some of u guys are literally porn addicts! i’m sorry but someone had to say it. it’s practically impossible to find fics that aren’t smut, no matter which tag ur looking in, and it’s so fucking annoying. i don’t mean this in a conservative way, but it’s not normal to have every single fic inside a tag be smut. unless ofc it’s in the smut tag itself.
edit: some of u guys are missing my point, I READ SMUT !!!! i don’t mean that no one should write smut ever, but it’s getting to a very concerning point where EVERYTHING is smut, and some people don’t read anything that doesn’t have it. and it’s not just fics, just look at comments of any video that recommends a book, “is there spice?” “if there isn’t spice i don’t want it.” like WHAT??? and it’s also specially annoying when i’m looking for something to read inside the fluff/angst tag and all i find is smut smut smut
I genuinely don’t understand where the rumour for chapter 5 being the last chapter came from. Mob games never made such a statement and it would have been in every piece of media they released promoting chapter 5 if that was the case but it wasn’t. What’s funnier is people getting upset about it not being the final chapter despite there being no official statement anywhere that 5 was ever going to be the final chapter.
if you’re MAGA, if you’re racist, if you’re homophobic, if you’re transphobic, if you’re not a feminist, if you’re not against deportation, if you’re against abortions, if you like the orange man, if you’re pro israel
BLOCK ME RIGHT NOW!!!!
didn’t think i’d have to say it again but ig i do!!
summary: adler doesn’t go back to berlin to forget, but he isn’t so eager to remember, either. after leaving you for dead on that clifftop in the arctic, he knows best to leave the past well alone. too bad that past seems to be alive and walking right in front of him; though where he wants to forget, it seems you’ve already beaten him to the punch.
or; bell survives solovetsky and only has a hole in her head and amnesia to show for it.
read on ao3
tags/cw: bell!reader, amnesia, light angst, referenced adlerbell, somehow bell survives the ending of cw, adler can't let shit go, adler is not capable of remorse but mayyybe a lil guilt?? dog symbolism always, no pairing yet but hopefully i continue this as a spicy drabble series idk
wc: 2.7k
a/n: sooo this is my first fic for the cod fandom and the first fic i've posted online in a long time so hopefully this lil ramble suffices!! i've had adlerbell brainrot and wanted to get at least something out before bo6 ruins all of my headcanons so here's a snippet of something i hopefully find the motivation to continue into a mini series. enjoy :')
Sometimes, he goes back to Berlin.
Stumbling out of the muggy bar into the dank alleyway out the back, Adler fishes out a pack of cigarettes from the front of his jacket; two firm knocks of it against his palm before he plucks one out with his mouth, pockets the box, and flips open his lighter. The clink of the metal echoes into the empty around him, the sudden quiet suffused with the sounds of passing cars on the street, muffled laughter from inside the bar, and the distant barking of dogs. Strays.
The cigarette ignites, glowing a cherry red, and he gasps around the filter greedily. Upon exhale, he sighs.
Adler isn’t a sentimental man by any means. What little he clings to, he does so with a loose grip, less than happy but stolid enough to allow whatever else he deems unnecessary slip through his fingers. Places, people. Things. Memories. Tucks the important things- logic, rationality, work, duty- into orderly compartments at the forefront of his mind, archived and marked off ‘til he needs it, while the rest, the mess, gets done away with, thrown into the great black gorge of oblivion. Anything else that stays- more often than not a thorn in his side, an unbidden, wriggling tumour he can’t find let alone cut out- is sequestered to a dark aperture in the back of his mind, anchored deep where it can’t come back up. Yet somehow, some nights, they always do. The smell of his ex-wife’s hair. The day he got his scar. Vietnam. The lab. Solovetsky—
The next word, the name, forks across his mind like lightning, and he bites his tongue before he can think it. It sits at the back of his mouth, nestled like an aching cavity in his molars. A tremulous breath that he forces down with another drag of his cigarette. Out with the rest. Out with the rest.
The barking doesn’t cease. Dogs, a pair of them, he can hear a couple streets over. He pictures them from the gravelly register of their snarling- maybe German Shepherds, a Bullmastiff or a Rottweiler. Their fight enunciated by the violent rattling of chain-link fences, segregated, the only threshold that keeps teeth from necks.
But no, not a sentimental man. He tells himself that the itch to revisit Berlin every Summer is for superficial reasons, and by no means is renting out a shithole hotel room opposite a sewer-laden river considered a vacation from anything other than the luxuries he gorges himself mindlessly on at home- maybe this is to keep him humble, more than anything. It doesn’t do well to remind himself of old times, not when he’s lived the life he has. Remembering seldom accompanies itself with the bittersweetness of reminiscence, and the taste it leaves in his mouth is always acrid. He doesn’t miss Berlin any more than he misses that dismal safehouse, or that sterile room he wheeled you into, questioned- tortured- no, interrogated- well, he doesn’t care to remind himself of the picture. Or the person he strapped to the gurney. But he catches himself thinking back to the city divided more than he likes to admit, and for whatever ostensible reason it is that drags him back here, he relents to it every time.
He tells himself it’s the weather, the cool rain a nice reprieve from the scorching California heat. Or that the food is better, not so much overprocessed shit and sugars. Can take his coffee as black as he likes without the waitress turning her nose up about it and double-triple-checking if he’s sure. And it’s the people, maybe, who leave him well enough alone. Or the drinks. The views, some places. The- air.
Not like Arctic air. Not like—
The one dog’s snarl rips bloodcurdling through the night, all froth and venom, and as the chain-link fence screeches and judders in its rusted welding the other mutt quiets a moment. Cowers under the meaner dog’s ferocity. Then, like it had been wounded, it lets out a low, anguished howl, beast reduced to a scared little pup. Adler holds the smoke in his chest around a stifled breath anticipating a release. But the first dog just grumbles, the fence clinks, and there isn’t much noise after that.
But the quiet doesn’t last long- just as Adler drops his cigarette and snuffs it with a wrench of his heel, another sound resonates, yowling through the alley.
The grinding of tires upon wet asphalt crunches from just beyond the alleyway entrance. The streetlamp overhanging the entryway glares bright yellow as it bounces off of the garishly coloured taxi cab, pulling up to a groaning halt outside the bar.
He thinks nothing of it, pulling at the collar of his leather jacket. It’s getting cold, and he’s left his drink inside. Wouldn’t want to waste good beer. Adler turns, and makes for the door.
And you step out of the car.
A half-finished cigarette bounces on the sidewalk before you exit, the softened heel of your boot following soon after in a splash upon the flooded curb. Your German is rusty- always has been- but it’s easy enough to utter a quick and easy danke as you pull yourself up out of the cab. The door shuts with a slam, and you tilt your head back to gaze up at the sign above the bar- Der Fluss Lethe glaring in faded lightbox red- and you let out a contented sigh, your breath suspended in the frigid air. Pink, bitten fingers pluck at your gloves, fingerless faded green knit, shovelling them into your jacket pocket.
