#the devil in manhattan series

[cas-backwards-tie]

Chapter One: A Change In Attitude

Laszlo Kreizler x Reader

The Devil In Manhattan

Summary: Intent on acquiring a job at the Kriezler Institute, you attempt to provide for yourself as a woman living on her own in New York City. Whether your plans succeed or not is dependent on your actions.

Words: 2.2k

Warnings: Scolding, Rudeness, PTSD,

Mentions of: Murder,

A/N: Despite the following, for story's sake I won't spoil it, but trust me, it is a reader insert.

It was a necessity, all a part of the plan; an expected transfer, a job wherever followed, somewhere close in reach of your sister. You'd come close to a divergence, the cautious eye of the Headmaster unsure whether you'd be a good fit for his Institute. Yet, the unexpected dismissal of a staff member meant that a replacement was needed, and thus, a spot opened up just in time! Fortunate luck, you'd reckon.

There'd been rumors, gossip of what the recently notorious Doctor Kriezler was like. Though you'd done a brief interview with him, there was still an air of interrogation, a hostile sense that despite answering all of his questions in length, it was as if he could see through you. That he knew something was fishy. Was something awry? You're not sure, however, the fact that he's known for calling people out is something that does you and your case no favors.

Upon your first day of work, you're handed a uniform. Grey in nature, you don't mind the way the plain fabric of the frock suits you. It isn't ostentatious or attention-seeking in any way, shape, or form. Something different from the dresses you'd been used to wearing prior. Having been given a room the day before to move into, even if you'd only brought a sparing number of items in your suitcase, an allotted day was still favorable. Set up in the dormitory, you were to oversee the girl's hall during nights. Now, having eaten breakfast with the children and staff in the cafeteria only a half hour ago, your colleague, Helena, guides you around the Institute.

"Usually the Headmaster would take on such responsibilities," she informs you, "however he's been intent on finding that killer of late. He denies it. Ludicrous, if you ask me." With a solemn shake of her head, the woman, at least a decade your senior, guides you through the long halls of the Kriezler Institute.

"Is that so?" You respond, curious to hear more about not only hear which murder she's referring to, but hopefully acquire more about the Headmaster supposedly playing the part of detective? If you haven't misinterpreted her words, that is.

"Miss Sanktorini, I can assure you it is unprofessional to fraternize whilst on the job, nevertheless unladylike to speak on such matters. I'd think you'd know better." Taken aback by Helena's response, your steps slow down, your figure falling behind slightly. She'd started it! She was the one who brought it up. Euuugggh- and the audacity she has to implicate me?! Attempting to control your breath, you run your hands down the apron of your frock before picking up the pace again.

Eyes roaming the elegant window-lined halls of the Institute, you're surprised that it's much bigger on the inside than it'd looked on the outside. High ceilings adorned with chandeliers, walls decorated with paintings and busts atop podiums, you can't even begin to imagine how the Headmaster acquired the amount of wealth it'd take to fund this place. Helena prattles on about routine and the different activities going on in the classrooms you pass, though none of it interests you, really. Her words linger in the back of your mind, digesting the information for if it ever becomes useful, however, you can't help but admire the foliage outside in the courtyard.

"It is rather beautiful, isn't it?" Helena speaks your thoughts aloud as she comes to a stop at the end of the hallway, books still saddled on her hip.

"Stunning," you respond, hands lazily clasped in front of yourself as you make no motion to move.

"The Headmaster has a few gardeners who maintain the lawn, while we maintain the innergoings of the Institute. Firstly I'll-" A shrill dinging sound emits from everywhere all at once and you can't help the way you jump. With the way that the sound of doors slamming open and the quick padding of feet follow, you finally recognize the sound. It was only the bell. Unconsciously your hand flew to your chest and you find it there now as your heart races within the confines beneath your corset under the uniform frock.

"The bell rings multiple times a day. Once in the morning for breakfast, then again for the children's recess, and finally for lunch and dinner." Helena dusts off a piece of flint from her dress which you hadn't seen. "Our tour comes to an end anyhow, the entrance is just through those doors to your right. Now that it's recess hour, I suppose your first task can be to help the other staff outside in watching over the children. Find Clarissa, you'll be in her charge for the remainder of your stay."

With nothing more than a curt wave of her hand, she leaves you to your own devices. Normally, you'd find this impolite and demand some sort of direction. This only provides the perfect opportunity for you today. After all, the only purpose for your appearance is Elizabeth. She crosses your mind once more, and you find yourself looking back down the hall where teachers have gathered their students in lines, leading them in your direction. Will Elizabeth be in one of them? She has to be here, you think to yourself.

Determination in your veins, you close your eyes for a moment to gather yourself, memories, and the impetus of your plan surfacing to the forefront of your mind. It's like you're right back there, the scent of the flames burned into your nostrils, smoke causing your eyes to burn and itch. Breathing more rapidly, it takes a moment for you to come out of your stupor, the reason being the people passing to your left, just inches from you.

"Who are you?" One of the children asks, the young girl holding up the line as she stares up at you, a curious look upon her face.

"I've never seen you here before!" A boy comments, garnering the rest of the line's attention.

"Children, it's impolite to bother strangers," the teacher reminds, having turned on her heel at the outbursts and started to walk over. "You must be the new attendant," the woman speaks, offering you a gentle smile and outstretched hand. "I'm Clarissa Aerborn."

"Marina Sanktorini," you respond, meeting her hand with yours in a firm shake. "I was supposed to find you! Helena told me you'd be my supervisor," you inform her.

"Oh? Well, it's a pleasure, Miss Sanktorini. Children, this is Miss Sanktorini. She'll be accompanying our class for the remainder of the day. Let's get to the courtyard," she introduces herself before following suit with her children. With a beckoning hand, she guides you down the hallway and out one of the side doors into the courtyard you'd been mesmerized by earlier.

The teacher lists out a set of instructions, or guidelines, for her children before letting them run free in the yard. Once she turns to you, intent on making conversation, you listen diligently, even while Elizabeth consumes your mind. She has to be somewhere around here, you remind yourself.

"It's rather amusing, actually. We haven't had anyone new in awhile so you should understand tha-"

"Is there anywhere else the children play at recess?" You inquire, the thought consuming you, even if you're sure it came across as rude to interrupt her.

Taken aback, Clarissa gathers herself for a moment before shaking her head. "All the children play here, unless they're summoned by the Headmaster for a meeting, or perhaps were put on punishment, though that's a rarity. Doctor Kriezler doesn't believe tha-

"Forgive me for interrupting, it's just that I have so many questions, and I'm afraid that Helena wasn't favorable to any," you explain.

"Ah... I see. Helena can be quite a-" Clarissa is about to speak her mind before she spots a child, her eyes roaming as she attempts to find a proper phrase. "well... you know."

"I believe I do. You seem to be so close with the children. How did you manage that?" You ask, attempting to form a reason for departing the conversation, even if she is rather nice.

"Well, you'll get to know them over time. I wouldn't worry too much since it's only your first day," she responds with a friendly and encouraging smile.

"Perhaps I'll attempt to introduce myself," you propose. This should be a sufficient reasoning for your departure, and won't make you look suspicious. Two things you'd desperately hoped for. Recess would be the perfect opportunity to find Elizabeth and give her a quick message, let her know that everything is okay and that you're alive.

Albeit, the task seems much harder than you'd thought. Out of all the children in the courtyard, blondes seem to be rather common. A quiet sigh tumbles past your lips as you attempt to scan their faces, searching the crowd for one that's familiar. You could pick your little sister out in a crowded street square, not to mention the crowds of the theatre, so this shouldn't be too difficult. Yet, with everyone running around and moving about, it's rather trying.

Eventually, you start to approach some of the children on the outskirts, not playing with the others. Most of them don't seem to know your sister or haven't seen her today. Still, you introduce yourself, seeking out your reasoning for this job. The bright light of the sunrays streaming through the leaves and branches begins to leave you with a headache, a dull tug of pain behind your eyes. It's only as you're beginning to grow half-hearted in your determination that a call of your name rings out clearly amongst all the chatter.

Panic rises, whatever pain had been troubling you is suddenly no longer in focus as you race to meet the voice. Careful not to get hit by one of the balls or trample an innocent child, you reach the little girl who had been running toward you. "Shhhh, shh," you command, one hand holding her head while the other brushes her hair back behind her ears. "You know how Mommy thinks that I'm dead?" Crouching to her level, you speak to her quietly.

"But you're here! You're here!" Elizabeth cries, jumping for joy despite the tears that well up in her eyes.

"I know. I'm here... yet you can't tell anyone, Lizzie. You have to keep it a secret between us. Remember how I told you that things were dangerous, how I had to save you? I promise-" you run your hand over her hair, sitting back on your heels just enough to search her eyes and gauge her reaction. "I still promise I'll make things safe for us. You have to trust me, okay? And in trusting me, no one can know my name. I changed it, it's Marina Sanktorini from now on, okay?"

Though you know she's probably confused on some of the details and reasonings that were best left to her ignorance, she nods in understanding. If anyone had understood the things you went through and the pain you'd suffered at the behest of someone you once admired, it was her. Everything you'd done... everything you ever did was for her. To protect Elizabeth and shield her from the awful things and people that roam the Earth.

"Do you understand, Lizzie? It has to be a secret between us," you repeat, sure that your gaze set upon her is beyond intense, but it's for good reason. You have to know; at this point things are life and death for the two of you.

"Mhm, I understand," Elizabeth repeats, sniffling as her fist comes up to wipe away her tears with the back of her hand.

"What's going on here? Did someone get hurt?" It's the teacher. Damn it! You were hoping for more time to talk to Elizabeth, but at least you got your message across. The teacher bends at the waist, inspecting the way you have Elizabeth's crying face between your hands in a gentle hold.

"I think so, you're okay, right? What was it, Elizabeth? Or should I call you Lizzie?" You ask, a smile tugging across your lips as stare at her fondly, glad to have her back within your reach.

"Lizzie! It's Lizzie," she responds happily, the smile on her lips clearly giving Miss Aerborn an answer.

"Alright, well it's good to see you making friends with the children, Miss Sanktorini," Clarissa responds, offering you a hand up. Begrudgingly taking it, you let her guide you back toward the front of the courtyard.

"You can't leave! You can't-" Elizabeth protests, running after you both a few steps. When you turn around, you can't help the tug you feel at your heartstrings as guilt clouds your emotions. Even if you know it's something you should probably feel the least considering all you've sacrificed.

