They're Meant For Each Other Or Something

❝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.

PREACH 🙏

I could write a full-on essay on this. I might honestly

I just really miss pre 2000s Batman. The one that didn’t abuse the kids he saved up from abusive homes and from the streets, the one that loved and raised them. That mourned them and grieved hard enough Alfred thought Bruce would kill himself. Yes he trained them and pushed them to the brink but he still loved them. Ferociously. Step to his family and he steps to you in his 300,000 dollar rich man loafers.

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.

HOUSE OF CARDS

mortal kombat chrs x zatanna!reader intros | sfw

CW! gn reader, mk1 styled intros, can be seen as either platonic or romantic

characters! raiden, kung lao, kenshi

part 1

RAIDEN

Raiden : Your naturally gifted with your powers?

You: I was born with such powers thanks to my mother and father.

-

You: So Chosen One, interested in being part of my show?

Raiden: Me? I’d be honored.

-

Raiden: Do you really think I can amount to much as Lord Liu Kang?

You: I believe, so therefore it’ll happen.

-

You: Fairly skilled at that electric magic, aren’t you skilled.

Raiden: You think so? I don’t think there’s anybody more skilled than you.

KUNG LAO

You: That hat of yours is quite exceptional.

Kung Lao: Yes! Finally someone understands my vision!

-

Kung Lao: You and Johnny are putting on a show! Could I be apart of it?!

You: We’ll see. What exactly with your hat can you do?

-

You: We should switch hats.

Kung Lao: I don’t think a pretty thing like you could handle it.

-

Kung Lao: You can really do anything with your magic! What exactly can’t you do?

You: Anything I can’t do is nonexistent to me, because belief is all I need.

KENSHI TAKAHASHI

Kenshi: What does Sento tell you?

You: You very loved, Kenshi Takahashi. Both in death and life.

-

You: The gods have truly blessed you with Sento despite your lack of sight.

Kenshi: How exactly do you know that for sure?

-

Kenshi: You and Johnny surely gave a fantastic show.

You: Nothing like stage and movie magic mixed together with a little magic.

-

You: I could heal your eyes if you like.

Kenshi: It’s alright, I’ve grown accustomed to my destiny and it is like this I’ll achieve it.

As a someone from the Midwest this is true ☝️

I desperately need more fics exploring the fact that Clark was born and raised in the rural midwest, and Bruce was a Jersey rich boy.

Give me Clark taking his shoes off when entering a house, and bringing something to dinner

Give me Bruce being absolutely confused because "what the hell is a potluck"

Give me Clark doing a proper midwest goodbye and Bruce being confused why he hasn't left when he said he was going to go 30 minutes ago and their still talking

(Even better if when Clark first says he's going to go Kon and Jon make no move to leave because they know it's going to be a while)

"They’re not collateral damage — they are being targeted."

The image you see is not from a war movie. It's a real X-ray of a Palestinian child. A sniper's bullet pierced her skull. This was not an accident. It was a calculated shot — to the head. How many children must bleed before the world opens its eyes?

I see this, and I tremble. Because I, too, am a mother. My own child is injured. He cries every night from pain. He needs urgent medical care — but we are trapped under siege, under fear, under silence.

How long before my son becomes another X-ray? Another hashtag? Another number?

If you're reading this, you have power — power to share, power to donate, power to care.

Help me get my son out. Help save him before it’s too late. Gaza’s children are not targets. They are lives. They are futures. Please don’t look away

Please Donate now:👇👇 👇

gofundme.com

Donate to Join Us in Our Struggle: Save Our Family from War in Gaza, organized by Ghazal Naseer

‎‏Dear friends, ‎‏My name is Ghazal Naseer, from pales… Ghazal Naseer needs your support for Join Us in Our Struggle: Save Our Famil

✅️My campaign is vetted by el-shab-hussein& Nabulsi's, my number verified on the list is ( #355)✅️ 👇

Google Docs

Vetted Gaza Evacuation Fundraiser List

honestly one of the main reasons I like dc is that they can’t keep a storyline straight for shit. anything I don’t like is just *not real*. that’s different storyline babes what are you talking about???

like at this point I can consider shit like wfa and hell even well written fanfics as canon bc who knows what’s going on with those funky little people?? certainly not the dc writers

🎀"MISTRESS OF MAGIC"🎀

mortal kombat men & zatanna! reader intros | sfw

characters - liu kang , shang tsung , johnny cage

cw! mk1 styled intros, gn! reader, could be seen as either platonic or romantic

part 2

LIU KANG

You: God and Keeper Of Time? Talk about powerful.

Liu Kang: No need to flatter me.

-

Liu Kang: I look forward to your magic show.

You: I know you will! Johnny and I worked hard on it.

-

You: Belief is a rather fragile thing...

Liu Kang: You would know that better than anyone.

-

Liu Kang: You're father's fate was hardest thing to softened.

You: Is that so, then thank you for trying.

SHANG TSUNG

You: Rather egotistical man you are?

Shang Tsung: You're too polite, my dear.

-

Shang Tsung: Such a waste of power.

You: Thank the gods it never laid itself in your hands.

-

You: In another world your a good sorcerer.

Shang Tsung: Considering your supreme belief I'm almost inclined to believe you.

-

Shang Tsung: The battle of sorcerers begins today.

You: You lost this battle the moment you started using your gift for evil.