Adler’s fist is already curled around the handle of the back door as he clocks your presence in his periphery, a stranger like any other- but your image resembles the one that coagulates in the borders of old memory, the dried blood of you he hasn’t been able to wash his hands of since ‘81. Enough that he does a double take, his eyes wide behind tinted glasses, and he stops, his heart following suit.
He’s seen enough bodies in his time to fill the morgue in his mind twice over, and plenty ghosts to wander coldly among the unmarked graves. Vietnam alone is an unwinding cemetery stretching endless, catacombs along the inside of his skull, lined with what his old shrink would call remorse. Guilt. As if the feeling mattered. As if self-reproach could turn self-flagellation into something so incandescent as redemption. As if the bile in the back of his throat could bring back the dead.
And it couldn’t, because it isn’t… that’s not—
Bell.
It’s in the way you stand, your back rigid, that slight slouch to your shoulders, always dragged down upon you like they bore the weight of the whole world (and they did, once, do you remember?). The pelting of rain smacks off of the lapels of your jacket and ricochets like stars, caught in the light of the streetlamp overhead, but for all he knows or cares it could be raining diamond and all he sees is you- the wrinkling of your nose as you accommodate to the cold, how your cheeks flush at the chill (as they had those nights he pulled you into the darkroom, evidence of your apprehension drowned in the red glow of safelights); your hair is longer, unkempt, but still that same colour (clumps he’d find in his clenched fist when you’d argue yourselves into a wrestling match, pinning each other by the throats to dented walls in Die Landebahn); that scar upon your brow; that wavering line of your lip, pursed and hiding behind your reticence as you always did, and your eyes- your eyes—
—you feel someone watching—
—your eyes turn, and fix upon him with the startled softness of a doe, hunter betrayed by the snapping of a branch underfoot. Adler’s heel crunches against broken glass, his hand lingering right in that threadbare threshold upon the doorhandle, and he can’t speak, can’t move, can’t think—
Open the door, Bell, open the door—
—and you stop outside the cab, your breath caught in your throat. You see a shadow in the alley, in the shape of a man.
The darkness of the alley gives enough cover that you don’t see much, but what you do make out of the man prickles at a part of your mind long dormant: the haughtily broad set of the shoulders; the halo of blond tinted red just beneath the flickering exit light above the door where he stands; the shadow of a strong, clenched jaw; and in the brief glinting of passing headlights as cars rush on behind you, you see a face half gorged by a thick, forked scar, a fissure struck down his furrowed expression. A pair of dark aviator glasses hide those eyes that you know are looking at you, reflecting back nothing but your own bewilderment.
There is something you know. Deep inside that half rotted head of yours, where an incomplete recollection of your existence before you awoke bleeding on that clifftop lies, you feel a twinge of recognition. Familiarity. Something. Something stirring deep in your marrow- a fear inherited, a conditioned surrender, a faded polaroid, a kiss? Your migraine, chronic, comes clawing back with a vengeance, as it does most nights, but this time with a savage fervour that wrenches your face into an involuntary grimace. Where the hole in your head had once been all those years ago it tickles and burns, burrowing into your brain and groping greedy fingers along remnants of memory. It claws at you, digging through your amygdala to find something fresh, something old, something palpable, real, something- anything. Searching what little remains visible to you in the thick fog of your own mind to pin a meaning to this feeling, an answer to your question, a name to that face.
You’ve seen him before. You swear. Somewhere. In a dream, reoccurring, behind a red door. You don’t know how, or why you’d think you recognise him- in those dreams, the door never even opens. Your hand ever stuck on the handle, jammed and impenetrable, what sits behind it forbidden to you. Like not even your own mind wants you to know. It confines you to your ignorance, almost blissful.
Adler’s heart kicks violently in his chest. He shot you. He killed you. He’d heard your death rattle on that clifftop in Solovetsky and the sound was almost like singing, your last word, your last breath. A miserere for your short and fractured life. And he’s looking at your ghost, standing there all owl-eyed and as beautiful as the day he found you bleeding out on that airstrip. Before he took you. Before he took you and collared you and made a damned mess of things.
The only thing separating you from the Bell he knows he killed- his Bell- is the star-shaped scar split across your left temple. The only wound he never had to sit and heal as he belligerently patched you up, poking and preening you like his prize dog. Yet in spite of never seeing it before, he recognises the wound all too well. He put it there himself.
And as you stand there for that brief moment- no more than twelve seconds stretched to an eternity- he thinks for a moment that you’ve put it together. You recognise him. You see him. As he is. You’ve figured him out, Bell, as you always do. You’re the only one to have gotten away with it, nearly. Or so he thought. And now he’s watching a corpse having dug itself out of the grave he put it in, standing there, staring at him. Suppose you’ve always been a dead man walking.
You could do it, he thinks. Turn. Fling your heel round and barrel towards him with all the enmity of a cornered animal. He thinks of the strays, barking. Can picture your mouth frothing at the sides as you sink your teeth down into him- gnarled canines, hooked to your chain-link fence- which he probably deserves. Not an unfamiliar feeling by any stretch, but one faraway enough to seem almost sweet now through the hazy lens of nostalgia. If there truly is a sentimental bone in his body after all, then maybe it’s just for that. Still, he holds his breath, awaiting the killing blow he’s surely due. But it never comes.
You release your held breath, finally, tearing your eyes away from the callous faced stranger. It’s a ridiculous notion. Just an uncanny instance of déjà vu. You don’t know that man any more than you know yourself. You settle on a more rational answer- just one of those faces. And with a disgruntled sigh you rub the scar upon your temple to soothe the ache, turn around, and enter the bar alone.
Adler sighs, his heart sinking from up high in his throat back down to his chest. His hand has latched onto the doorhandle for so long it’s gone numb from the cold, bruised knuckles bluer than they were before (bar fights- not here, but another, as there will always be). He wrestles his jaw pensively, knowing he ought to take it off, keep the door closed, turn away, and leave. Slink back, tail between his legs, to that shithole hotel room to drink himself into a stupor. Let you haunt him there, instead. As you always have.
But he doesn’t. He has no idea what idiocy compels him, what soft, dewy-eyed weak link in him snags on that chain, to willingly wander back into the viper den of reminiscence, but he wrenches his fist around the handle, pushes, and lets himself back into the bar, the thick, hot air hitting him like a drug that he breathes in, tart and sour with the cloy of sweat and alcohol but still faintly- just faintly- of you. Like rain carried along the wind.
And Russell Adler is not a sentimental man.
But from across the bar he hides behind his beer glass, watches as you move about, a phantom, weaving through the faceless mass of people celebrating a championship he cares nothing to follow. You take your order at the bar with a smile he’s never seen on you before, boots folded to tip-toes as you lean over the liquor-stickied top, your perfect mouth pink and sweet and laughing and alive. The world seems to move about you in a haze, an indistinct mist of blurred faces and bottled voices and beyond all the light and life and joy that seems to burn bright around you like a halo all he sees is you.
Maybe, then, he’s a fool.
