uncomfortable. He doesn’t know how to respond to care, to the intention behind such detail. Tim doesn’t know how to handle it if that sincere gesture comes from you.

Just like you would if any of them ever tried it with you.

Alfred... Alfred is a different matter.

Of all the people in the house, he’s the only one who acts like your existence isn’t a miscalculation. But he doesn’t fool himself. He doesn’t offer you love, or tenderness. He offers you structure. Routine. Measured phrases and cups of tea.

It’s not affection between you. It’s a sort of tacit alliance. Two functional people in the middle of a broken ecosystem.

You know he tries. But you also know it’s not enough for you.

You’ve seen children like you. In hospitals. In refugee camps. In temporary homes. Children who cling to an adult figure as if their life depended on it, and are then destroyed when that figure leaves. Or worse, when they stay but stop looking.

You don’t want that for yourself.

You convince yourself this is better. A working relationship. A dynamic where each one fulfills their role and no one crosses the line into the personal. Because if you get attached, if you let yourself believe this could mean something...

You know how that ends. They can’t give you what you’re looking for.

They can’t give you purpose.

They can’t return what was taken from you when you understood that your value only exists if you can heal, if you can serve, if you can be useful.

You still don’t know who you are when you’re none of that.

Back to the subject of your "family," the last on the list of who your siblings were, was Damian.

The youngest of the group. The second biological son of Bruce Wayne.

You said it out loud once, casually: "Ah, so he is the real one."

No one found it funny.

Unlike the others, Damian didn’t need time to show you that you weren’t welcome. He didn’t bother to fake courtesy or neutrality. From the beginning, he made it clear that your existence was expendable.

Maybe it was your silence. Maybe it was your lack of reaction to his provocations. Maybe he just didn’t like you. But he pointed his katana at you the first month you arrived.

The blade against your neck wasn’t a metaphor. It was real, cold, intimidating contact. You felt a thread of power activate instinctively in your body, a reflex of defense, of desperation. If you had let it go, well, you wouldn’t be here, mentally recalling this account.

You didn’t. Not for him. For you.

Because it wasn’t worth it. Because using your power on someone in your “family” would mean admitting they were important enough to hurt you.

They weren’t. Not yet.

You can’t risk being discovered. No one can know that you actually have this power. None of them can know.

Bruce appeared just in time to prevent the confrontation from escalating. Did he protect you? Not exactly. He simply said something like, “Damian has a complicated history,” as if that justified a death threat in the family kitchen.

Is it common in Gotham to justify a child’s homicidal impulses if they've had a difficult childhood?

That was your question. You didn’t ask it out loud. No one would have liked the answer.

It was also that day you found out that Damian was Bruce’s biological son. And you couldn’t help but think about the irony of it all.

The same Bruce Wayne who, in the public eye, was a scandalous figure, a charming, charismatic playboy billionaire with endless parties, had exactly one biological child. One. Not five. Not a legion of illegitimate children scattered across the world. Just one.

That kid turned out to be a ticking time bomb with a traditional sword.

Everything fit so perfectly wrong that it almost seemed planned.

With the girls, it's complicated. Maybe even more so because, deep down, a part of you thought they could be different.

Stephanie. She was like a female version of Richard, a constant smile, a vibrant energy that everyone seemed to adore, except you.

She greeted you with empty enthusiasm, one that never went beyond the surface. It was easy to see that behind her good mood, there was a locked door she wasn’t going to open for you.

And you understood. Because you'd seen it before.

People who act as if everyone is welcome, except you.

Stephanie was just another confirmation that no matter how hard you tried to fit in, this home was already full. You weren’t in the original plan. You never were.

Barbara, on the other hand, was simpler. She was hardly ever at the mansion. You’d see her sporadically, a red ghost in the shadows of fleeting visits. And still, in that limited time, she always found a way to smile at others, share a joke, a quick conversation, a knowing glance… Never with you.

Not once.

It was as if your presence went by unnoticed, not even worth including out of courtesy.

Cassandra was the most honest, in a way. She didn’t pretend. She didn’t smile. She didn’t speak.

She ignored your attempts to help with almost admirable efficiency. You could attribute it to her trauma, her history, her way of seeing the world… but that excuse starts to wear thin when it’s the only one left to justify everything.

Maybe you’re just not interesting. Maybe you don’t even stand out enough to be actively rejected.

Or is it because you don’t even deserve her attention?

It was easier to believe that they all had a reason not to see you.

Easier than admitting that maybe, you weren’t that hard to ignore.