JOHNNY CAGE

Johnny Cage : Think about it, Johnny Cage and the Mistress of Magic!?

You: I quite like that idea, Cage.

-

You: With my magic anything is possible.

Johhny Cage: Not as powerful as movie magic.

-

Johnny Cage: is it true your a descendent of Leonardo Da Vinci

You: The one and only, Johnny Cage.

-

You: Would you help me show Outworld the wonders of showtime?

Johnny Cage: Say no more dollface.

Johnny Cage (top) x Kenshi Takahashi (bottom) smut. Maybe manhandling kink and rough smut followed by fluff/comfort (feel free to write whatever floats your boat).

🎀"LITTLE MOMENTS"🎀

johnny cage x kenshi takahashi | nsfw

cw! explicit sexual content, no plot/what plot, fluff and comfort, rough sex, biting, fluffy end, aftercare, top johhny cage, bottom kenshi takahashi, choking, attempt at dirty talk (I'm trying something new pls help), coming inside

thank you for the request! i had a lot fun with this since this type of smut is out of my expertise. It was fun experimenting!

Red marks were prevalent on the man's skin as he was turned by the hips. The cloth around his eyes moved slightly against its knot.

A light gasp came from Kenshi's lips as he pleaded for something to happen. The body in front of him was Johnny who had that stupid grin on his face.

"Johnny-"

The man came down sharply with a pinch to the blind man's thigh.

"Quiet."

Johnny lightly laughed as he entered once again into the other man.

Kenshi gasped which was followed with a noise. His tattooed hands clawed at the man's back as he was subjected to desperate and rough thrusts.

"Please-"

"Quiet!"

The blind man threw his head back as his sweet spot was hit hard and continuously by the assailant above him. The assault continued and Kenshi found himself trapped between the arms of Johnny. The weight pressured down and Kenshi groaned at the slight pain.

He felt the pressure ease up.

"God! Johnny!" A hand cupped over his mouth. He whined against the skin as he was assaulted even harder.

"Talk and I'll make it worse for you." A teasing tone from the actor followed that action. "How bout' some choking?" Kenshi groaned against his hand at that. Down below he throbbed and moved continuously as he was pushed down into the silk sheets.

"Got it Ken-Doll." The hand was removed and it went to the blind man's neck. Firm and tight. On instinct, Kenshi's hands clung to the wrist of the man above him. Kenshi opened his mouth for air, but nothing came in.

Once again he throbbed. Tried to make whines and whimpers but all that came was the strangled noises from being choked. "Feel good, Ken-Doll?" Johnny grinned darkly. The man below him simply tried to whine at his words and squeeze his neck.

The strangled words died and into bubbles. For some relief, Johnny removed his hand. The sweetness of air entering made the man in the sheets gasp. Gritting his teeth he hissed feeling his muscles contract.

A moan came from above. Kenshi lightly laughed, and a light slap was hit against his thigh. "Oh, you think that's funny?" A shiver ran up Kenshi's spine, and his filled crevice was suddenly empty. His whine did not stay long as a yelp was caused by the firm hands on his bare hips.

Like before Kenshi found himself on his hands and knees. His back was pushed by strong hands that were too calloused, and they weren't kind to him. Pecs and stomach were pushed against his back as a familiar organ filled him.

A moan spilled out before his mouth was taken by the other man. A groan within the kiss came out as Kenshi's blindfold was pulled lightly against his face.

A firm hand was on his hip as he was thrusted into and pushed down in the fabric below. It was all too much. The bruising speed was too much.

Kenshi ripped his head away for the need of air. Johnny made a noise of glee watching the man below him whine. "Too much for you Ken-Doll? Can't handle it?" He teased relentlessly.

"I'm gonna cum-"

"Do it."

A growl came from the topping male as Kenshi groaned as his throbbing cock came onto the sheets. The clenching of the muscles around Johhny was intense. The tightness itself made the actor cum.

"Fuuuck!-"

Johnny groaned loudly. His entire weight dropped onto Kenshi who groaned in pain and pleasure. He panted due to the overstimulation of his cock that was making friction against the ruined silk bedsheets.

The room was full of panting and moments breathing heavily. Ruffles of fabric moving and a creak of the bed moved as bodies moved around. Kenshi groaned as body weight was released and there was no longer any pressure. A whimper follow when there was friction between the sheets and his cock.

Pulling out allows a flow of white substance to come out. Thick and lots of it. Johnny patted the other's rear end and he left quick on his feet. Kenshi groaned as he picked himself back up, and just as he was on his knees hands grabbed him.

"No moving, Ken-Doll." The tussle of hair moved as his blindfold was loosened. "Let me take care of you." A chuckle from the blind man filled the air as he was pulled into the actor's chest.

"You were just manhandling me, and now you're talking me to be nice?" He laughed mockingly.

"Oh shut it." Johnny playfully teased. When wiping the other's lower section he grabbed onto the other cock and squeeze.

"Ah! Johnny!" A dark chuckle was heard from beside his ear, like a whisper.

"Don't be a brat."

Light laughter was released from Kenshi's lips. Cleaned he turned around and relished in the hold of the actor. "I'll hold you to it." They shared a laugh.

"You're such a brat."

wasn't gonna post any of my art but I decided why not

So here's a sketch of a possible hero/vigilante costume for my DC OC; Dolly Moonin or AkA "The Nymph" :)