But it isn’t lost on him, how your fingers skirt across your hair in an attempt to hide the scar upon your temple. Nor is it lost on him how you wince at the feeling, the stars in your eyes dimmed for just a split second as you shiver, like a touch imperceptible running fingers down your back. Nor even the way you fight the urge to look, to follow the feeling of his eyes fixed upon you, and surely not the way you lose that fight, surrendered to it, your sweet face turning and finding him in an instant. Without so much as trying, like instinct, like something as pathetic and saccharine as fate. Your heart called to it, a lighthouse in the fog. Port in the storm. Ships passing in the night but called crashing to the same shore.
(The pieces of you are scattered everywhere, Bell. He finds you in every split seam inside himself. Splintered shrapnel dug through his temporal lobe, severing synapses ‘til they go dark. Even stars die quicker than that. Quicker than you. Is that what it felt like for you, too? When the lights went out, was it him you last saw- or the sky, waxen, over the Arctic? A waning night, a distant moon. The inconsequence of death- brief celestial ephemera.)
The stranger across the bar looks at you, offering nary a smile, eyes indiscernible behind shadowed sunglasses. And where you ought to find his apparent coldness disconcerting, instead you wring out of your chest with a white-knuckled caress a feeling like… comfort.
Sometimes, Bell, you go back to Berlin. You don’t quite know why.
Summary: building a life with Lotor on Earth after the galras were defeated, you decide to try for a child :)
Rating: fluff, smut (breeding kink)
Notes: this is set after season 8 events, in a timeline where my boy Lotor didn't die and lives happily with u on Earth. This smut has a plot.
Warnings: mentions of pregnancy and lactation, body changes mentions, mentions racism towards Lotor, my grammar because i am not a native speaker lmao
since Sendak and his army was completely defeated thanks to Voltron and their allies. And with an extra help of the space visitors, human kind quickly rebuilt its structures, combining the advanced technologies of their new colleagues with their own. Flying vessels, space travels and colonies, complex security AI systems and media were a great leap in history.
Not surprisingly, interspecies relationships emerged among the coexistence of humans and extraterrestrials, besides it was a taboo for some people, the most conservative ones, you could easily spot a human walking and a balmeran holding hands on the streets. But as expected, racism towards the space visitors was a thing, especially towards the galra people.
Being blamed for the death of so many, even not having affiliation with Sendak’s deadly army, the purple skinned people were a target to bigotry not just coming from humans but also from other extraterrestrials. With your partner Lotor, it wasn’t different. Making public appearances together, you could feel the reproved gaze of your peers, judging the nature of your relationship as disgusting, selfish. Some showed concern, fearing Lotor could harm you in any way, while others called you an enemy, a traitor for engaging yourself to an individual of a species that slaved, tortured and killed so many in the galaxy.
As the only begotten son of emperor Zarkon, so many wanted his head for what his father caused during centuries, and for reprehensible actions of his own. You were constantly reminded of Lotor’s thirst to acquire quintessence and what he did to reach his goals, the hundreds of alteans locked in tanks he utilized as cattle to harvest the substance. The United Planets Council decided he would not receive death penitence or be locked for his crimes, but he should be exiled.
“Exiled… I am used to this condition”
It was better this way; though Lotor wanted and deserved redemption, not everyone including the paladins would accept it easily. When you established you would not abandon him, they immediately intervened reminding you of what his family caused to everyone, of what your late friend princess Allura would want. You were tired of it all. You loved Lotor and wanted to keep him safe, even if it means cutting connections with your friends. You couldn’t risk having your boyfriend stabbed from behind by a vengeful self-proclaimed punisher.
Lotor understood the gravity of his actions he didn’t even tried to defend himself. But he repined every day about how quintessence drove him mad, crazy for power, and that those moments of madness showed up as nothing but foggy memories in his mind. It broke your heart to see Lotor eager to be accepted in this new multispecies society, but being doomed by his past. Deep in his core, all he wanted was that: to be accepted and to fix everything up. Even when he was still the prince of the mighty galra empire, all he did was for a bigger purpose. He knew he took the wrong route, though.
Four years ago you moved together to your family’s old farm; only you, Lotor and the desire to begin a new life. Part of the farm, including the barn and the stable were destroyed by the attacks, but luckily the house you grew up in was intact, except for the dust and spider webs covering the rooms. Nothing you couldn’t fix up. Lotor is a quick learner, his intelligence was always something you appreciated, and with a quickly explaining of how to use house devices, he became a master at it except for the vacuum cleaner.
“How can you pilot a high technological spaceship and be defeated by a vacuum cleaner, my dear?”
You would tease him, leaning against a wall while seeing your lover struggle to clean the dust of the living room. Lotor in his endeavor would blame the device instead of admitting he was having a bad time using it. You find that silly and adorable. It took some days for your house to be properly inhabited again, with Lotor’s help, everything was easy.
He would wash clothes, cook for you – that thin waist of his looked adorable in one of your late grandmother’s apron, and a few other things. But still, he missed space and missed the adrenaline. That mind of his was always hunger for knowledge and staying so much time without absorbing anything was frustrating and tedious. Lotor in fact would not complain about it, but noticing the lack of enthusiasm in your love, you gifted him with a box of the old books you used to read while graduating; psych, biology, chemistry, and others you kept a special interest about but were not exactly linked to your graduation; history and anthropology.
Besides you were a good storyteller, talking about the myths and cultures of your species along with its advances and knowledge on science, nothing compares to touch, read and learn about something from primary fonts. As you expected, Lotor was more than happy when you handled him your collection. Some of the concepts stored in the books were at least eight years outdated, but still he could have a notion of humankind’s plurality, maybe hoping he could integrate himself into society one day.
Everything was so perfect you feared something bad would happen to spoil the moment. Your days were simple and cozy in your home, and occasionally you had to leave to buy some groceries but would come back soon.
Four years ago when the invasion occurred, families found shelter in the rural areas once the galras attacked the big urban centers first. And from this, a small agriculture and livestock centered community was born. They provided food for the cities near the reagion, and living only one or two miles away, you groceries from first hand.
In this specific day, you arrived home carrying a bag full of fresh fruits, vegetables, flour and some animal products. Lotor was sitting on the couch. He wore a grey sweater that reached the mid of his wrists and black sweatpants that barely reached his ankles, snuggling on his muscular calves. Big boy problems. His starlight hair tied into a messy bun was occasionally scratched as he concentred on the book he was reading. In fact, he was so focused on the book that didn't even notice you comming.
"Im back, love!"
You said opening the door and he slightly jumped on his seat.
"Hello, dear! I indeed didn't perceive you arriving. I was quite concentrated on this book i've been reading"
He got himself together, cleaning his throat before helping you to take the groceries to the kitchen. His gaze immediatly directed towards the sway of your hips as you walked.
"Which one is this?"
You ask, placing the bags on the table and cleaning your hands. Lotor blinks for a while, being snapped out of his beholding state:
"It is about the development of agriculture and how it's linked to the appearance of religious cults. I am quite amused by the first forms of art created by your species, dear, and how the belief in gods and deities is linked to the discovering of agriculture. It is pretty interesting how such topics that don’t seem to be linked at first sight are related.”