"I'm afraid I need to continue showing Miss Sanktorini around, Elizabeth. You can play with her later," Clarissa retorts. With a gentle pull she resumes the path she'd taken, you following with a frown as you offer one last, hopeful look in your sister's direction. Mouthing an 'it's okay', you gather yourself enough to turn and face the music. After all, now you have a guise to put up.

~~~~~~~~

forever taglist: @ohdamnadam , @safarigirlsp , @jynzandtonic , @moonlightsolo

#laszlo kriezler x reader #the devil in manhattan #my writing #my series #the devil in manhattan series #tdim #tdim series #the alienist reader insert #the alienist au #OCs

[thefiresofpompeii]

a lot of people talk about love don’t roam being about rose which, sure, obviously, the first time i heard it in the runaway bride and recognised the lyrics i cried, but what people don’t mention nearly often enough is that my angel put the devil in me is more than just a gag tune for tallulah’s showgirls to perform at the cabaret. it’s a song from the perspective of martha.

that’s essentially the plot of smith&jones. the little streetcar is the tardis

referring to the fact that ten kept promising martha ‘one last trip’ before he dropped her off. then another, and another. hey, it don’t have to be eternally, because he’s not the kind of guy to stick around…

davros’ admonishment in journey’s end: the doctor may be a pacifist who never carries a weapon, but he turns everybody around him into soldiers. martha’s no exception; she holds the osterhagen key. ten may be her guardian angel, but her traumatic experiences while travelling with him harden her spirit, and by s4 she’s working for UNIT. she was an ordinary medical student and he put the ‘devil’ of adventure in her, just like any other companion

now this one’s pretty self-evident. cold grey eyes and a simple smile. guile and charm and mystery. whisked her away like a witch on a broomstick. one and one and one: three hearts between the two of them. or maybe ‘three’ is martha, the doctor and the tardis. or — worse — martha, the doctor and rose.

the fact that the song is playing during this scene in the end of time also casts its meaning in a different light: jack has been radically transformed through meeting the doctor just like martha was. from a conman and a coward to an unlikely hero. jack shoulders the burden too. so many lives upended because of this bad bad angel. don’t make crowley jokes

#back on my murray gold bullshit #murray gold #love don’t roam #my angel put the devil in me #daleks in manhattan #evolution of the daleks #doctor who series 3 #doctor who #dw #martha jones #ten #tenth doctor #tenmartha #david tennant #freema agyeman #jack harkness #tenjack #the end of time #doctor who series 4 #journey’s end #doctor who meta

[robsheridan]

From the pages of SPECTAGORIA magazine issue 6, 1974. Spectagoria was a renowned underground fashion photography magazine surrounded by rumor and mystery. Founded by iconoclastic photographer/filmmaker Sera Clairmont initially as a showcase of her own work, the publication drew controversy for its dark themes and morbid imagery, which often used beauty, sexuality, and fashion as a means to, in Clairmont’s words, “let speak the darkness that surrounds us from other worlds.”

Christian groups in the United States called for a ban of the magazine, with Jerry Falwell accusing Clairmont of being “a witch and a pornographer in league with the devil himself.” Clairmont dismissed the accusations as “just more blatant examples of the sexism and double-standards that led me to forge my own path in a male-dominated industry.” But the boycott drew scrutiny to the magazine’s photographs, which at times contained images that seemed impossible, even supernatural, in nature. Some wondered if Sera Clairmont was related to Seraphina Clairmont, the famous Manhattan mystic who “spoke to demons” and lived at the mysterious Zorovic Building at the turn of the 20th century, and was rumored to have been buried alive in the building’s 1913 destruction.

Sera Clairmont went into hiding in 1976, but continued to publish Spectagoria until the early 80s, growing stranger and darker with each issue, fueling even more speculation that otherworldly powers were behind it before its abrupt end. No one knew where it was being published from, nor where - or *how* - its photos were taken. Very few copies of each issue of Spectagoria were printed, and today only a handful of scattered pages have been located and scanned. I will continue to share more pages as I find them...

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NOTE: This is a work of fiction created by me. This alternate reality horror story is part of my NightmAIres narrative art series (visit that link for a lot more). NightmAIres are windows into other worlds and interconnected alternate histories, conceived/written by me and visualized with synthography and Photoshop.

If you enjoy my work, consider supporting me on Patreon for frequent exclusive hi-res wallpaper packs, behind-the-scenes features, downloads, events, contests, and an awesome fan community. Direct fan support is what keeps me going as an independent creator, and it means the world to me.

#rob sheridan #synthography #ai art #ai horror #ai fashion #synthography horror #horror art #ai photography #70s horror #cult horror #alternate history #horror stories #writing #spectagoria #sera clairmont

[spacemilkies]

Good Kitty

pairing: Earth—42!Miles Morales x BlackCat!Reader wc: 3k+ rating: teen a/n: another fandom, another trap. I plan for this to be a non-linear series. Feel free to send prompts for this pairing!

synopsis:

Spider-man? Never heard of him. You were Black Cat. And what you did know was that it was never a good idea to leave a world in a man's hands.

A sigh escapes your lips, a sound not born out of exhaustion but rather from the depths of sheer boredom as you shifted your weight and rolled onto your side. The warm rays of the setting sun spilled through the window, enveloping you in a soft, golden embrace. If only you had chosen to cast your gaze outward, you would have been met with a rare spectacle—a breathtaking panoramic view of the magnificent Manhattan skyline.

Less than three years had passed since you had walked the halls of your high school, a graduate filled with shattered aspirations and dry pool of dreams. Back then, the mere notion of such a view, of standing amidst the towering giants that graced the New York City skyline, was nothing short of a fantastical dream. It was a dream that seemed elusive, almost laughable, considering the harsh realities of life that had once deprived you of even the simplest means to put food on the table.

And perhaps, deep down, you still carried a glimmer of disbelief, a lingering doubt that whispered in the recesses of your mind. But as you lay there, basking in the gentle warmth of the sun's caress, you couldn't deny the profound sense of fulfillment that coursed through your veins. It wasn't solely the outcome that brought you satisfaction, but rather the journey itself, the arduous path you had traversed, and the resilience you had shown in embracing your roots.

For it had been surprisingly effortless, slipping back into the embrace of your origins, your identity intertwined with the vibrant tapestry of this city. The laughter that echoed within you was tinged with a certain fondness, an acknowledgement of the simplicity and ease with which you had found your place within this bustling metropolis. The streets, once unfamiliar and daunting, had become your familiar pathways, the very pulse of life flowing through your veins.

Your mother, a beacon of strength in the face of adversity, had tirelessly striven to keep you on the straight and narrow. The echoes of your father's incarceration still resonated within the corridors of your memory, a haunting reminder of the tumultuous path your family had been forced to tread. In those fragile years of your middle school days, the familiar embrace of modest living had been abruptly torn asunder, thrusting you all into the unforgiving shallows of Brooklyn's reality.

It was during those trying times that your mother, fueled by an indomitable spirit, took it upon herself to forge a path of honest labor. Her determination was nothing short of admirable, a testament to her unwavering love for her family. Yet, with every stride she took to ensure your well-being, the sacrifices etched themselves deeply into your collective existence. The simple pleasures that others took for granted, like an abundance of food on the table or shoes that conformed to the suggested lifespan, became luxuries beyond your reach.

Life, you discovered, was a merciless game where the cards were often dealt by the devil himself. It was a relentless battle against the odds, an unyielding struggle to make ends meet and find solace amidst the unrelenting tempest. And yet, your mother stood tall, weathering each storm with a determination that defied the very fabric of fate. She taught you resilience, instilled within you a fire that refused to be extinguished.

But even as you marveled at her strength, you couldn't help but question the cosmic forces that seemed intent on testing your resolve. The burdens that weighed upon your shoulders were never meant to be borne by the innocent. They were the unjust consequences of a world that cared little for the plight of those who fought against the currents of adversity.

For you had come to understand that while life may not always be fair, it is in the face of adversity that true character is forged. It is in the crucible of struggle that you discover the strength within, the power to rise above the hand you've been dealt.

Now, in the lap of luxury, you resided amidst opulence and excess, surrounded by an abundance of trinkets and baubles that stretched beyond the boundaries of imagination. The intricately woven rug beneath your feet held within its fibers the potential to feed your family for a year, and the resplendent chandelier suspended above the table embodied a fortune twice the worth. You lived ensconced in comfort, a world where your wants had transformed into ceaseless indulgences.

Yet, amidst this abundance, a sense of frustration gnawed at your core. The material wealth and extravagance that once held allure had now lost its luster, leaving you restless and longing for something more. The very essence of your existence now seemed devoid of purpose.

"So, I'm assuming you won't be joining," came the voice of your roommate and fellow thief, Tamara Blake, as she cast her shadow over you. For her, the thrill of the heist held a different significance. In her philosophy, as long as the wealthy continued to amass riches, there would always be treasures to claim. But you sensed that she, too, shared the underlying sentiment of disillusionment, the desire to divert her gaze from the chaotic world unfurling beyond their plush surroundings. It was another reason why you chose this apartment—a sanctuary that shielded you from the harsh realities of the world, yet one that you found difficult to leave behind entirely.

Brooklyn held memories you struggled to confront. It was the resting place of your mother, a place that felt simultaneously distant and unwelcoming. Your gaze barely grazed the surface of the deep neckline of the chiffon dress, its shimmering diamond necklace nestled in the hollow, before you turned your attention back to the river's expanse.

"Nah," you replied, dismissing the notion of joining Tamara on another exhilarating score. The thrill that once electrified your every heist had dissipated, leaving behind a hollowness that even your absence failed to disrupt. The vast fortunes amassed over time would sustain you and your descendants for generations to come. It had become nothing more than a game—a sport devoid of meaning.

"Alright, I probably won't be home tonight then," she added.

Your rested your chin against the crook of your elbow as your gaze fixated on the final ferry gliding into the dock. "Oh, you're playing with your prey this time?"

Tamara's laughter cut through the air, sharp as glass. "Hardly. I expect him to succumb before it reaches that point, but alas."

You grumbled halfheartedly as her hand affectionately tousled your tousled hair. "Want me to bring your favorite hors d'oeuvres home?"

The thought of clams and puff pastries, once delectable and enticing, now held little appeal, particularly after a day spent tucked away in an expensive clutch. "Don't bother," you dismissed, the notion hardly worth entertaining.

"Very well, then. Don't get caught up," Tamara admonished, securing a last-minute addition to her wrist—an exquisite pearl bracelet procured from last spring's collection.

"Then I wouldn't be worth my weight in diamonds," you replied, your voice carrying a hint of mischief and the thrill of a life lived on the edge. As Tamara departed, a whirlwind of confidence in her wake, you remained seated, contemplating the choices that led you to this gilded existence. Amidst the emptiness that lingered within, a flicker of longing danced in your eyes, a silent plea for purpose to infuse meaning into the richness that surrounded you.

—ฅ/ᐠ. ̫ .ᐟ\ฅ —

Once again, it is the relentless grip of boredom that finds you perched atop the towering edifices, surveying the disarray that has befallen Brooklyn. The supple leather of your suit clings to your thighs, molding to your form as you shift on the balls of your feet. Since the tragic downfall of Captain Morales, the city you once called home has become a fragmented tapestry of desolation, where memories have been reduced to ashen ruins.

There was a time when you entertained the notion of relinquishing your feline-inspired guise in exchange for a cloak of righteousness, a chance to become the hooded vigilante who championed the downtrodden. The romantic notion of stealing from the wealthy and bestowing upon the destitute held a certain allure, a homage to the age-old tales of justice. But the harsh reality came crashing down upon you with unforgiving force, as your first and only act of benevolence was unceremoniously discarded in the merciless rain. In those moments, the wound inflicted upon your spirit ran deep, an ache that lingered as a phantom pain from a life best left behind.

Now, you stand upon the precipice of a new era—a time where strength and self-reliance have become the pillars upon which you build your existence. No longer shackled by the burdens of altruism, you have embraced a philosophy of self-preservation. You have forged a path that revolves solely around your own well-being, a truth that resonates as the sweetest symphony within your soul.

In this solitude, high above the city that bears the scars of its own unraveling, you revel in the power that courses through your veins. Your senses heightened, you become keenly aware of every movement in the urban symphony below—a cacophony of life that swirls in discordant harmony. The distant sirens wail like mournful ghosts, intermingling with the screech of car tires against asphalt and the rhythmic hum of electricity pulsating through the veins of the metropolis.