What was dangerous about this family wasn’t the weapons, nor the katanas, nor the fists that had broken ribs more than once.

It was the mask.

It took you time to understand it. First, it was a hunch. Then a suspicion. Finally, a certainty: they were all vigilantes. Heroes of Gotham. The same ones who make your hands tremble when you try to use your power. The ones who make your gift feel useless. As if it were a mistake rather than a blessing.

The irony is so perfect it could almost make you laugh.

You can’t feel useful, can’t do the one thing you know how to do perfectly, because you’re surrounded by those who fight so that people and beings like you are neither necessary nor welcome.

And yet, you prefer them this way.

Cold. Distant. Detached. Unknown. Because connections are dangerous. Because memories weigh. Because at some point, someone taught you that affection is the hook that precedes the pain.

Because you know it better than anyone. When you get attached to someone, it’s not just pain that you feel when you lose them. It’s as if a part of you dies too. Not because you lose them, but because without your power, without that “usefulness,” you feel like you never deserved to have them in the first place.

In Gotham, you can’t do anything.

You can't heal.

You can't save.

You can't be useful.

You can't be loved. Or at least, that’s what they taught you to believe.

Here, you have no parts left that you can afford to lose. Not while you're trapped in this city that doesn’t need what you can give. A family that doesn't know what to do with you. You don’t know what to do with yourself either.

They can’t give you a purpose.

They never could.

They didn’t even try.

You expected so little, that not even that surprised you.

Until you found him.

The only living person who not only recognized your power, but accepted it for what you wanted it to be:

A miracle.

He called himself Doctor Masashi. A kind voice, a serene figure. But behind that calmness was surgical precision. He knew exactly how to shape you. How to rebuild you, only to destroy you again with elegance.

He was the only one who never lied to you about what you were:

A weapon.

A tool.

A precious jewel that only shines when it bleeds for others.

A perfect puppet.

And you, grateful for the strings.

He gave you direction when all you had was guilt.

He gave you structure when all you had was emptiness.

He gave you… meaning. A cruel meaning. A conditioned meaning. But still, you took it.

It can't be that bad, right?

Clinging to that.

Clinging to him.

Clinging to something that tells you that you can still be "something."

Because if someone, even just one person, can look at you and say that you are good for something, then you're not broken.

Then you're not alone. Then everything that hurt was worth it.

Even if guilt drowns you every night.

Even if the nightmares never rest.

Even if the hands you tried to save still drag you from their graves, begging for a second death.

It doesn't matter. As long as someone believes that keeping you alive makes sense... then that’s enough.

Right?

Maybe you're a weapon.

Maybe you're selfish.

Maybe you did it all just out of fear of disappearing, for that unbearable need to feel alive.

The need to feel that you matter. To have a place to fit in.

But at least you're something. In this shattered world, that's already more than many have.

But how much more can you take before you truly break? How much longer before you completely crumble, like so many times you did on the inside? How much will the price of his greed cost… and your desperate desire to remain useful?

Because in the end, it wasn't Bruce.

Nor your brothers.

Nor your sisters.

None of them ever knew who you were.

None of them understood.

Only him. Only Masashi.

That’s what scares you the most. Because if even he can make you believe that’s all you’re worth. If even he manages to make you cling to that idea, then maybe, you were never more than that.

Maybe you were never more than your power, and in Gotham, where you can no longer use it...

Not even that belongs to you.

South Peanuts

(It’s also my first time drawing Sparky! :D)

KISS OF AN ANGEL

akiko yosano x reader | sfw

Cw! description of injuries, yosano backstory, gn! reader, romantic leaning, hurt comfort

The way she called your name haunted you.

The pain was unbearable and that scream of hers was unforgettable.

She called for you as she grabbed onto your body. Hers close to you. Blood seeped into her white blouse and stained her skin.

She was crying.

Butterflies flew around you. Your wounds healing and now no scars flooded your body. "Honey!" Yosano cried and cried.

Her gloved hands hold you close to her body. She loved you and she couldn't dare lose you.

Awake and alive you blinked. Your hands moved to hold her as she cried. Your mind jumbled and truly traumatized by the act of almost dying.

Recognized the horrors those soldiers felt.

But you'd never fault your dear angel for that. She was a child and was doing what she was told.

You hated seeing her cry. You didn't want to see her cry.

"I'm okay..."

Her eyes shot open seeing you alive and well. "You damn idiot." She held you in her lap. Her lips caught yours in a passionate one.

Her gloved hands clung to you tightly, never daring to ever let go again. "Please don't leave me." She begged you.