He continues:
“The most interesting part, my dear, is that most of these civilizations were situated in quite green and prosper lands, therefore their deities reflected in the places they inhabited. While the people that lived in arid and desert places had vengeful and warrior gods.”
He speaks with enthusiasm, smiling like you have not seen in at least four years. His lust for you was being masked with non-stop bragging about what he learned in that day. Lotor was indeed fascinated by how some ancient human civilizations valorized fertility and reproduction, but what excited him most was to put this in practice. His cock jutted against the fabric of his sweatpants when he saw those sensual statues of Venus in the pages of that book. He wanted you. He wanted to make you his own goddess of fertility.
After drying your hands on a towel, you swiftly turn to your husband, paying attention to his words. But the look on his feline eyes told you everything. The pupils were dilated, shiny like binary stars. You smirk, and when you do so, Lotor stumbles on his own words.
“I have been always fascinated with this topic too, my dear.”
You put on an innocent facade, crossing your arms and leaning your beautiful hips against the counter. Lotor’s hands twitched, urging to squeeze them as you ride his cock gracefully like the goddess you were to him. He licks his lips and smiles:
“Nothing fairer, darling. You are a goddess yourself. But do you know what is missing?”
You obliviously shake your head to his question.
“A seed to be fertilized in this womb of yours”
Just by hearing his deep sensual voice, you feel your core flutter with excitement. The galran prince approaches you, closing the space between your bodies. All you do is to let him guide you onto his arms and give yourself to this blissful heat.
His thumb traces your lowerbelly, imagining it growing as a proof of the seed he implanted in your womb. He imagines your breasts swelling, leaking the milk that will nurture your child.
Lotor sinks his hand under your hair, softly bringing you closer to him and intensifying the kiss. Your fingers travel under his sweater, tracing his divinely sculpted abs one by one. The desire of being impregnated by him only grew stronger and stronger.
He strips you down, taking off your shirt and giving your breasts good squeezes before attaching his lips to the plump sides of them, leaving soft hickeys on your skin. You pant caressing his jaw as he does it.
Then, his long fingers skim down towards your groin. He gently slids down the waistband and kneals down in front of you. Hugging your hips, Lotor attaches his mouth onto your cut, sweetly suckling your clit as you tug onto his hair, undoing the messy bun he had.
"Lotor..."
You moan sweetly, and it sounds like the chant of Earth itself, like the sounds of raindrops falling onto soil.
His skilled tongue dances around your clit. Your legs tremble and if he wasn't holding you still by your hips, you would definitly lose your balance with so much pleasure being given.
And like a water dam being open, your fluids flow into Lotor's mouth and he delights on it like honey. He moans pulling off and looking up to see your divine glory squirm in pleasure.
Standing up, Lotor holds you on his arms in bridal style, you lean in like a dandelion seed being carried by wind and he places you onto the canopy bed, the plush cushion softly sinking with your body.
Looking up at Lotor while he takes off his own clothing, you get a sight of his purple large cock deliciouspy jutting against his pants. It wiggles tantalizing when his boxers are finally down, hard and reaching his lower belly.
With your fingers you trace his abs again, they are sculpted and perfect like a statue meticulously carved in marble by the best of the sculptors. His silver bodyhair stands on ends with your touch.
Lotor gently inserts his large cock in your entrance, being enthralled by your moans. Your cunt is tight for his size, but soon it accomodates his full length.
He moans loudly and sensually twitching his hips, you reach out to squeeze his muscular butt as it recoils and releases with his thrust. Your motion seems like an extra stimulus.
"Stars. May your womb be a fertile field where i will plant my crops. You are perfect!"
He pants, the pace increasing and your bodies sweating, your pleasured noises echoing through the wood walls.
"I am going to fill you up, dear. I am going to make you a mother; i am going to make you my own fertility deity."
That was when you orgasmed.
It feels like you two were perfcetly designed for this, like your bodies were shaped by universe to create life. You bury your hand underneath Lotor's hair, his front strands are falling and tickling your face. As his pace increases, you hold it tighter and beautiful gasps leave his mouth.
"I- i am comming..."
Soon, the river flooded the land and you felt his warm seed inside your womb. Pace slowing down, Lotor remains the last frictions with his cock still in your vagine.
He pants a chuckle cleaning his sweaty forehead with his forearm. You let out a dizzy smile, reaching out to cup his cheek as your brain process the event, beholding his how graceful he looks.
Releasing his cock, Lotor gently pushes the oozing translucid liquid to inside of you again, rubbing it onto your still sensitive cunt. His ejaculation is so voluminous it feels like every inch of your tube is filled up. The alien man leans in and kisses your cheek:
"You were so great, darling... I... wow! I have no words to describe it. You will be a good mama"
His sudden use of an earthling slang makes you chuckle. How can a man be so sensually irresistible, and seconds later make your heart melt with such an adorable, silly thing? This is a Lotor ability, you guess. He messes with your mind in the better ways possible.
Cleaning up the sweat, you snuggle onto Lotor's chest while calming down your nerves after such a moment. The seed has been implanted to your womb, and Lotor couldn't wait for it to grow.
A/N: Hello! This is my first time writing for Lotor and my first time writing for over a year so please feel free to leave any constructive criticism and let me if you enjoyed the post! Requests are closed as I can’t guarantee I’ll be posting frequently.
You and Prince Lotor had landed on an unknown jungle planet in hopes of finding food and shelter. The sinclince ship was fine but not exactly comfortable and your food supplies were nonexistent, purchasing them from a civilised planet was out of the question now that Lotor was labelled a traitor to the Galra Empire. His generals had abandoned him but not you, your loyalty to the prince was unshakable and was your love for him even if it was possibly unrequited. Lotor was a brilliant fighter and an even better strategist who unlike most Galra had a heart and cared about the lives of others including the lives of the planets he once conquered. He was so different from his monster of a father and was now wanted dead because of it. How lonely he must be you thought to yourself, even if your heart was broken you were glad to have stayed by his side.
You were distracted from your thoughts as Lotor approached you. “Here, it's not much but you should eat” The Galran prince held out a large unusual-looking fruit, it looked like an apple but it was the size of a melon, square-shaped and cobalt blue. “Thank you, sir” you smiled politely and took the fruit. “Oh come now, it's just the two of us. There is no need for titles” Lotor chuckled before taking a bite out of his space apple. “Sorry, I’m not used to addressing you so formally si-Lotor” you quickly corrected yourself, something that Lotor didn’t miss. He chuckled again, the noise was music to your ears. It was so rare for him to have a genuine smile let alone a real laugh, you committed the sound to memory lest you never heard it again. You had been staring at him for a few minutes now as you quietly munched on your fruit, you looked up to the sky and immediately frowned. The clouds, which had been white and fluffy less than an hour ago, were now a dark grey. “Looks like we’ll have a storm tonight” you muttered miserably “yes, we’ll have to find some kind of shelter. The sincline ship aren’t exactly comfortable but I did spot a small cave not far from here, it should be satisfactory for tonight.”