Brooklyn, once a tapestry of memories, now lies before you in a state of perpetual flux—a testament to the fragility of existence and the transient nature of human aspirations. As you peer into the depths of the city's heart, you can almost taste the bitterness that permeates the air, mingling with the grit of determination and the acrid residue of lost dreams.

The night holds a different air tonight, as if the very fabric of the city has absorbed the collective unease and transformed it into an eerie calmness. The absence of screams that once reverberated through the alleys and streets transforms your rooftop traversal into a bittersweet journey down memory lane, a respite from the haunting nightmares that plagued your mind. There is no concrete reason why you find yourself here, navigating the labyrinthine paths above the cityscape. It is not mere boredom that fuels your actions tonight; there is something deeper, an indescribable longing that propels you forward.

And then, it happens—a moment that seizes your heart and halts your relentless stride. The city below unfolds before your vigilant gaze, and you notice a stark difference in the illuminated windows. A somber darkness has settled over the once vibrant tapestry of lights. Fear or the cruel whim of fate, it is impossible to discern. Yet, amidst the shadows, two windows stand out, each holding a story of its own.

One window, its fractured pane a testament to the scars of a volatile past, remains enigmatically shrouded. Your pulse quickens as memories of bittersweet delicacies flood your senses. The rich aroma of sweet potato-filled empanadas mingles with the tantalizing scent of sweet strawberry horchata. It is an intoxicating blend that tugs at your heartstrings, evoking a yearning for the familiarity and warmth that resides within. Though you know it to be a trick of the mind, the illusionary fragrance lingers, teasing your senses, rendering your heart heavy with emotions you dare not fully embrace. The mask upon your face serves as a barrier, futilely attempting to shield your eyes from the rawness that seeps through.

Refusing to linger in the grip of nostalgia, you forcefully wipe away the moisture that accumulates upon your face, an act rendered useless by the relentless saturation beneath your mask. Your resolve remains unyielding as you avert your gaze, no longer willing to succumb to the power of longing. Instead, your body surges forward, propelled by the strength that resides within, fingers grazing against the unforgiving asphalt as your form glides through the air with an effortless grace.

In this nocturnal ballet, your movements become an expression of resilience and purpose. The open patch of land, a realm teeming with untold stories and unspoken truths, lies just a few blocks away, yet you refuse to let your gaze wander in that direction.

With every stride, every leap, you embrace the freedom that comes with embracing the unknown. The night is your canvas, and you, the spider-inspired maestro, weave a symphony of vigilance and determination against the backdrop of a city that both loves and fears you.

On this side of Brooklyn, the streets held little intrigue for you, their worn pathways offering no solace in your relentless pursuit. Even within the confines of your own neighborhood, the prospect of an exhilarating hunt seemed dim. Your father's voice, a reverberating echo from the past, cautioned against playing where you slept, reminding you of the chaotic aftermath such endeavors left in their wake. His words were etched into your consciousness, a reminder of the perils that lurked within the realm of familiarity.

There was a time when you entertained the audacious notion of orchestrating your father's liberation. The notion of liberating a person, unlike pilfering a diamond-encrusted necklace, required meticulous planning and a trusted accomplice. But such an endeavor held little appeal for Tamara, whose worth in diamonds was a currency she held dear. Moreover, your correspondence with your father had dwindled to naught since your mother's untimely passing. While a prison break would undoubtedly pave the way for a long-awaited reunion, the stakes were high, and failure would plunge you both into a deeper abyss.

And yet, acceptance became your constant companion.

With a brief transition bridging the divide, your body once again guides you toward a familiar destination. You descend with practiced silence, landing softly on the worn planks of the fire escape. Gazing upon the abandoned building before you, the passage of time seems inconsequential. Its dilapidated facade holds a steadfast resilience, much like the memories you have forged within its decaying walls.

A murmur escapes your lips, barely audible, as you tread the path of reminiscence. Scaling the railing, your eyes fixate on the far corner, where a metal-plated vent rests inconspicuously. To the untrained eye, it would go unnoticed, a hidden entrance designed to challenge only the most intrepid souls. Those with arachnophobia or a discomfort for confined spaces would instinctively shy away, blissfully ignorant of its true purpose.

But you are one of the few who knows its secrets, aware that this unassuming vent conceals a passage into the depths beyond. Though your high school physique was more forgiving, you now possess an agility honed by relentless practice. With calculated finesse, you squeeze through the narrow tunnel of darkness, your body adapting to the constricting confines. The sudden drop-off awaits at the end, but you navigate it with unwavering poise, balancing precariously upon a narrow beam before gracefully leaping to the next, traversing the chasm with the assurance of a seasoned acrobat.

Upon reaching the topmost floor, a sense of coziness envelops you, but the space feels confined compared to the open expanse below. With practiced grace, you lower yourself, hanging from the sturdy beam, preparing for a seamless roll upon landing. Yet, your focus wavers, captivated by a peculiar sight.

"When did someone mend that?"

Your gaze fixates on the highest window, where a marginal break had been repaired. Its elevated position renders it impractical as an entry point, rendering its restoration all the more puzzling. Even the building's original occupants never saw fit to address it. The mended window sparks a cascade of questions, igniting your curiosity like a flame dancing upon the wick.

But as the ancient adage warns, curiosity holds the power to slay the feline.

Fortune smiles upon you, for the highest floor boasts the lowest ceilings, mitigating the impact of your roll as your body gracefully meets the floor. Gasping for air, you summon oxygen to replenish your lungs, knees resting on the ground as you survey your surroundings. Every corner brims with potential danger, and your instincts sharpen, seeking out the source of the disturbance.

A flicker of shadow dances at the edge of your vision, fleeting and elusive. Was it a mere play of light, a figment of your imagination? Uncertainty lingers, but one thing is certain: this place is no longer the sanctuary of your childhood. Its innocence has been usurped by an unseen menace, lurking in the forgotten crevices of this once-abandoned edifice.

The air gradually fills your chest, accompanied by wheezes of exertion, as you rise unsteadily to your feet. Your options unfold before you like a complex tapestry, each exit tainted with newfound doubt. The doors you once presumed accessible may now be sealed shut, the floorboards that once creaked beneath your weight, fortuitously silent. Whoever now occupies this space possesses a heightened awareness, their presence a palpable threat that chills the air.

The distorted sound of soft clicks resonates in the air, an eerie melody designed to unsettle you. It plays with your senses, toying with your perception of reality. The voice, dripping with arrogance and disdain, pierces the silence like a venomous serpent.

"I'm afraid we have no need for strays here. We're more than capable of handling our own rat problem."

With a swift, fluid motion, you drop into a defensive stance, ready to face whatever adversary dares challenge you. Your words, laced with defiance, spill forth from clenched teeth, "Cute that you think you can afford my pedigree."

The source of the voice remains elusive, a phantom lurking in the shadows. The disadvantage of being grounded gnaws at your instincts, urging you to regain the upper hand.

"Pedigree? In Brooklyn? Don't make me laugh."

The calculated movements of the unseen presence further shroud their location, deliberately traversing the beams above to obscure their tracks. In response, you coil closer to the ground, making your body smaller, while your gaze darts around, searching for any sign, any clue.

Your voice adopts a tone you reserve for targets, laced with a hint of intrigue and the promise of a challenge. It dances through the air, light and airy, as you remark, "Maybe you should. Your voice sounds enticing. Hopefully, your wit matches it."

A scoff of disdain echoes in return, prickling your nerves, a telltale sign that your words have struck a nerve.

"Does that work for you?"

The voice has shifted, now above you, the mysterious figure closing in, inching ever closer to your vulnerable position on the ground.

"It depends. Come closer, and I'll be more than happy to provide you with a demonstration."

A heavy silence descends upon the space, laden with tension and uncertainty. You are ill-prepared for this encounter, having ventured into this treacherous corner of Brooklyn without your customary utilities. The realization of your own recklessness washes over you, a bitter reminder of the risks you have taken.

Yet, if they dare attempt to confine a cat in a wet bag, you will unleash all the fury and resilience that resides within you.

"If you insist."

They remained perched above, their position granting them a vantage point to observe your every move. As the impending strike hurtles towards you, a fleeting glimmer of purple catches your eye. Instinctively, you duck beneath the incoming attack, narrowly evading its trajectory. The clash of limbs reverberates through the air as you block their follow-up assault, your own clawed glove extending in a retaliatory gesture. Their speed is astonishing, an awe-inspiring display that leaves you momentarily off balance, seized by the collar and hoisted over their shoulder.

Yet, you are not caught off guard. Prepared for this impact, you roll onto your back with practiced grace, positioning yourself strategically as they hover above you. Both of you conceal your identities behind masks, but their assailant garb does a superior job of obscuring their true self. While your mind races to decipher the symbol adorning their attire, you sense an equal curiosity emanating from beneath their weight, solid and imposing.

Baring your teeth, you hiss defiantly, a mixture of challenge and provocation dripping from your words, "So you enjoy it rough, do you?"

A cocky tilt of their chin betrays their confidence as they respond, "Most men do."

This close the vague familiarity of the voice behind the mask gnaws at you. Though the speculation is faint as you calculate your next move.

A man then.

You could work with that.

Knowing that a headbutt would yield no victor, you tap into your resourcefulness, employing your body with precision. Your foot connects with a swift strike to his solar plexus, jolting them momentarily and creating the necessary space for you to wriggle free. As you roll a few feet away, maintaining a safe distance, the sound of a wheeze escapes his masked lips. With a taunting tone, you tease, "Aw, poor baby. Has the cat got your tongue? Men always finish so soon."

Tension tenses his shoulder as he regains his footing, a charge of determination propelling his advance. His arm grips your shoulder, preparing to toss you once more. Yet, you possess the agility to seize the opportunity, pivoting with agility and daring, aligning your back with his chest, sacrificing a vulnerable position for the advantage it grants. The motion of your next move is intended to disrupt their balance, your leg deftly splitting his thighs as you attempt to shove them backward. However, your calculation of his resilience proves inaccurate, as he fiercely bring you down alongside him.

Effortlessly, he rolls atop you, overpowering your defenses, pinning your arm back with ease. His voice drips with smugness as they taunt, "You're right. You are pedigree. What do they call you? A ragdoll?"

The curl of his self-satisfied smirk ignites a blazing fire within you, fueling your determination as you squirm beneath his weight. "Still not close enough. Allow me to enlighten you," you hiss, your voice laced with an unsettling sweetness.

His hand presses against your head, drawing dangerously close. A slip-up, a momentary vulnerability that becomes your catalyst for escape. Your nails claw into the flesh of his arm, exerting force until the compressed nerve yields, weakening his left side. Taking advantage their loosened grip, you unleash a powerful back kick, squirming free from his grasp.

Now afforded the precious gift of space, you act swiftly, nimbly scaling the wall with a determination born from necessity. The strain on your arm protests the swinging motion, but you persevere, perching yourself just out of their reach on a low-bearing beam. Your chest heaves with exertion, a telltale sign of the intensity of the encounter. There is a captivating allure to the figure before you, an air of knowingness that radiates from his composed demeanor as he casually rolls his shoulders, shaking off the impact of your attack.

Even from their position below, he maintains the advantage, a fact he is acutely aware of. Yet, for reasons unbeknownst to you, he refrains from exploiting it, at least for now. "Crafty entrance," the voice remarks, revealing his knowledge of the vent. This realization dawns upon you, highlighting the indicators you carelessly overlooked. This building is undoubtedly inhabited, but the question remains—why?

"I wasn't aware someone was watching. I would have put on a better show," you retort, a playful hint in your voice.

"It was rewarding enough," he counters, his words dripping with a hint of intrigue. You envision the angle of your contorted body, the spectacle it must have presented to an observer. Indicators often accompany additional security measures, yet they allowed you to stumble into the trap instead of springing it prematurely.

"I tend to prefer finer things, but I can appreciate prime real estate. New owner?" you inquire, a note of curiosity lacing your words.