You softly sighed. A sweet smile crossed your lips as your hands ran through her locks, "Of course my angel."

"Tch, your so corny." You giggled feeling her lips kiss your cheek. You felt the wetness of her lipstick and tears mixed together on her cheeks.

You clung to her chest as she held you tightly.

She was your guardian angel, and you were her fruitless follower who'd do anything to keep her happy.

To stay alive and make her happy. Her eyes and lips. Her personality and everything she went through. Your Akiko was perfect.

She kissed you again and you relished in it.

Feeling at peace despite the destruction around you.

ALONE WITH ME

anya x reader | sfw

CW! gn reader, referenced s@, jimmy bashing, hurt comfort, ambiguous ending, pre-crash, can be seen as either platonic or romantic, Drabble

Summary! instead of coming to curly with what happened anya confides in you about what happened to her.

“Can I talk to you.”

Anya asked you with a blank stare. You blinked and nodded with a smile, “Sure what is it?”

You noticed her eyes flicker to Jimmy who was talking with Captain Curly. There was something in Anya’s eyes but then dismissed it and grabbed your hand.

“Anya?” You said a little louder than normal, and it caught the attention of Curly and Jimmy. Anya spared nothing and sped you guys to the medbay.

You were surprised to see her close and lock the door.

“Anya? What’s going on?” You asked hesitantly. Fiddling with the sleeve of your uniform you watched her body language. Anya was figidty and struggled to meet your eyes.

She looked closed to tears.

“Hey it’s okay… Can I touch you?”

She shivered at your words. Her eyes looking up at you and nodded. Slowly you held her hands and staring at her with soft eyes. “It’s okay. What is it, Anya?”

Her voice trembled, “uh…night before something happened to me.”

Her body was tense and trembling as she continued to articulate what she was gonna say.

“Jimmy, he came into my room and…”

Your gasp cut her off. Immediate anger filled you and then sadness. “Oh Anya.” Your hands tightened on to hers. “A hug?”

She immediately took your offer. You two held each other in an embrace. On the bed you held her. Anya’s head on your chest as she cried her loving heart.

“We can talk to Curly, and we’ll see what we can do about that asshole.” You subtly growled saying the monster’s name.

“What if Curly doesn’t do anything? He and Jimmy are friends.” She whimpered.

“The birthday party; you saw how Jimmy was…” You titled your head to see her becoming more teary eyed.

“I’m pregnant.”

Your eyes went wide. “Mother fucker.” You cursed lowly. “We’ll figure this out. I’ll beat that fucker, or maybe throw him out into space.”

Your hands went through her black locks. “It’ll be okay. We’ll convince Captain Curly, even tell Daisuke and Swansea, and we can deal with him.”

Your hands cupped her face, “it’ll be okay. I won’t ever let anyone hurt you again. If no one does anything then I’ll be the one to kill the bastard…”

“Even without Captain Curly’s permission.”

HER PRINCESS

absolute wonder woman x reader | nsfw

CW! fem reader, top diana, magical genitalia, vaginal fingering, girls kissing, soft sex, use of rope, drabble, soft diana, implied future diana/steve trevor/reader

more self indulgent posts bc why not :)

The way she grabbed your thighs so easily and with her strength she pulled you to her. A smile on her lips.

You could see the flashing of red in her normally blue eyes. Diana, a beautiful princess who was the daughter of Circe and the Princess of Hell.

You wondered how you got so lucky.

“Pay attention.”

You listened immediately as her cock made from magic was pressed against you in an experimental way.

It her first time doing this.

The ropes around your wrists stung as you moved in response.

“It’s alright dear.” Her delicate fingers trailed up your opening and in they went. Her ghostly touch was heavenly as she pushed against your walls.

You squealed in response. Calling her name as she readied you. Opening and stretching you wide even with your scrambling legs.

“You’ll injure yourself. Be careful. The rope may hurt you.” She whispered with a smile. You were nodding as you panted. Her fingers still taking every thing you were worth.

You made a small noise as she pulled out her fingers. Those same fingers trailing up your thigh and pulling it out further. Her lips kissed your abdomen.

You easily took her into your arms, and her head resting on your chest. Feeling her naked chest on your stomach as she entered you slowly. Coming up to your face, and her hair tickling your nose.

“Breathe my love. Steve will be coming home soon, and he’d love have you coherent.” She laughed as you whimpered.

She caught your lips as the world dwelled into something beautiful and pleasurable.

Paradise.

I'm not an artist but sometimes I draw???

tall people who also like to float

I think he did it just right

guys i think he overdid it