You both finished your food which was surprisingly filling despite its small size before gathering the few supplies you had and headed to the cave. It was small but it was dry and on higher ground so there was little chance of getting flooded. Lotor made a small fire just as the rain started but then there was the sound you dreaded most. Booming thunder, you thought your eardrums were about to burst. The horrid sound made you jump and you covered your ears just as the sky was lit up by a flash of lightning. You were shaking like a leaf, oblivious to the worried stares Lotor was giving you. The rain pounded on the roof of rock and the thunder only seemed to be getting louder, it wasn’t long before you were trembling and on the verge of tears. Lotor moved over to you and carefully placed a hand on your shoulder, you flinched at his sudden touch but looked up at him. Before he could get another word in, the thunder boomed again and you practically jumped into Lotor’s arms. He held you tightly for a few moments, a soft smile on his face. “It’s alright darling, you’re safe here with me” he said soothingly almost in a whisper before using one hand to cover an ear and pulled you into his chest. His gloved hand offered more protection from the storm, you focused on his heartbeat as you found it soothing and soon enough the calming rhythm lulled you to sleep.
When you woke the next morning, Lotor still had his arms wrapped around you. The storm passed, the sun shined brightly in the morning sky and it was a peaceful start to the day. You tried to sit up without waking him up but your efforts were in vain. He opened his eyes with a tired groan and looked over at you with a small smile. “Good morning, sleep well?” He asked, sitting up and moving away to give you space. You tried not to show the sadness on your face as you nodded. “I did thanks to sir, I appreciate what you did for me.” Lotor smirked at you “I told you to drop the titles or do you not remember? Never mind that I’m glad I was able to help you brave the storm and I will happily do it again for you.” Your heart pounded as he moved closer to you, any closer and you’re sure he would be able to hear your heartbeat. “T-that’s very generous of you Lotor” You smiled bashfully as you looked down to avoid his gaze. He reached out and cupped your chin in his hand and lifted your head up. “It’s the least I can do for the person who stolen my heart” he leaned in and kissed you. It was soft, delicate, you thought you were still asleep and having the most wonderful dream but you opened your eyes as Lotor’s warm lips were on your own. He pulled away shortly after, the kiss had been real and it had been perfect.
“You stole my heart long ago, my precious starlight but with so many eyes on us I feared that you would be in danger if you ever discovered how I truly feel about you. You understand don’t you?” Lotor was anxious as he asked but all you could do was smile. “Of course I understand, Lotor your heart isn’t the only that was stolen” you chuckled, his face broke out into a grin as he kissed you once more and you knew that you could brave any storm with Lotor at your side.
Summary: Harry thought the nightmare was over with.
Warning: kidnapping
Masterlist
**Do not edit and/or repost my stories anywhere**
Harry sat next to Jesse as she slept, holding her hand. He was thrilled that she was finally back with him. You were leaning against the door way watching him. You didn’t feel right leaving him alone in case he needed something. You pulled out your phone, checking the time and seeing how late it was, you walked over to Harry placing a hand on his shoulder. Harry looked up to you. You nod towards the door way indicating that it was time to sleep; expect that neither of you could really sleep. So, you both went out for a midnight walk.
The walk was quiet and peaceful, having being the only few people out there. Even though you were wondering around the city aimlessly, you both ended up at the pond in the park. You and Harry leaned against the railing, staring out to the black pond. The water rippled a bit as a gentle breeze came.
“Thank you.” Your head snapped over to Harry seeing that he was looking at you. You weren’t sure if you head him correctly. Seeing your confusion on your face, Harry sighed, glancing away, “than you for everything you have done for me. I know I wasn’t the easiest person to deal with.” His face softened. The lights from the full moon lit his face up.
“Harry, you don’t have to thank me. I wanted to be there for you. I didn’t want you to suffer alone. I know what it’s like to lose someone and suffering alone.” You place a hand on his arm, “I care for you Harry.” You smile up to the older man.
His face brightened up at your words. “(Y/N) I-” off n the distance Harry saw a strike of blue lightning. His eyes widen as his mouth hung open. He looks down to you and before he could warn you about Zoom, a gust of wind smacked him hard enough that he fall backwards onto his back.
He frantically got back onto his feet, looking around the park to see if Zoom was still there with you. His knee grew weak, his breaking became restricted as he fall. Zoom took you. The monster has returned to haunt him once more.
A/n: This is a test run to if you’re interested in more. And if I should keep this going. This includes the CW version of the flash with the Batfam mixed in
The nights without the constant whispers and screams of the city felt off, tonight was peaceful for once.
Gotham always wasn’t the best of places, nothing in the world could deny that statement, no, fact. But here you were, sitting on top of the roof of Gotham, you were deep in thought as the cold winds of Gotham blew through your H/C hair. You didn’t want to jump, you had no reason to want to. But on nights like this, shit, all you wanted to do was scream and let it out, desperate for attention, for the embrace of anyone. But yet here you were, left in the cold and gross smog that made Gotham, Gotham.
The city filled with villains and the few decent people that surrounded it. From the Joker, to The Batman and Robin. How the hell did you end up here? You went from working at Star labs, close to the Flash, to moving and disconnecting from everyone in your life.
Why?
You couldn’t even start to explain because you didn’t even know. You heard them reaching out, but all you did was push back on them.
Why?
That one word comes often. Why did you shut those you love and care about out? Could it be the fact they’ll know the monster you really are? Or just the thought of letting them down. Hell if you knew.
I guess that’s just something you’d have to find out one way or another.
A/N. Lemme know if I should continue and make a series. Wanna start writing
Miguel says you’re good at messing up. You mess up a lot and he’s not really afraid to tell you. He doesn’t have to though, because you knew that already.
A trip to your dimension is all it takes to get him to not be so hard on you- but you’re getting ahead of yourself.
It all started when Lyla got an alert for an anomaly, one on Earth-313, one that belonged somewhere on Earth-519. You didn’t want to go, but you also didn’t want to not go.
Earth-313 has a lot of unresolved stuff for you- but for the sake of ‘keeping the multiverse from exploding and saving the entire universe’-whatever was Miguel’s whole rhetoric- you’d go back.
From the moment you made the decision you knew you’d regret it though.
You see the pink boots and feel dread pool in your chest, “It’s Beetle,” you say and Miguel rolls his eyes behind his suit. “Are you sure he’s an anomaly?”
“Of course it is, he’s one of the hardest ones. This earth seems to attract those.”
You’re not sure what that’s supposed to mean, but you don’t have time to dwell on Miguel’s cryptic words.
“I’m not so sure, but he still seems different somehow,” You’re watching the person in the suit zip around, flying at an almost supersonic speed. “Like a lot faster? Look at his wings.” It’s not the usual pink round wings that you’ve fought before. His wings are much more jagged and they look like razors more than anything else.
Whether the others listen to you or not is debatable by the time the fight starts and you can feel the difference yet similarities in who you’re fighting.
Miguel is barking orders, Jessica is following them and enforcing her own but no one is really paying attention.
“Gwen, look out!” Peter B yells, Mayday’s webs sticking to the legs of the Beetle as Gwen ducks and rolls out of the way.
It’s tense and bloody and there’s nothing you can do besides move with fear and a bit of determination as you match blows and strikes with Beetle and the other anomalies that are finding their way through the multiverse tear in the middle of the museum.