The figure leisurely crosses his arms, providing you with a slightly clearer glimpse beneath the moon's gentle illumination. Shades of dark purple shroud his form, obscuring detailed features, yet you discern a lithe and agile build. "Something like that," he responds, his tone light but tinged with an underlying sense of boredom. "It's time for you to be a good kitty and run off. I'm not fond of house cats."

His words resonate within you, as if he had plucked the thoughts from your mind. Though you had initially been poised to retreat toward the familiar path from which you came, an uncharacteristic trust in this enigmatic stranger tugs at your instincts. There is an inexplicable feeling that assures you it will be alright, that survival is not merely wishful thinking. Alternatively, you may be sealing your own fate, and Tamara would revel in newfound wealth.

"That's a shame," you remark, as you feel his eyes trailing after you as you cautiously pry open the vent. Even though he is out of sight, his presence lingers, his words carving ripples in the air.

His next statement leaves you with a wry smile, "Funny you say that. I thought you were too expensive for my taste."

As you wriggle back through the vent, ensuring a seamless exit, the metal sheet slams shut, sealing off the passage behind you. The cool breath of Brooklyn's night air embraces your heated skin, invigorating your senses. In an instant, you spring into action, traversing the building with a swiftness born of instinct and experience. Every stride, every leap, carries you closer to the boundary of your neighborhood.

Yet, in the depths of your being, something stirs—a sensation more profound than mere boredom.

Curiosity.

#earth 42 miles morales x reader #earth 42 miles x reader #spiderman across the spiderverse #spiderman fanfiction #42 miles morales #miles morales x reader #earth 42 miles morales #prowler miles

[luminiamore]

plug connie springer x black stripper reader

warnings: boy is down bad, a little bit of mikasa x reader??, mikasa is famous heree, connie is a tease, he’s also hispanic asf, ya’ll didn’t even make it to the club, hints of yandere, mirror action, he fucks u while he’s crossfaded, wall sex, he talks a lot, dude is rambling, good ole cream pie, gotta love breeding

a/n: i got carried away (⌒_⌒;)

can you guys tell i like my men desperate lol, this is so long i might make this a series (4.9k words)

one down, like five more to goooo

The lifestyle of stripping was something you truly couldn’t get enough of. The late nights. The smooth poles. Dancing on those smooth poles. And most importantly, the money. Oh fuck, how you loved the money. Living the fast life gave you such a rush that you adored it just as much as you hated it.

It’s not your first choice, not by a long shot. You were raised in Jamaica, New York. And your parents., you loved them. Honestly, you did, but you would probably be the most miserable person in the world if you kept heeding their strict Christian views.

You tried everything to reach up to their impossibly high standards. They wanted you to get an A in every assignment? Try A+. They wanted you to wear less revealing clothes because ‘No man will ever want you’? You’re showing up to your classes in turtlenecks just to keep their mouths shut.

You even made it a routine to clean the entire house top to bottom on Sundays since they started complaining that ‘You never do anything around this house.’ It was beyond annoying. You were fucking tired.

Growing up in Notre Dame School of Manhattan was nothing short of horrible. Proclaimed ‘good girls’ snorting more than half a line of coke in the school bathrooms. Drugs you aren’t even sure how they got access to, but then again, they are rich white kids. Teachers and hypocritical professors pretend to be oblivious to the bullshit drama their students are in. Your parents’ oblivion for keeping you here is even greater. Even after sharing stories with them, they would advise you to be more like the students at your school.

It was a miracle you didn’t turn out that far gone, despite what your profession is currently. You’ve smoked a little weed here and there. Experience some sort of awakening tripping off shrooms the weekend your parents took a trip to Barbados.

Without you, of course. Despite this, you were always taken care of. Your differences in opinion would never justify their abandonment of you. You knew they loved you when they got you a ticket to see The Weeknd live after you got a perfect score on your final, not after telling you their opinions on the matter, of course.

‘I don’t know why you listen to such devil music.’

‘I should’ve never gotten you this trash.’

The guilt you felt for wanting to have fun kept you from almost going. You went anyway, choosing to avoid allowing their misery to affect you.

Everything was fine; you played along with this draining game, and everything was fine. Until they decided to kick you out for finding a small baggie of blow (that wasn’t even yours) peeking out from the top of your purse. You don’t even know how it got there.

Honestly, you didn’t. You tried to communicate that while they were packing all the clothes they could find in your closet into two medium-sized luggage bags. But they wouldn’t listen, opting for screaming so loud you could see the neighbors peeking through the window. At the very least, they were kind enough not to throw them onto the concrete ground. Their stubbornness was unyielding. You just couldn’t get through to them.

You were able to rent an apartment you had put a deposit on a month before this happened because of the money in your savings account. Unfortunately, your funds were only sufficient for rent for two months due to groceries and other necessities.

When graduation came, your parents were nowhere to be found, so you realized that you had to find a means of earning money before you ended up sleeping on the streets.

You tried looking for a ’regular’ job -- a barista, a waitress, even applied to be a fucking bartender. It’s not as easy as it seems when those who already have one talk about finding a job. Why do they claim that they need to hire immediately and yet still reject you? Considering that your lack of work experience prevents you from being hired, you feign a little on your resume. Turns out, you’re not a very good liar.

Where was pretty privilege when you needed it?!

Despite applying to 500 companies, none could offer you a job within the next two weeks, which happened to be when your rent was due.

You really had no other option. You took your pretty ass and marched to the nearest club. Which happened to be the... Hustlers club? Why did that sound familiar? 

Upon entering, you outright demanded to speak with the person in charge, and when you saw him, he demanded that he offer you a job. Lucky for you, the owner happened to be there that day. He observed the little moment you had when you stormed in..well, he observed the way your tits bounced in your low-cut tee and immediately pulled you into his office.

He had the thought that you would make him a lot of money if you worked for him, and he’s sure his business partner would agree if she saw you. He just had to make sure.

A figure appeared in the corner, striking up from the edge of his desk and making a slight sniffling noise. A girl, a beautiful one with distinct Asian features. Her leather skirt was short, only barely covering past 2 inches of her thigh. Her tits were pushed up to a necklace in a black corset-like top. An ornamental gold necklace.. with the letter M.

Wait. Is that-

That’s where it dawned on you why the name of this club sounded so familiar. On a random Tuesday afternoon, you find yourself standing in front of a celebrity. You were standing in front of Mikasa Ackerman. The Mikasa Ackerman. As in, owner of Mirror Palais, the highest-paid model in Japan, co-owner of one of the best clubs in New York, Mikasa Ackerman. Oh shit.

You remember seeing her on an Instagram reel in front of this very club, along with the other owner. The other owner, his name was.. what was it again? He swivels you around to face him, almost as if he hears your thoughts,

“Eren Yeager, sweetheart.”

A soft handshake accompanied by a gentle tone. He was quick to introduce you to the beautiful eyes that stayed fixed on your face since you walked into the dimly lit room. Eren guides you towards the brown leather couch where his friend is sitting,

“And, this is the lovely Mikasa. I’m sure you sure you know who she is.”

Feeling intimidated by her intense gaze, you nodded quickly and stumbled a bit when introducing yourself. Her following words didn’t calm your nerves anyhow,

“A real pleasure meeting you, beautiful.”

Eren could tell that Mikasa already liked you; the girl was practically fucking you with her eyes. But he wasn’t here for that; he cleared his throat to draw attention to him in the room. He had a goal in mind: to get you signed up. Eren wanted you dancing in his club today.

He sits you down and swiftly gets into business mode.

‘What kind of position are you looking for?’

‘What’s the minimum salary you want to earn here?’

He tries to get a sense of what you’re looking for before proposing to work as a stripper. Although he wants you to, he can compromise. Server position and the minimum salary you asked for was $65,000.

“And I’m not leaving til I get that or something better.”

Well, you wanted better, right? Eren explains to you that his club didn’t have any more waitress positions and Mikasa...

Well, that day, you found out that she was really good with words. She did a great job at convincing you that you’d make double the amount you asked for moving your perfect body on the pole. I mean...

“Look at that body of yours. You’d be pretty famous here, sweetheart.”

And shit, she was right. You really couldn’t blame the girls who never wanted to leave, simply too addicted to the drugs, to the fast life, especially to the money. The amount of money you made every night was simply insurmountable. And you found it funny because it wasn’t just the money. Really, it wasn’t.

The sensation that occurs when your lower body rotates on the pole. The art of dancing like this ignited such a passion from you. The attention, from the men and the women. One of the most popular clubs in the city had you as a crowd favorite. You knew it shouldn’t be something you liked; you never wanted to get too wrapped up in a life like this. But shit, it was sensational.

You didn’t let it slip, even though you shined on the stage. There are people who would take advantage of you even more if they knew you actually enjoyed what you do; you know this. When it was time to go, you left with no hesitation. You had to remind yourself of what you were here for, to provide and care for yourself until you find a better job.

And you stuck to that goal for a solid five months; nothing deterred you. Of course, that’s what you’re thinking. In reality, from the very first moment Eren had you on that pole, you found yourself coming back for one reason. Even if you weren’t subconsciously aware of it, him.

Connie, you heard the owner greet one day. He was definitely attractive. There was something about him, something about how he threw money at you and only you. Your body shivered without fail due to the gray eyes that watched your every move. The way he man spreads and tilts his head back when taking a hit, revealing neck tattoos that you know cover his stomach under that black Nike Tech hoodie. He was so fucking fine.

Only a few men can pull off a buzz cut. How does he do it so effortlessly? Maybe it was the color? How would he change it like it was nothing every two weeks?

You noticed he had a thin mustache, and when you got closer to his face.. Fuck. Was that a diamond nose ring?

He was a drug dealer. You caught that three months ago. Around that point, he began asking for you to exclusively serve his section. Eren had no problem with that; after all, this was his friend. But Connie started getting.. greedy. He wanted more than that. He started getting bold. He wanted your body on that twirling solely for him.

“Hell no.”

Eren filled the quiet section. Your body was followed by both green and gray eyes as you moved on the stage, with Connie’s eyes being more intense and focused compared to the other. The thriving club was filled with both of them enjoying a glass of Richard Hennessy Cognac in the VIP area.

Connie never had a good relationship with mixing Henny and weed. He was aware of that. He has a tendency to indulge in sinful thoughts. He didn’t let that stop him from rolling the blunt anyway.

His mind would get drawn towards dangerous places, mainly when he saw you. The way your thong disappeared between your cheeks under your lacey two-piece made him ready to fuck you right there. To show those perverted and prickly eyes that stuck like glue onto you that they could never have you. That you were his. Or, you will be.

Connie hasn’t even fucked you yet. Hasn’t gone anywhere near the sticky wetness he knows you have in between your legs.

You two indulge in what you could only describe as subtle grinding in the back rooms. All the dancing that you’re supposed to be doing on the pole, you’re doing on his lap instead. It was against the rules; you especially knew this. That didn’t stop either of you. Well, more so Connie than you.

At first, his best friend was against it. The customers you brought in were earning him at least $100k a night. While his other show girls were beautiful, you radiated a different type of aura onto the stage. You were something different. It was genuinely insane how you could move, you didn’t even have prior training. You found that every night, you got better than the previous; it was a natural talent.

Connie, being Connie, offered Eren twice that amount for every night he gets to spend with you alone. That was every night you were on the clock, besides, he had no problem making that back by the next day. When it came to his girl, there was never a problem for him.

And Connie never regretted the amount he spent on you. Being alone with you was something he had grown to crave incessantly. To him? It was worth it. He’d get so excited to just walk into the back room and find you waiting for him. All pretty, just tempting him to ruin you. Then, when you start performing in front of him, your body moves in a way that would hypnotize the stoic man.

And it wasn’t just your body to Connie. There was a certain allure to you. He was observant of the way you moved, spoke, and behaved. He understood that someone like you doesn’t come by every day. He just had to have you, own you. Your body, your fucking soul, everything you possessed, he wanted it for himself. He didn’t care if it sounded selfish; he’s okay with being that when it comes to you.

It’s reasonable to assume that he would have the final say on what you wear for him since he was the only person you would dance for, right? That was the route he took to get your number. That’s the reason you got a text from him while you were getting ready to shower for your night shift.

One of his friends- Was he talking about Mikasa?

You could have given it more thought, but your shift was only an hour away, and Connie was on his way. Using a small gray towel, you drape it onto the fat of your wet boobs. Your hands lather your Shea Butter oil on the top of your left thigh quickly, but you stop when your doorbell rings.

“Coming!”

You yelp, quickly slip on your slippers, and move toward the door. The man had always taken you home, and on the other side of the coin, he always took you to work. You didn’t bother asking how he knew your address the first time, afraid that it would spark an answer you’re not ready to hear. Occasionally, if you were too intoxicated to carry yourself to your apartment, he would act as your knight in shining armor and hold you in bridal fashion to your door without saying a word.

It should have been simple enough: he goes in and gets out. And it would have been that simple if he hadn’t seen your pink lacy thong loosely hanging off your door knob. He was simply a man, one who desired to feel every part of you. The tip of that thong was hanging out of his pockets when Connie left your apartment that night.

Swinging your door open makes you almost breathless. Connie was a tall person. Everything about him just screamed: big. He was easily over 6 feet 2 inches tall, and he came to your door carrying a medium-sized shopping bag. You step back, observing as he comes in right after taking his slides off by your door.

“You’re here early, Con. I’m not ready yet.” You whisper, still a little perplexed he’s already here. Despite the amount of money you know he has, you rarely ever see him in anything other than a white tee and black sweats. Today was no different. Minor differences in each pair made it clear that they were different every time. You suppose it had something to do with his dangerous line of work.

He hands you the cream-colored bag, and his eyes never leave your lips all the while. You suddenly became very conscious that you were breathing the same air as Connie, who appeared right in front of you. He leans in, the ghost of his lips felt against your collarbone,

“You smell good,” His tatted hands sneakily climbed their way onto your wide hips. Before muttering a curse under his breath, he squeezes once. For the first time since meeting you, Connie isn’t being truthful. He didn’t come to your apartment to take you to your job. Tonight, he had different intentions.

He came tonight to put a full stop to the cat-and-mouse game that you guys have been playing for the past five months. Two fully packed blunts and three shots of Don Julio convinced him that his attraction towards you was not going away.

He should’ve realized it when he started making a habit of watching over you outside of the strip club. She needs someone to protect her, he thinks. You don’t pay attention to your surroundings. You have no idea, don’t you? Your beauty could easily lead to someone from the club becoming obsessed and following you. Anyone who wasn’t him.

He also should’ve realized it when he started beating his dick into overstimulation to your pictures on Instagram. And after your shift. Of course, before your shift. Eren witnessed him having to excuse himself during your shift because his dick was painfully throbbing against his boxers.

Connie really liked you. And somewhere in that twisted mind of his, he believed that you two were truly meant for each other. He should’ve never waited this long, “Put this on, ma.”

He pushes the bag towards your chest and moves your hips in the direction of your room. Your thighs twitch as you hum and make a little run to the end of your hall. He follows after you slowly, eyes shifting to the way your ass peaks out from under the towel.

This scene feels oddly familiar. A predator stalking its prey, just waiting for the right moment to pounce. You didn’t know what Connie came here to do; in your mind, you were just getting ready for work. He almost felt sorry for you, almost felt sorry for how he was going to ruin you, almost.

He made sure to take his time approaching your door so that you could be ready and prepared for him when he arrived. And you didn’t disappoint. In front of your vanity makeup mirror, you were sat on the cushion chair. Applying what looked like oil from a flower bottle onto your neck.

You look better in the dress than he expected. Your fat tits sitting so perfectly, and the lace meshing with your skin. You pretended to ignore him behind your seat, starting to feel the weight of his presence around you. This was probably the thinnest item you had ever owned, yet his hands pressing on your shoulders made your skin feel like it was on hot volcanic soil.

You catch his eye in the mirror, and despite your flustered state, he doesn’t grant you the satisfaction of looking away. Not even while his hands lower down to your rib cage, right under your plush boobs. Especially not even while his giant palms wrap around the fabric covering your nipple in a tight grip.

You gasp, a moan bottling in your throat, “C-Con!”

It could have been the way you uttered his name or the way your head pressed against his chest. Regardless, Connie lost control and dropped his head into the crook of your neck, beginning to sprinkle small, wet kisses. He grips harder, and you... you get louder.

“You drive me fucking insane,” Your flesh is now exposed to his hands as they slip into the dress. “Skin so soft,” He kneads his hands into your chest, squeezing as if he’s hoping milk will pour out of them. He groans, “God, you’re so perfect mama.” The thought of that makes a shiver run down his body.

Poor Mikasa, she spent all night working on that dress once she heard it was for you. Connie didn’t even let it last for a good ten minutes before you heard a faint rip sound in the midst of your whimpers.

Your brain is struggling to keep up with the speed of everything happening. You attempt to tilt your head back, but he shuts it down right away. “Eyes on the mirror.” He moves one hand to your throat, keeping you still. You feel your body shake under his hold, twitching slightly from his small attack. You didn’t have the courage to look away, not even as far as you could.

“I’ve been so patient.” Squeezing your left nipple, he drops his fingers down the ripped material until they reach the top of your pussy lips. “Cumming to the thought of your pretty face like a fucking teenager,” His words bring a mewl to your lips. Your body starts sweating, nervous at the way his fingers are just rubbing circles around your skin.

Would he pull away if your hips jerked against his hand? You hoped against all odds that he wouldn’t. You’ve never allowed yourself to feel this desperate for anyone, but being around Connie left you like this. You were at a loss for what to do. Your thoughts were racing to find something, anything, that would bring him closer to you.

It’s unclear what motivated him to answer your prayers. But in the next moment, he pushed his middle finger into the center of where your slick was overflowing onto the cushion. He creates slight tap sounds with the puddle between your fat lips, playing with you.

Your eyes close for just a second and burst wide open when you feel a sudden intrusion in your sticky hole. “A-Ah!” A sob leaves your lips, your eyes falling back to your face in the mirror when you register his next words,

“Eyes on the mirror, mama. I haven’t done anything to you yet,” As Connie slowly moves his fingers into and out of your dripping core, his eyes struggle to keep track of your face in the mirror or the stain you’re beginning to make on his digits.

He settles with the stain you’re creating. He’s massaging your walls in a way that you can’t help but cover them in a creamy white. It’s impossible not to moan with shaky breaths, whispering his name. He figures the wait was worth it. His dreams couldn’t have prepared him for the real thing. It was more noisy, was more sticky, and it was.. real.

What do you taste like?

Your hips shake as he suddenly removes his fingers from you. You whimper, annoyed by the absence of the touch of fingers on your wet walls, but you stop yourself when you see his movements in the mirror. His mouth wraps around his middle and ring finger, sucking your juices to the fullest. Your breathing stops when he moans, “You taste so fucking good.”

Connie silently pulls you up from your seat and presses you against the nearest wall, causing the ripped dress to fall to the floor. Instantly, your back arched into the prominent bulge that was pressing on your bare ass. Your thoughts wander back to your last session with Connie in the backroom. All that desperate grinding.

“You were squeezing so tight around my fingers,” He pushes his sweat down to remove his throbbing hard dick with a little effort. “Y’gonna squeeze my dick like that next?”

Thwack! Thwack! Thwack!

You jump every time the base of his cock slaps down on your ass. Both of his hands grip your sides, his eyes rolling back as he slides his dick back and forth in between your leaking pussy lips.

“Oh f-fuck! Connie,”

Your voice cracks when you call out for him, and he smiles. He cannot deny that this is the perfect thing; it was always meant to be like this. He spreads your cheeks as wide as he can, lining his tip up to your hole that’s clenching around nothing.

“Yeah, b-baby?” Fuck, you were so wet. “Want me to fuck you? Want- Oh fuck. Want Connie to make you scream?”

Your lips tremble, and you try to slide his dick inside you by pushing your hips back. He lets you, too weak himself, to stop you from taking what you wanted. All you can think right now is Connie, Connie, fucking Connie.

“Shittt. Want y-y’to to make me cum! P-please!”

Pushing him even further inside without his help proves to him that you truly want him to make you scream. You’re barely making it halfway with his thick and long build. Connie is incredibly proud of you right now, taking his dick like a desperate bitch and moaning to fuck the rest of his inches in.

He pulls a little of himself out of you, only to flush his hips abruptly against yours with one single push. Groaning at the same time you gasp out, he whispers in your ear, “Scream for daddy, mama.”

You were so full. His cock tip was touching places that you’ve never been to on your own before, causing your mind to go haywire. His pressure against your cervix was so intense it would have been painful if you weren’t so wet. You oblige almost embarrassingly quickly the moment you feel his dick drag at a steady pace inside of you.

Connie regrets not having done this sooner, as the drugs he took earlier are still mixing in his system, alternating and speeding up his thoughts. His body was ablaze. You’re covering the entire length of his dick with your juices, causing him to become frantic and desperate to get more out of you. His thrusts match his crave. You were warm, and your cries were heaven to his ears, “Big! Y’re so b-big, daddy!”

You’re not complaining, far from it, as he tears your pussy to shreds. In fact, you’re taking him so well, and he praises you for it. Like he said, you were made for this moment, for him. You’re such a,

“Good girl. Fuck! My g-good girl takes me so well,”

He can hear your slick drip on the floor below you despite the smacking sound in your room. You’re so needy for him, as he is for you. The walls echoed with your wailing sounds as you fucked him back, making Connie shudder.

He’s gonna cum. He can feel his balls churning as they slap repeatedly against your twitching clit. Fuck. He’s gonna cum so deep inside you he prays it reaches your womb. Although it’s his first time exploring the depths of your perfect cunt, he recognizes that you’re also going to cum.

He can tell by the way your legs are shaking rapidly, by the way, your moans get higher in pitch, by the way, you’re whispering his name out like a prayer. And he’s determined to make you cum before him. Do you squirt? Do you cream? He thinks he’ll die and go to heaven if it’s both. Your next plea erupts another groan to tumble out his mouth,

“M’gonna- M’gonna cum! O-oh fuck- M’gonna cum so h-hard.”

Holding your arms behind your back with his tatted hand, he moves his hips inside you at a faster pace than ever before. “Shit. Me t-too, mama.” He angles his waist to keep pressing into that spongy spot that makes you tremble. “Just like that. Cum, baby. C-cum all over this fat dick.”

Small tears start to fall down your brown cheeks, and your back arches sharply on Connie, causing your stomach to clench at once. The man above you receives both your cream and squirt splashing from your sweet core, and you weep. Your muffled moans fill the air as he cranes your neck towards him for a nasty, drooling kiss.

As he gets closer to his orgasm, his rapid thrusts become sloppy and crazed, and his heart beats twice as fast as he sees the beauty fucked out underneath him. The more Connie moved inside of you, the more he swayed. Your essence was covering his lower half so much that he couldn’t wait another minute before dumping his kids against your cervix, a shaky moan accompanying his release.

His thrusts slow down, causing tiny drops to spill onto the floor, but his lips never leave yours, and he has to remind himself to let you breathe when you start to whine against his mouth. He lets you go and instead presses tiny kisses against your panting mouth.

Both of you, Connie in particular, were on cloud nine. Your clenching onto him brings Connie’s mind back to Earth, but he is not satisfied. He wanted to go again. He needed it, so it was only natural he started moving at a steadfast pace inside you again.

“Again. Let’s go a-again, mama. Shitt. Your pussy is so-”

Before that night, you’ve never experienced pleasure on this level. Connie took you, on every corner of the house. Both of you left unaware of Eren’s multiple missed calls as he fucked his cum into you like a dog in heat. It’s safe to say that you didn’t show up for work that night or the night after. Connie made sure you never danced at a strip club again.

@hatake05 @thickbihhwitdagapp 🫶🏾

#lumiwrites #plug connie #connie springer x black reader smut #18+ content #aot smau #aot smut #aot x black reader #aot x reader #aot x black y/n #connie springer #connie x black reader #connie x black y/n #connie x you #mikasa ackerman #mikasa aot #connie aot #connie attack on titan #eren yeager x black reader #eren yeager #mikasa x reader #mikasa x black reader #aot fanfiction #x black reader smut

[cellophaine]

hi, happy new year! first & foremost i love all your work, highlight of my 2021; it always got me giggling & kicking my feet LMFAO i was wondering if you could do a slow burn (the reader could be a vigilante working alongside daredevil), & it’s the enemies to lovers trope, with the italicized oh/ah for realization, angry love confession & all, if you know what i’m talking about. & one of them goes “please-“ in a breath of a whisper & the other just slams their lips into theirs. sorry if this is a lengthy request LMAO do what you want with it!