Your suit is ripped, your thigh bloody and a big gash of flesh, your breathing is laboured and as you try to take a breath for yourself, Miguel yells, “Incoming!”
You don’t react fast enough, and that leads to Miguel’s bicep carrying a gaping wound that doesn’t seem to be closing without help.
“Fuck, sorry Miguel,” another thing you’re apologising for, and you know Miguel is keeping score.
Beetle is carrying damage to his wing but it doesn’t seem to be slowing him at all. There’s something about him, you can’t shake the feeling of who it is, but it shouldn’t be possible.
But this Earth, your dimension, had never really planned on taking it easy on you ever it seems and there’s a change in the battle and Beetle has debris hurling around the room, a Doc Oc variant is trapping Jessica and Ben near a replica of a t-rex, Peter B, Mayday and Gwen are being cornered by a weird Killer Croc that’s glitching and going back and forth between human and reptile- but it’s you and Miguel that are the targets of Beetle.
“Spider-woman needs to learn,” Beetle says, his useless wing falling off his shoulder and making his flying a little shaky but not impossible.
His voice, you know that voice.
Miguel isn’t barking orders and his breathing is worsening; his chest is healing but not fast enough for him to be a real threat in a fight.
“She needs to learn that not everything can happen in her perfect way.” Gwen and Peter B are trapped with falling rubble and Doc Oc’s stray robotic tentacles.
What would Miguel do? You ask yourself, trying to track the best path that gets them all out alive.
From where you are you can hear Mayday’s soft coos and feel your chest clench.
“Just keep him talking.” you say to Miguel, your eyes focused on charting a way out of the mess for your friends. If Miguel wants to argue he’s interrupted with a falling piece of stone that boxes Gwen and Peter B in more.
“What’s perfect about fighting all you variants that get beat up in your dimension and come to others looking for more blows?” Miguel asks, capturing Beetle’s attention while you crawl away from them.
Your web shooters flash, showing you’re low but you need to at least to secure a net to catch them when the cracks beneath them get worse.
“Things happen, buildings crash, fires are set,” you hear Beetle drone and refocus on getting your friends safely into the net. Your leg aches with every step, but you push on.
“Kid, what are you doing?” Peter B asks and you point to the webbed net you’ve created below them.
“Get into it, you’ll have a better vantage point. Miguel is badly hurt and Jessica is,” you gesture to where Ben is fighting Killer Croc- you hope he’s fighting him. You make out a faint yellow glow and hope it’s Lyla. “I think she’s getting us help.”
“You’re wide open,” Gwen points out but you brush it off.
Beetle is your villain, this is how it ends, you made peace with that the second you recognised his boots.
The ground shakes as more rubble is hurtled, this time at Miguel who’s holding his own but looks about seconds away from being done. You don’t dwell on it for too long.
“Who knows, this might be where you guys get a break from me.” You turn back to your friends and try for dark humour just as Beetle’s voice rings out,
“Spider-woman has to know, she can’t save everyone. She’ll never be that strong. People die, she doesn’t get to choose who.”
Beetle goes from hovering about one hundred feet in the air to swarming down, a speed unlike anything you’ve seen before.
Miguel’s back is turned to Beetle, he’s on his knees after a boulder collides with him.
You feel your fingers tingle with your Spidey sense and despite Peter and Gwen’s protests, you bolt to Miguel.
After that, you still wouldn’t be able to decide if it happened in slow motion or in hyperspeed.
You just know your body hurtled itself between Beetle’s good wing and Miguel’s back.
Everyone’s voice kind of merges together as the tip of his wing sinks into your stomach.
You feel yourself say, “You don’t get to kill everyone because I didn’t want to take over, dad.”
Your head hits Miguel’s back and he turns around, his hand holding your head before it can hit the floor.
“I suppose,” you’re coughing blood, little splatters of red at the corner of your lips. “this is my canon event. I die and save you from any future inconveniences.”
“You’re bleeding,” he says and you nod, “You saved me?” You nod again and Miguel shakes his head.
Beetle is still trying to charge towards you and while you trust Peter and Gwen’s webs, it doesn’t seem like Miguel does.
It’s like something switches and the pain in his arm doesn’t hurt that much as he launches himself into Beetle, gripping the jetpack on his back and slamming him into the ground.
Jessica is free now and is touching your face, you can feel her warm hands, but you can’t tell if it’s all happening or not.
“Lyla is sending us some help, you’re gonna be okay girl.”
You cough and choke on what you want to say as Peter B drags Miguel off Beetle.
“We could use him,” he seems to whisper. Miguel is a force to be reckoned with when you’ve done something bad, but you supposed this would have been a good thing.
Saving him would get rid of you, erase his score of every time you put yourself at risk and you’d finally know that you did what you could to save your Earth and you could die being Spider-woman knowing that you’d at least made an impact.
It seems though, that the wing in your stomach had the opposite effect on your boss.
“We have to leave the wing in,” he grumbles, fingers dancing along your stomach slightly to gauge how deeply you’ve been hit. “If we take it out now, we could paralyse you.”
“Or I could die, and then you could leave me here and finish closing the holes in the multiverse.” your mouth is full of blood now and Miguel tugs at his hair a little. He seems torn between decisions and that throws you a little.
“It’s the smarter thing to do, Miguel,” you reason and he shakes his head. “Since when do you care? I won’t mess up again if you leave me here.”
The others aren’t sure whether they’re supposed to intervene or not. Peter B knows why Miguel is so hard on you, they all do, but the martyrdom you want- the relief they can all assume that it would bring, they can’t afford it to you.
“I can totally stay here,” Ben says. “I can look left and right and up and down for like whatever other anomaly comes through here.” He squeezes your hand and in all of his himbo-ness, you’re grateful for him.
“We’re taking you back to HQ and Margo is going to help fix you. Ben’s staying here. That’s it.” He barks and lifts you up, taking care of where you’re hurt and being extra gentle.
You black out by the time you reach back to HQ and wake up with monitors beeping and tubes in your arms.
Peter B is beside you with Mayday, who sees your open eyes and slaps her father’s face.
“You’re awake.” Mayday climbs onto the bed with you, laying her redhead on your chest and playing with the fringe neckline of your nightgown.
“She was a little worried.” Peter says and you smile, “We all were, even Miguel.”
Your eyebrows pinch, “Miguel o’Hara?” you ask and he nods.
“He just left because I complained he stunk but he’s been here since we brought you back.”
Peter isn’t clearing anything up. “How long have I been here?”
Mayday holds up two fingers, Peter nods sagely, “Two days.”
You sit up, “And Beetle?”
“We know he was your dad, kid. We’re not our parents, I hope you know that.” He squeezes your ankle and you’re about to answer him, tell him that it’s different when your parents are good, when the door opens.
Miguel is less put together than you’ve ever seen him. He’s got on sweatpants, and a sweater but it’s his eyes and his hair that give away any sign of put togetherness. His red eyes are carrying dark bags and they seem a bit swollen, and his hair, his brown hair that you love- read like because having a crush on Miguel was not something you liked admitting to even yourself- is pulled back into a small ponytail.
Well, it would be a ponytail if his hair wasn’t so short and if he didn’t twist the top half into a mini bun.
It doesn’t take away from any of his beauty though and you pinch your palm a little by how overwhelmed you are by how handsome he looks- even if he is slightly sleep deprived.
“How are you feeling?” he asks, voice raspy and scratchy.
Peter takes Mayday who gives you a kiss to the cheek as he leaves, patting Miguel on his shoulder before closing the door.
“Like I should be dead.”
Miguel shakes his head and sits in the chair Peter previously occupied.
“What were you thinking? Taking his hit for me?” Miguel asks, voice all things serious and eyes hard as he waits for your response.
“That you would’ve died and no one else would’ve been able to be objective in closing the rip in the multiverse.”
You’re not sure how even after saving his life, Miguel is able to be upset with you.
“What’s the real reason I piss you off so much, o’Hara?” He just stares at you. “I mean I know I can be a liability sometimes, but that was mostly at the beginning of this whole spider-gig. What’s the reason now?”
He shakes his head, swallowing like what he wants to say is hard.
“You just put yourself at risk- like today. That pisses me off,”
You’re a little confused, “Our jobs have zero risk-free factor.”
Miguel stands and moves to the foot of your bed. His hand hovers over your ankle and it’s an internal battle between who he is and who he was as he weighs his words.
“That doesn’t mean you can’t be careful. I don’t want to have to carry you with objects protruding your body again,” his hand encircles your ankle and squeezes gently.
You feel his touch like a zing up your thigh and try not to react but it’s hard when he looks so worried yet so handsome. You take a look at the heart rate monitor and will it not to rise or beep.
“Is he dead?” you ask, and Miguel nods, patting your ankle comfortingly.
“You’ll tell me about what it is you meant when he pierced you tomorrow, I think Margo will come in here soon with food for you.”
Miguel squeezes your ankle again before he gets up and heads to the door, “Try and get some rest, hechicera.”
It doesn’t seem like much has been resolved between you both, but something feels different. A good different, but it might just be that you’re a little hopped up on the warmth from his palm on your skin.
ROMANTIC IMAGINE: Miguel O'hara visits you when you call in sick
i know how to write things other then headcannons i swear. theyre just so EASY. you can request actual fics lmao. promise! This was intended as romantic btw, but you can interperate this however you want!
Miguel lands on your balcony with a heavy thump, his landing was a little awkward from trying to swing with only one hand, but he managed well enough. The Tupperware in his hand looked a little worse for wear, though.
Almost every fibre of him wanted to turn around and forget about this, but he knew he couldn’t bring himself to, he needed to know you were ok.
You had called off sick from work yesterday, and you didn't show up today either. In all the time you were working at Alchemex you’ve never done that before. The secretary had told him you sounded like you were in a lot of pain over the phone, so it was obvious you were unwell in some way or another. He’s been worried ever since.
This felt stupid. Over dramatic, even. But he’d gone to his brother for advice, and this is what he had given him: Their moms classic Pozole recipe, The same recipe him and his brother ate while growing up. Obviously Miguel protested, adamantly. he hadn’t cooked for anyone in a very long time. He wasn’t even sure if he’d still be able to… His brothers response?
“Do you want my help or not?”
So Miguel scrounged around the kitchen for what he needed. He squinted to read his mothers old chicken scratch from all those years ago. He put in the work, as uncomfortable as he felt, And He packaged it and come all the way here.
And now he didn’t know how to go forward.
He had never felt more out of his element in his life. As he Stood there, outside your window with the soup in his freakish claws he realised he didn’t know where to go from there. He hadn’t thought further than this point. What would he say when he gave it to you? What would he even do after that?
He had to awkwardly shimmy through the window with the Tupperware in one hand, almost stepping on a cable stretching across the floor. “Fuck—“
the hinges creaking offensively as he pushed down your open window and he cursed, shutting it as delicately as possible. When he heard your voice ring out from behind him he tensed.
“Uh, Hey Mig!” You call from the bathroom. He breathed out the puff of air he was holding in. No turning back now.
“…Hey,” he called, not knowing where to begin. “…I brought you a little something.”
He makes his way to where he heard your voice coming from, and pauses briefly by your kitchen counter. He looks down at the soup in his hands.
…He could just leave it here, that would be less humiliating for everyone, wouldn’t it? He knew you were ok, now. He heard your voice, so you were alive. He did what he came here to do. He could turn around right now and escape while you were still in the bathroom.
But something stops him. A little smell wafted by his nose briefly. It was brief. It was faint. But it was there and it made him pause.
So he sits the soup on the counter quietly, but he doesn’t turn around. He walks further down the hall and takes a deep breathe. The smell is clearer now. Miguel gets a bad feeling.
He picks up the pace and pulls off his mask to get a better whiff, and suddenly he’s hit with the all too familiar stifling stench of blood.
No.
NO!
“Y/n!” He runs up to your bathroom door and starts rattling the handle, but the door is locked. He pauses when he hears your voice on the other side, clearer and more effective at preventing him from tearing the door off its hinges—.
“D-Don’t come in!” You yell. “I’m... ngh- I’m a bit busy in here!”
“Y/n, what do I smell?!” He doesn’t need you to tell him, He already knows the answer. It’s pungency rings clear from his side of the door. The tanginess was so prominent that even someone with normal senses could pick up on it.
“N-nothing!” You stutter. You always stutter when you’re nervous. And when you're lying.
“Are you bleeding? Where’s it coming from? Open up!” He starts banging on the door again, his fist unintentionally rattling the frame.
“You don’t smell anything- stop that!” You snapped, annoyance ringing clear. But there was a certain strain to your voice, a painful whine that made his heart drop. “I-I’m just, uh- changing! will you give me a minute? Please, Mig.”
“Don’t lie to me! What’s wrong, can you not get to the door?” He starts backing up to gauge the frame of the door and… Yeah, he could kick that in, easily.
sensing what he was getting ready to do, you spring up from your spot hunched over on the side of the bath tub and amble to the bathroom door. “No no no!” You lean against the door, heaving. “Don’t do anything drastic, I’m right here!”
He paused and waited for you to open it, but your hesitation makes him start losing his patience. “Y/n-“
“I’m ok, Mig. S-seriously. I just took a little tumble on the way home.” You swallow back a painful grunt as you lean on the door frame for more support. “Look…” you started. “Now’s really not a good time—“
“Y/n.”
You shut your mouth. ‘Oh, shit.’
the tone of his voice hid a warning. Miguel knew what you were going to suggest even before you said it, and he refused to let you finish. The fact that you were bleeding as much as you were for him to smell you across the house, And you were trying to hide it from him? It must be bad, there was no doubt about that. His brain began racing for answers, for explanations, for names. He didn’t know where you were hurt, god what if it was somewhere vital? Who did this to you and where? Why were you trying to hide it? Did they threaten you? Something must of happened. there was no way he would leave you here, No. There was no getting rid of him now.