I'm very sorry for the 10-and-a-half-month-long wait! This was a long request, so I did try to put everything together in a way that makes sense. I hope you'll enjoy it!

Futile Devices

Pairing: Matt Murdock x GN!Reader

Word Count: 8222.

Warnings: Violence. Light angst. Enemies to lovers. A tiny mention of decapitation. Blood. Injuries.

Author's Note: I wrote this with a female reader in mind, but there's no mention or indication of Reader's gender.

Holy shit, this is the longest thing I've ever written. I hope you guys won't be bored to death lol.

*The events in this fic took place after Daredevil season 3*

GIF Credit

The familiar click of the coffee pot registered somewhere in his keen hearing, but he didn't seem to notice. Matt was going through a series of motions, scrambling his eggs, flipping his bacon, getting his plate and mug ready for his breakfast, all while his mind walked on a frenzied march he couldn't keep up in the recollections of that night. That night was long gone, five days into the past, but it was still fresh and present to Matt, no matter the logic he came up with. He tried, and failed. Again and again. It haunted him in his few hours at nights of lying awake, and his days of paperwork and court affairs. Matt had to admit this could be something worse than he initially thought.

The last thing he needed was a new assassin in town.

Thin as a hair thread. That was how close Matt was to failing to save another's life. A criminal's life, but a life regardless. He almost lost it to the hands much more brutal than him. Much more merciless. Even more so than when Matt lost himself, haunted by his mistakes and Elektra's death, tormented by his own malice, of what he would be capable of had he let his pain consume him whole. The fact that someone was out there with such force and cruelty was alarming. It wasn't your ruthlessness that confounded Matt; he was no stranger to it, but everything about you.

You evaded his sweeps and blows as if they were nothing, as if he was only a martial arts enthusiast and not the Devil of Hell's Kitchen. The gracefulness in your moves made you look like a ballerina to his enhanced senses. The sharp gusts of air from your movement cut his skin like a dull blade, and Matt suspected the purpose was not to hurt him, but to warn. You rendered him almost helpless, meeting him for every strike. A good match in all the wrong ways, for all the wrong reasons.

You had the agility and deadliness of the Hand's lifeless soldier, which made Matt think you were one of them. Still, the steady rhythm of your heart said otherwise. It was as real as the sharpness of your dagger when it slid across his forearm. Your mercilessness was not the most fatal part of you. The precise delivery of your weapon almost took a life, and even though Matt prevented that from happening, he felt as if letting your victim live was your decision, not his. He was only a witness who was at the right place, at the right time. Your escape was silent and swift, leaving no trace for him to follow. No matter how hard he tried, he could only detect a subtle scent of wet earth in the air, and nothing else. Since then, Matt had spread himself thin, patrolling the Manhattan area, even as far as Brooklyn, asking for his friends' help in places he couldn't reach, like a confused hound dog on a blind chase. The clues he picked up were only fragments of a bigger picture you were a part of. Days passed, and the seed sprouted from his curiosity of you kept growing, yet his search gave him nothing to attach you to.

Not until tonight, when your ruthlessness struck again.

You took hold of the man's collar, tugging on his tie, making sure that it sat tightly at the base of his throat. His face turned a dangerous shade of red, blending in with the crimson liquid and purple bruises all over his skin. His mouth opened to take in desperate gulps of air as you wrapped the remaining blue-striped tie around his neck, making a noose.

"Pl-please … don't do this. I have a wife an-and … a daughter. I have a family. Please!"

You sighed, bored and fed up with what he told you. In the face of great danger and near death, they always said the same thing. You would know since you had lost count of the men and women who had told you they had families. Unfortunately, none of them was alive to testify that.

"I know you do, Eddie. I had one too, at one point. But they're all gone now …."

You tugged hard on his tie, making him choke on the restricted and precious breaths. His face, stained with tears, only stroked your confidence. You almost had him. Just a little more, and you would have your next victim. Or victims, if he was so generous as to inform you.

"Tell me names. Better yet, point me in their direction, and I just might spare you."

Eddie shook his head, whimpering pathetically.

"I can't. They'll know it's me. They'll kill me."

You ran your beloved weapon along the side of his torso, hinting at the possible chance of you cutting him up at any moment like he was a rag doll. You rested the edge of your blade against his bloated stomach while he tried to stay away from it as much as possible with his legs and hands bound. There was no use in doing that, but he desperately tried, wriggling and struggling against the confines.

"It's either me or them that will end your life. So choose."

You dipped the blade into his side. It wasn't too deep, just enough to draw blood. The metal parted his flesh with little resistance, smooth and easy as if cutting through a leaf. The man before you cried out in pain; his prayers were half screams, half cries and all the agony. He sputtered, choking on the words he desperately tried to get out.

"Imani! Imani Campbell! She's the head of security f-for the Stromwyns. She and h-her team have access to everything!"

You pulled the blade free, patting his face softly as you cooed at him.

"There we go. Wasn't that easy?"

The man sobbed uncontrollably. Blood seeped out from his dress shirt, staining the fabric a dark red. You registered a soft thud from behind; the sound, accompanied by a low voice, made its presence known.

"Let him go."

The deep timbre in his tone was familiar, even though you barely exchanged a word that night. Only grunts of exertion. Twirling the dagger in your hand playfully, you took hold of the hilt once more before slamming it into Eddie's temple, knocking him unconscious. What you might have to say to the man behind you might fall on Eddie's deaf ears since he was only a thin thread away from passing out, but you preferred not to leave that up to chance.

You turned around to face him, fastening your bloody dagger to the strap on your thigh. Your gaze assessed him as you took a few steps forward. The man from the night before returned with a fresh bandage on his forearm, courtesy of your blade.

"I'm sorry. Who are you?"

Your voice was light but alert. You pushed your tongue against the roof of your mouth, keeping the smile off your tone. You wondered what he had to say.

"I should be the one who asks you that."

You chuckled to yourself. An expected answer, but different from what you anticipated from him. You figured as much.

"I thought you should know who I am already, considering what you've been up to lately, Matt Murdock."

The muscles in his body were pulled taut in his straightened posture, locked up in alarm, and you didn't miss that.

"How do you know my name?"

You tsked, shaking your head in mock disappointment.

"Don't feign innocent now. You were looking for me, trying to sniff me out like a dog."

His hands balled tightly to the sides, and you could see the tension in his jaw, even from a safe distance away.

"How do you know that?"

"By doing the same thing as you did. I like to be five steps ahead of everything, you know? That's how I stayed out of your radar."

You were prepared and well-versed to the point it felt like a game. A game of hide-and-seek, catch-and-release. Just simple as that. You spoke over your shoulder as you turned on your heels, returning to the unconscious man.

"Now excuse me, I was in the middle of something."

He was silent and fast. Before you could give Eddie the second slap to his cheek, Matt seized you with his arms around your torso and dominant arm, dragging you away from Eddie. He backed you into the cement railing; the hard and rough texture dug into your back. He pinned your arms back, spiking pain and discomfort along your body. Nothing you could handle. Your heart rattled in your chest as you looked up at him; his laboured breathing reverberated and mirrored your own. You stayed like that for a few moments, studying each other. You felt no fear, yet your heart thundered, your blood pumping for something else.

To your surprise, he smirked as if he had caught onto your wandering thoughts and foreign feelings.

"You're not scared. You're not even frustrated. You're… excited."

You held your tongue, waiting for him to continue his assessment.

"Perhaps this has something to do with me. Having someone on your level."

You huffed a biting chuckle, your eyes trained on the part of his face exposed to you. Plump lips accentuated by light stubble, adding softness to his rugged intricacy. A strong jawline that you wouldn't mind caressing, stroking the scruffy hair on your fingertips. And putting your dagger to it. You would place your fingers on the delicate pulse on his neck while you did that, feeling the panic coursing underneath his skin. But you suspected your foe wouldn't be scared off by a sharp blade that easily.

"Maybe I do like a challenge. At last."

Fearless to the point of arrogance. Matt was dumbfounded, then it clicked: you didn't know who he was. You might be new to this city, its politics and underground scenes. Maybe you were here on a chase for something, someone dangerous, following the trail of blood, corruption and murders. It led you to his territory, which he had slowly but steadily returned to protect. When Matt told you as such, a skip in your heart told him he was right. You went still against him, and goosebumps rose along your skin. Still and rigid, a stark contrast to your confidence and playful manner just moments ago.

Either way, whether you were familiar with the area or not, Matt had to clarify one thing.

"You must stop what you're doing."

"Which is …?"

You dragged your sentence, feigning innocence. The slight lilt in your voice should irk Matt, but to his surprise, it didn't. It glided on his eardrums, soft and soothing, which had started to distract him. Just a little bit, Matt assured himself. He lied some more when he told himself that your body, pressing snugly against his, was not the reason for his slipping focus. Not at all. Your body was warm; Matt could feel it even through your suit. The unconscious man's blood on your gloves enveloped his acute sense of smell, steering him back to the conversation he was having with you.

"Killing those criminals. Taking lives that aren't yours to take."

You fell silent, and Matt could hear the grind of your teeth. The muscles in your jaw grew taut, and he had no doubt that he had struck a nerve. Matt paid extra attention to another scent entering his olfaction. Subtle, yet refreshing, like wet earth … after the rain. And all of a sudden, it made sense to him. Perhaps you used a scent like that to blend into the element around you, becoming one with your surrounding. Leaving no trace. Just like that night when he first met you. The more Matt learned about you, the more fascinated he became. But he wouldn't have known that yet. Not at that moment.

You pushed yourself up, pressing your chest flush with his. Your voice was low in contrast to your guards, which were high and tall, and you hoped they wouldn't topple over.

"Just like you said, they were criminals. I don't kill anyone that doesn't deserve it."

Your answer didn't satisfy him by the way his jaw clenched, his lips curved downward in disapproval.

"What they do is wrong, but that doesn't mean they deserve death. Two wrongs don't make one right."

Your hands tugged on the skin and bone shackles he had on you, but he wouldn't let up. Your skin prickled in frustration.

"I'm weeding the bad out. You should thank me since I'm doing you a favour."

He tightened the hold on you, making an imprint on your wrists.

"They deserve second chances for redemption. How can they change for the better if they're not given a chance to do so?"

Okay, now you were beyond annoyed. Who the hell did he think he was? To walk all over you, to jeopardize your mission. To act as if he was the one with authority.

"Stop with the fucking lectures! Not all of them deserve that."

You thrashed with all you might, desperate to escape his hold. But Matt held on.

"They're humans. They make mistakes, just like you and me."

That snapped something inside you, something that had always been there. You tipped your head back and slammed your head to his face. Matt let you go as he held a hand to his nose. You delivered a sharp blow to the base of his throat, right below his Adam's apple, effectively choking him. He sputtered, taking a few steps back, holding his throat while you followed him like a predator. Anger and grief took over, like a storm waiting to be unleashed.

"Spare me that bullshit!"

You grabbed his shirt, gripping it and pulling him back to you before throwing him against the brick chimney.

"If you know so much about the way this …"

Matt held a hand to his nose, swiping the runny liquid onto his hand. From the feel of it, a small part of his nose was splintered, but other than that, no serious and long-lasting damage. You took hold of him again, throwing him against the bricks.

"… thing works, then tell me. Tell me how it feels to have my entire life stolen from me. To have my family taken away, to have those barbaric so-called human beings abuse me, torture me, put drugs and chips inside of me like I'm no less than a toy? I'm nothing more but a weapon, a tool for their profit. And when I finally escaped and tried to have a normal life with a normal guy, they found me and took that away too?"

You leaned closer, and Matt could sense something other than his own blood. The salt of your tears, the blood rushing in your veins, fueling the rattling rhythm of your pulse.

"Tell me, Murdock. Tell me how it feels like to come home one day, and find your love's decapitated head on the bed you shared, in the only home you've ever known?"