“Open this door.” He says one final time. And you can tell it’s the final time from the tone of his words. His voice quaked with fury at even the mere insinuation that he’d ever leave you when you were wounded. That you were even wounded In the first place.
“Now.”
...
There’s a beat of silence where neither of you say anything. And for a second he thinks he’s going to have to break the door open inwards just to avoid plowing over you to get it open. But then he hears you apprehensively turn the lock and he almost breaks the handle from how fast he rips it open.
You stumble a bit, reeling at his strength. and then youre taking a tumble from being thrown off balance, but before you can even yelp out a cry he swoops in to catch you in his arms before your body can even comes close to hitting the floor. “Lo si—! Sorry! Y/N, I’m so sorry.”
from being so close he could tell immedietely that you were running warm, did you really have a fever too? He perches you on to the toilet seat and you wince at the ache washing through your body. God, your back was killing you... and Miguel's hands were all over you. you tried pulling your arms out of his grip, but he wasn't budging. he scoured your front for bruises, cuts, anything.
"what happened, where does it hurt, Y/N, please." he lifted your arms, checking your sides. nothing there... You couldn't bring yourself to answer, all the jostling around was making you go really dizzy... so much so that his words seemed to bounce off your ears. you squint at him. were there two of him before?
"Oi, mami/papi. focus for me. tell me where your hurt." he pats your cheek, snapping you a little out of your stupor. you blinked. his faced was pulled taught with worry, lines creased his skin in places that looked almost painful. and his eyes...
"Miguel... hhhave... your eyessschanged?" you weren't sure if it was the delirium from the pain finally setting in, or if your bathroom light just highlighted the underlying hues, but his tired brown eyes had shifted to a shade of... dare you say red.
they flicked back to your face, they had this wild look in them, like he was angry. but his voice wobbled like he was scared. "tell me where the pain is."
"... M' back.." you mumbled. he tugs on your shoulder to twist you around, making you whine. he apologizes quietly, before turning back to the red stains that were crawling up the back of your shirt.
you both descended into a tense silence. Miguel looked cramped, hovering over you in your tiny bathroom. he had to draw in his arms to not knock into your shower. not the most ideal place to play nurse... but he would manage. Miguel unshealthes his talons and cuts open the fabric like its warm butter. all you feel is a cold draft hit your back, and you shudder.
when he gets a good look at the state of your back his heart drops, what he finds isn't what he was expecting. your lower back is marred with an explosion like mass of burned skin. the center of the wound is deeper and more bloody then the rest, like something fast, blunt and burning hot struck you there.
God.
"Y/N, what the hell happened?" he glances at your bathroom bin and spots your old, scorched shirt lying inside. so you really were changing... that explained why the shirt you were wearing didn't have a massive gaping hole in it.
"Lyla. whats the aetiology for this." she flickers into view next to him, screening your back, and she winces.
"the lascerations have been caused by 1st and 2nd degree burns, the wound has become infected and needs to be treated immenietly. the depth of the wound is telling me that the collision was hard and fast, likely a projectile."
"they were shot?."
"most likely. not by any normal weapon though, obviously." she confirmed, "it... doesn't look like the infection has interfered with the spinal collum." she optimistically added.
"will it scar?" he tilted his head towards her, but didn't take his eyes off the wound.
the Ai assistant didn't respond, calculating the most nerve settling response to his question. her silence told him everything he needed to know. "yeah, don't answer that." a snarl was building in his throat, fighting its way to the top.
he spots the first aid bag and its contents sprawled across your counter. most of it was over the counter painkillers, light ointments and bandaids. nothing in there that would help you.
"ok." he drags his hand down his face looking around the room. "Hijo de puta-!" his fist banged against the wall in a burst of anger, the pathetic thin walls rattled underneath the force. "Y/N, what were you thinking?!"
you were stuck in this apartment by yourself, barely able to move or, jesus, even think. the fact that he could have never come. No, that he had come but couldve left here without knowing you were going through this on your own... the thought made him sick. why did you let it get this bad? what had happened?
you don't answer his question, your breathing has started to grow heavier, fevered. the sheen of sweat on the back of your neck had grown thicker as well. miguel reaches out to hold you steady. his mind racing. you can't stay here.
he knows he has to make a call. literally. he lifts his watch to his face.
"Jess, get someone on the medical team to prepare for my arrival." he picks you up carefully and fights to keep his voice from rising, he wasn't thinking clearly. all he could think about was getting you somewhere safe.
it wasn't common for miguel to ask for medical assistance, even at times when he probably should. he didn't like calling for help, he prefered to do things on his own, even to his own detriment. the idea that something could shake miguel up like this, making him ask for assistance, was new. Jessica could hear the tension in his throat as clear as day.
"whats your condition." she responded, concern shining through in her voice.
"no, no. i'm fine." he answered. "i've got an injured with me, they've been shot and need first aid immedietely. its a second degree burn that been left for over 24 hours, its infected."
"...done." she answers. "are they a new recruit?"
"they're a friend."
Pozole: a traditional soup or stew that is made from hominy with meat, you can put in things like shredded lettuce/cabbage, chilli peppers, onions, garlic, radishes, avocado, salsa or limes. (this sounds scrummy ngl i'm so hungry bro)
"Lo sienta": i'm sorry (this is when he goes "Lo si-" but cuts himself off)
"Oi, mami": hey, Mama (i learned that mami or mamita can be used in a lot of different ways. native spanish speakers can use it to adress parentel figures, friends that give motherly energy, or it can even be used as a funny nickname for kids. i've seen a lot of people use it sexually in fics, but apparently thats not always the case!)
aetiology: kind of like a diagnosis, but different. its the cause of a desease or condition. idk if it's applicable to wounds, though.
"Hijo de puta-!": son of a bitch-!
I put these here so if anyone has any corrections i could make to the terms I’ve used to be more accurate then I can change them accordingly. I used online translators and articles… if anyone has any good websites for translating languages let me know! i'd be really interested.
Tumblr recently made it a requirement for you to be logged in to send asks anonymously. If you receive a hateful ask, don’t publish it - report it to Tumblr. It can be traced back to the user that sent it and with enough reports that person’s account will be suspended.
Share to raise awareness but also to make the clowns who think this behaviour is acceptable think twice before acting brave behind the guise of invisibility.
This is a Movie Health Community evaluation. It is intended to inform people of potential health hazards in movies and does not reflect the quality of the film itself. The information presented here has not been reviewed by any medical professionals.
The Super Mario Bros. Movie has multiple scenes that use lightning to establish or enhance a spooky atmosphere. This lightning uses several moderate strobes, with occasional severe strobes that happen very suddenly and last a very short time, but enough to consider this film risky when it comes to strobe effects. Other potential risks occur in scenes of high-speed travel through tunnels or sci-fi wormholes.
There is a lot of action at high speeds. Multiple sequences show peril at extreme heights. One chase sequence has shifts in up-and-down orientation which may be disorienting.
Flashing Lights: 8/10. Motion Sickness: 7/10.
TRIGGER WARNING: A character leans over a short wall and groans, implying that he is vomiting.
Image ID: A promotional poster for The Super Mario Bros. Movie