And then there was nothing, only your heavy breathing and his; the wind died down, and the city carried on. Matt thought about the accident years ago, losing his sight, then his father. Stick came as abruptly as he left, and that was how he spent most of his teenage years alone and aloof. Matt couldn't shut out the clamour of crimes happening around him; he was helpless to it. When he decided to do something, to take charge, Matt lost more than he gained. Still, there was Foggy, who brought so much joy to his life. Foggy's presence was a blessing. Then came Elektra, who made him feel heard and understood when no one else could. Being with her was an ever-changing mesh of euphoria and affliction that stuck with him, before and after. The fights he had fought for the better only brought more pain to his life, full of losses.

The words manifested on his tongue, but he didn't say any of them. Your pain was your own, and it was immeasurable. Matt held both hands out in a gesture of peace. And when he spoke, the words were ripped right from his heart.

"I am sorry for everything that happened to you. I won't say that I understand everything what you went through. But I do understand why you're doing this. Trust me, revenge is not everything."

"No, you don't know anything about me."

Your tone was sharp. Final.

"Let me guess, you have some sob stories too?"

He swallowed hard, and you knew you were right.

"I guess that's why we turn out like this, huh? Inflicting pain on others because we can't bear our own."

It hurt more than the healing wound on his arm, than the forming bruise on his throat. It was as if your dagger had sunk into his chest and twisted until his heart was nothing but a mangle of tissues and vessels. He protected Hell's Kitchen; he had kept it safe with his violence. Deep under the overlapping layers of his good conscience, he knew it was another way for Matt not to face his own pain. The past year was the embodiment of that. No matter how much time passed, he knew that time would always stay with him, reminding him of the destruction he had made.

"Stay out of my way if you know what's good for you."

You turned on your heels, stepped onto the ledge and jumped. Your gracefulness landed you on the fire escape as you descended, blending in with the surroundings once more. Matt tipped his head back onto the warm bricks and caught his breath, deep in thoughts and the scent of you lingering behind.

Wet earth. Fresh rain. The saltiness of your tears.

Matt came home to his empty apartment; frustration and pain burned his skin, grating his insides. His throat hurt, the wound on his arm throbbed, and his nose stung, but at least it had stopped bleeding. Matt knew he would have to take it easy for the next few nights. Matt peeled off the dirty suit, undoing the hand wraps quickly. Standing in his boxers, he went to the kitchen and turned on the kettle. The small machine hummed as it heated the water inside as Matt prepared his tea. While waiting for the water, he went to the bedroom and grabbed a zip-up hoodie and sweats before gingerly them on, careful of his injuries. Matt went through the motion automatically because he didn't allow himself to stop and think. Not yet. The kettle whistled a high-pitched note, dragging him to the kitchen. Water was poured, tea steeped, and honey added. Matt settled down at the kitchen table with his mug, hissing softly as his aching muscles voiced their discomfort. Matt closed his eyes, letting the steam of chamomile soothe his eyelids before diving into everything he knew about you. Which was not much at all. But he had more now than he knew of you six nights ago.

Rubbing his throat, Matt took a sip of his honeyed tea. He recalled the sound of your voice, the inflection of it when you were angry. The piercing rawness of it when you cried. He got to learn another part of you that he had tried to reach. You were in the position to knock him out swiftly, to kill him even, but you didn't. You spared him of your own volition. He might not know your name, but he knew your pattern now. You struck precisely, seizing someone on the weaker links and climbing up. However, singling out one of the lawyers on the retainer for one of the most notorious crime families gave him a clue of what you came to New York for. Even though it was out of character for you, it gave him a hint of where you could go next, and Matt wasn't going to pass out on this chance. The crime family you targeted was someone he had an interest in himself. The Stromwyns. They were a force to be reckoned with, and from what he knew of you, you acted alone. It was personal from your history with them, and he suspected you wanted to take them down yourself. Matt would admire your bravery if it wasn't so reckless and incredibly foolish. But on what ground could he judge you, considering that he did the same thing?

Your fist curled tightly, your knuckles drenched in blood and mangled flesh of your own and your victims. But you wouldn't stop, not until you got what you wanted. A swift punch followed another on Imani's broken face. Her bodyguards and associates laid unconscious a few feet away, leaving only your ragged breaths and the woman's pained whimpers echoed in the destroyed meeting room. You usually wouldn't strike them at their base, where they could easily call for backup, which they did, but you felt particularly reckless tonight. You were up for a challenge, and you almost paid for it. The searing pain on your side was the throbbing proof. You wanted to speed your investigation along, too impatient to wait. You had done enough of that. Still, this stubborn woman before you wouldn't give in. You could feel your temper rising, and soon, you wouldn't be able to control it. Imani was a delicate knot in an elaborate scheme that you couldn't solve by cutting her string short. You didn't take out her whole team for nothing, especially when your venture for revenge ended up being something bigger, something more sinister than you thought.

You gave Imani's face a slap. She came to before you, despite her drooping eyelids.

"I know the Stromwyns are planning something big. Tell me what it is."

She gave a bloody smirk, her teeth stained red. She tried to keep her head straight, her eyes bored into you.

"No."

"Should have saved that energy telling me what I want."

Another jab, and she fell to the floor. You propped her up against the table, pulling out the blade concealed on your thigh.

"One last chance. I won't be so lenient this time."

The thumps of his boots made it to your ears, and you felt the air change slightly. Maybe it was just you. His footsteps drew closer on the once pristine marble floor behind you, entering the crime scene. You closed your eyes, already knowing what he would say.

"Don't do this."

You didn't bother standing up to greet him this time.

"I've killed before. This will change nothing."

"Believe me. It will."

His tone was the same. Kind, soft, imploring for the part of you that no longer existed. Yet, he still searched for it, drawing it out. You would lie if you said you couldn't feel the tug of his kindness and patience on your heartstring. It was just that you couldn't afford to follow his call.

"Why are you still trying? Why waste time on me?"

You had to know whether it was his Catholic guilt, and you were his charity case, or it was something else entirely. It wasn't like New York's shady marketplace lacked assassins for hire. You knew that as much.

"I was you before. You think you're irredeemable. But you're not. You still have a chance to turn around …"

Your real name on his tongue sounded foreign to your ears. It affected you in a way you didn't think possible. The sound triggered the alarm going off in your head, screeching in your ears. You slowly rose on your feet, exhaling an unsteady breath. You had isolated yourself and made acquaintance with no one. The shock of Matt finding out shot unnerving prickles along your skin. You used his name in vain to gain an advantage, while he used yours in the hope of steering you back to yourself with such an intricate tenderness. And that made you angrier than ever.

You closed the distance between you, wielding the dagger between your skilled fingers.

"Who do you think you are? Waltzing in here with your talks, when you're doing the same thing as I am–"

"I don't kill–"

"Same - fucking - shit! Just because you don't kill doesn't make you better than me."

Your words were punctuated with each swipe of your weapon, which he easily dodged. You were blinded with rage, with a wave of anger so potent that you could only release it when your blade had sunk into his flesh. You knew deep down if you stopped, your weaker emotions would get the better of you. Your fury consumed you whole, fueling every step as you advanced toward the infuriating figure that seemed to have so much trust in you.

"Stop it! I know you have it in you to stop. I know it feels good to get revenge, but it will ruin you."

Matt only dodged your blows and not once fought back. It only fueled your boiling rampage.

"Shut up! Just … shut up and fight back!"

It was harder to ignore his voice and what he said now. His words were like vines, slipping through the cracks of your control, taking root quickly. But you were broken; no one could mend you. You had long accepted that you would never be someone you once wished to be. This was your life. Full of rage, violence and loneliness. That was how you would die. Your demons would always follow you, then, now, and when it was your time to depart this world. You were beyond saving.

The quiet click of a gun made you whip your head toward the sound. You couldn't see clearly through the veil of tears that had started trailing down your cheeks. That was when you realized that you had been crying. It was such an appalling recognition that you didn't register the bullet leaving its chamber. Everything that happened after that was so fast your mind couldn't catch up. You could only feel. You felt the rough contact of his body against yours when he tackled you, the hard marble floor on your back when you crashed. Matt continued to shield you with his body over yours as a few more shots rang out. He cried out suddenly as a bullet hit him; his body jolted but didn't move an inch. You tried to push him off you so the two of you could run for cover, but he wouldn't budge. Suddenly, it became eerily quiet except for some empty clicks, followed by a sharp cry of pain as Imani got up and took off toward the exit. You pushed Matt off, getting yourself ready to run after her, but you ceased acting on your instinct. Matt tried to rise with one hand braced on the littered floor, his lips parted to expel a pained groan. Your foggy mind replayed the feeling of him lunging for you, saving you from the bullets' line. You blinked, watching as your whole body trembled, the bloody blade unsteady in your hand. Your target had escaped, but that was the least of your concern right now. You looked to your saviour, fixed on the ghastly look on his almost unmasked face. His eyes stared straight ahead, his mouth opened agape, and his movements shaky before he dropped to the floor with a sickening thud.

Matt woke to the unfamiliar surrounding, with strange air and the companion of another's presence. He found himself almost naked, saved for his boxers, nestled between the warm sheets that definitely weren't the silk he used to. Despite its roughness, it was just as nice as his own, as it possessed your scent, earthy and soothing. Matt had grown to like it. A pleasant mix of you and his own blood, which he could sense as he moved to set his feet on the floor. Matt ran a hand through his face, rubbing the sleep from his eyes, and felt no resistance. He seemed to only recognize the missing safety of his mask now, and for a brief moment, he panicked. It was soon washed away when the gentle breeze carried something else in from the open window. A scent of moss, morning dews, and vines seemed to attach themselves to the brick exterior of the building, like soil after the rain. It reminded him of how you always blended in with your environment. And the thought eased his concerns. If you wanted him dead, he wouldn't be alive right now. But Matt was here, in your home. Hurt but alive, the rough gauze on his thigh reminded him.

Matt took a few unsteady steps as he oriented himself, getting familiar with the surroundings. The search for the door was a success, and he opened it to step into a different world. A different feel. The space was warm and pleasant, with sunlight coming from the right side, and the aroma that hung in the air felt homey. Upon further inspection, Matt could smell freshly chopped parsley, rice, and chicken. In the midst of everything were you and your ever-steady heartbeat.

Without turning around, you directed him.

"Take a seat. Food is almost ready."

As soon as the words left your mouth, you bit onto your bottom lip, feeling a little out of place. There was something strangely domestic about the way you told him to make himself comfortable. Even though you did try to kill him just a few hours before.

Matt searched for the seating and sat down, his back resting nicely against the cushion. He closed his eyes, soaking in the warm sun. You let yourself look at him from where you were standing, taking in how peaceful he seemed. How at ease. He seemed different, yet still the same as the person who had followed you, matching your violence with his own just to urge you to turn the other way. Realizing that you had been staring at him for perhaps too long, you whirled around to tend to the steaming food. With the porridge done, you turned the stove off before pouring a good portion of the hot dish into two bowls and sprinkling some parsley on top.

You put the bowl in front of him with a soft thump, and his eyes lazily slid open. The spoon made a small clang on the wooden table as you set it down on his right before going to your seat. Matt picked up the spoon, taking in the dish before him. It was steaming hot with a savoury aroma of rice, chicken, herb and seasonings.

"I didn't poison it, don't worry."

Matt huffed a soft chuckle.

"I trust you."

"You're way too trusting considering what you do."

That made him smile. Matt took a spoonful of the food, blowing it for good measure before giving it a taste. A pleasant and hot feeling engulfed his tongue before it smoothly chased down his throat. The taste was delectable, flavourful and wholesome. It warmed him inside out.

"Seasonings are on your right. Just reach your hand out a little."

That made Matt pause for a moment, but he didn't say anything. You continued your meal in silence, and the air between didn't feel tense or forced. Outside of the enclosed space, New York was a bustle of sounds.

Your spoon made a small clang on the side of the bowl, and it seemed like you decided it was more than enough to start a new conversation.

"I'm guessing from the way you are not panicking or overwhelmed or freaking out, you've been blind for a long time?"

No beating around the bush. He liked that. People walked on eggshells around him, around his disadvantage, for a good reason. But Matt didn't need coddling. He definitely didn't need protecting, either.

"Since I was nine. Freak accident."

"Freaky indeed."

Those two words marked the end of your conversation. Matt occasionally felt your intense gaze, watching him carefully as he cleaned the bowl. Once his and your hunger were satiated, you put the dishes away in the empty sink. Matt stood up to help, but his good intention was quickly forgotten as he hissed lowly in pain. He touched the area around the wound, feeling its mouth crack, allowing the blood to seep into the gauze. Matt winced, and it didn't escape your watchful eyes.

Rummaging around your kitchen, you poured him a glass of water and set two pills in his palm.

"Take these. Or don't. I don't care."

Your halfhearted concern warmed his heart. He knew your intention behind it, and the little spike in your heart never lied. Matt took the pills as you walked away, fetching the medical kit.

"Can I see your wound?"

He nodded after a brief moment. You dragged your chair to settle beside him, and your thighs exchanged accidental brushes. Your touch was careful and tender as your hands worked on his broad thigh to unwrap the bloodied bandage. Matt's jaw clenched, holding back a pained groan as you pressed gently around the tender area. You cleaned up the blood with a clean cloth, precise and swiftly. Not a word passed between you as you secured the wound with a sterile bandage until you asked if you could see the injury on his side. There was something serene, tender and peaceful about the way you took care of him, as if you had done this many, many times before. As if you had known each other for a lifetime.

Once finished, you pulled away with a gentle squeeze on his knee before working on your injured hands. You sighed in exasperation as you undid the hand wraps. The torn skin on your knuckles was red and angry, staring back at you as they throbbed a warning melody, giving you no choice but to listen. You would have to take it easy for the time being.

Lost in your thoughts, your hands pulled on another roll of gauze when Matt's warm hand on your wrist startled you, sending a pleasant prickle to your skin. Your eyes widened as Matt extended an open palm, wordlessly offering to help you dress your wound. You stared at him, your eyes flicked at the upward motion of his brow. Tentatively, you passed the white fabric to him. Matt held you in his hands and quickly assessed your knuckles. Your hands were colder than his, calloused and scarred, like a written memoir of your past that you carried all the time. He tried not to think about the smaller, barely-there scars you probably obtained from your younger years. You were older now, yet, your fight hadn't ended. The path you walked on only led you further into the woods like a prisoner who still fought even though their chains were broken, their prison door unlocked. He wanted to focus on the now, where you were safe, alive and with him.

Judging by the echo of your apartment, it was spacious, cozy and most likely expensive. It was a bold move, living in the heart of Manhattan. You were almost fearless, that much he knew. Matt had no doubt that you knew what you were doing, considering your profession. Maybe your name on the lease was fake, or someone owed you a favour. A very big one.

"How do you afford this apartment?"

Matt kept his voice light, distracting you from the sting of disinfectant.

"How do you?"

You asked him with just as much airiness, if not more. He chuckled softly, shaking his head as you found yourself smiling with him. You continued as the crinkles around his eyes deepened in amusement, remembering that you probably knew where he lived.

"I kill for a living. Sometimes. I'm pretty good at my job, remember?"

Matt took a deep and sharp breath, and you bit your tongue. It was too much, and you felt stupid for making that joke.

"I only take on jobs that target the Stromwyn. Nothing beyond that. Anyone with mutual interest benefits me."

"I know."

"Do you now, smartass?"

Matt could hear a slight smirk in your voice. It was refreshing to see you so relaxed, so … different from what he had known of you. But then, you were full of surprises. Silence fell over you like a thin veil; the only sound left was his movements, wrapping the bandage around your hand.

"Don't you get tired of it?"

The strokes of his hands were soft, certain as he wrapped himself around you. His warmth spread to your hands, making you shiver. Just slightly. You took a long moment to yourself, mulling over what he said.

"I do. But I can't stop. They're still doing it to children, to little kids like … like I once was. I'm a result of them, and I won't be the last."

His grip on your hands tightened, careful of your injuries. Matt brought your intertwined fingers closer to his chest, urging you to look into his unsighted eyes. Upon the near distance, you noticed the hazel gleaming in the bright light of your kitchen, holding more than just your attention.

"What they did to you is not who you are. They don't get to make you into someone you don't want to be."

His words were kind, his touch was soft, and they suffocated you. You jerked your hands out of his as if his touch burned you. A reflection of hurt took shape on his furrowed brows and curved lips, and you felt sorry for pulling away. When did you turn so soft for a man you barely knew?

"My firm can bring attention to their organization. With a big case like this, it can't stay under wraps forever. I have connections, and I can assure you that there will be people looking into this. We can work together. I can help you. Let me. Please."

You swallowed hard, feeling queasy in your seat. You stood up, and Matt followed, but he gave you space when you started pacing. You had known for a long time that you wouldn't be able to do this by yourself. The Stromwyns' influence ran deep. It would take more than an assassin with a want for vengeance infused in her blood to uproot that. To completely dismantle their organization, you would need a miracle. And Matt just might be that miracle you need. You sighed heavily, bringing your nervous pacing to a stop. You held his unseeing gaze, more for your sake than his, as if to seal your fate.

"Fine."

Matt offered a hand to you, initiating a physical agreement. After a brief moment of fleeting contemplation, you held his offering hand and shook. He pulled you closer to him by your skin-on-skin attachment, making you take a sharp breath as the sudden movement grazed your wounded skin.

"No killing."

You tugged on his firm clasp, and he wouldn't let go.

"Fine. No killing."

Matt only released you then, and you were all too eager not to have his hands on you again. That was what you told yourself, even though your heart thrashed unhappily at the traitorous thought. The tingling feeling on your fingers was back, and your mind raced with the possibilities of an uncertain future and foreign feelings.

Matt delivered on his promise. It was a long fight, stretched over two years, but the outcome was victorious and sweet. Nelson, Murdock and Page investigated and gathered evidence with witnesses, bringing the case to New York's district attorney. The ordeal was blown up, which brought in law enforcement from the higher-up. The news of the Stromwyns controlling important assets throughout New York, infesting neighbourhoods with gangs and criminals to secretly collect "protection money" from the residents, was brought to the media, pulling the attention of the whole country. When things began to come to light, the Stromwyns issued a bomb threat in an attempt to bury the whispers. It backfired as the warning was proven real by you and Matt on your investigation at night. The FBI quickly acted on the lead, making arrests for the whole family. The Stromwyns were forced to liquify their assets, and their accounts in foreign countries were seized and frozen by the CIA. Unfortunately, before law enforcement could put all of them in cuffs, some members of the family had already fled to Europe, according to the intel you obtained illegally.

It amazed you how a team of three managed to make such an impact, how relentlessly and tirelessly they worked to get people involved. You were also a part of that team; Matt told you no matter how hard you denied it. He introduced you to his friends and partners, Foggy and Karen. Even though they were skeptical of your relationship with Matt, they took your intel seriously and worked with you. You kept your distance, knowing they weren't comfortable being in the same room with an experienced assassin as in Matt's past, and you were fine with that. You had a working association with them, striving for the same outcome. You weren't there to make friends.

You weren't sure what to make of your relationship with Matt. Something had changed, but you didn't want to acknowledge it. You couldn't. It wouldn't be fair to him when you had to leave eventually. You had each other's back when you scouted for new information, when you infiltrated the Stromwyn's warehouses. Those fights didn't often result in grave injuries; when they did, you took care of each other. Small and big damages. Matt ensured that you looked after yourself and wouldn't agonize over your past. He was there to soothe you in his secure embrace when you had a nightmare. It was almost as if his arms and hands had morphed around your frame, embracing you, making you feel at ease when your grief was too much. You would wake up thrashing in his arms when the needles were too close; the stiffness paralyzing your body felt too real. Eventually, your place or his wasn't a matter since you would always end up in the same bed at the end of everything, whether due to exhaustion or nightmare-filled nights into early mornings. Whenever you woke with a headache, he would have his special tea readied, along with medicine at your request. You were afraid that he would spoil you rotten, and if you got used to his affection and care, you would never be able to leave. You couldn't stay, couldn't allow yourself that one thing. You had shared too much of yourself with him, and you were afraid you would be left with nothing if you kept on giving. You knew you didn't deserve him. So you packed your stuff up and booked a flight to Germany, following the trail of the scattered Stromwyns. You decided to leave without a word, but Matt had another idea.

"Don't do this to me."

Call you sentimental, but you had come to the rooftop of your building one last time to soak in the sound, the feel, and the air of this city. There was nowhere else quite like it, and the reason wasn't entirely due to the man standing behind you. You didn't have to turn around to know it was Matt. Your apartment was empty now, doused in the warm late afternoon light. Matt stood before you, his dress shirt creased, his tie crooked, his hair ruffled, and his face flushed from exertion. He must have run from his office in Hell's Kitchen to your apartment in Midtown Manhattan. You extended your gratitude to Karen and Foggy in person for helping you with the case before Matt got there, nothing else. You guessed they were suspicious of that and told him, even though you didn't show anything out of place. You wanted to get this over with.

"Do what?"

"Leave. Leave New York. Leave me."

The wounded edge in his plea twisted the knife that was already embedded in your heart.

"I told you. I can't rest when they're still out there."

"Let the authority take care of that. Don't be reckless."

The tone in his last sentence was stern, reprimanding as if you were a child out of line.

"Me? Reckless?"

You turned to face him, appalled at his audacity.

"I followed your 'no killing' rule. These bastards are still free because of it."

Your hands helped enunciate each word you threw at him, even though it was fruitless. You were making a point for yourself. An excuse to leave.

"They can't run forever. You've done your part. You've suffered enough."

Matt erased the distance between you, getting close enough that you didn't want to step back. You would miss his warmth.

"Stay. You have friends here."

His tender intention thrummed on your nerves, coaxing your guard like the sweet honey he always put in your tea. His words were so convincing that you felt like you could be fooled.

"No, I don't. I don't have anyone."

You stubbornly turned your head away, unable to look at him.

"You have me. Foggy and Karen, too. They don't say it but they do care about you. And I do, too."

"You don't mean that."

"Yes, I do."

He said it with so much conviction. You wanted to believe him.

"I can't, Matt. I don't know who I am without this."

The constant running, following, chasing. The continuous shutout from people, shielding yourself until you were isolated and all alone. In a way, your violence, pain, and loneliness were a way for you to punish and protect yourself. That was how you stayed anchored to reality, never strayed too far from your cruel fate, and never looked at what you could have been.

"You're still you. The strongest, most stubborn person I know. Even when you don't know yourself, you'll get there eventually. Stop running and allow yourself a chance to live the life that you deserve. To be who you want to be."

"I'm still a murderer. That's all I am and all I'll ever be. I'm only capable of that, and I will only bring you down with me by merely being in your life."

He shook his head.

"Yes, I will, Matt. Nothing good comes with me. Why don't you just let me go?"

Your throat hurt with the stricken cry that was torn from your chest. Your eyes were wide, watching Matt through the thin veil of your tears.

"I love you."

"What?"

"I love you. Everything about you."

Matt inched even closer, and you let him step into your space, knocking down your crumbling barrier. You weren't strong enough to back away. To run. You were exhausted from it.

"Please …"

You had always been careful, five steps ahead of most things. But not everything. You didn't expect to fall for Matt, yet, you did. This was his desperate plea for you to stay, to live your life instead of hiding in the shadows, being a ghost of who you truly were. He had whittled away your defence wall, brick by brick, over the span of time you knew each other. He taught you there was safety in letting go. And you did.

In a swift and clumsy motion, you slammed your lips against Matt's, accepting his promises, love, and everything in between. His full lips were soft and addictive, parting easily to deepen the kiss. Your tongues tangled in a fiery dance, and you felt like you could get drunk on his taste alone. Like the barest hint of salt, a touch of cinnamon spice, and something else that only belonged to him. His hand tangled in your hair, bringing you closer as if it was possible. When he was finally satisfied with the absence of space in between, his hand trailed down to the column of your throat in a soft caress, before stopping at the coursing, delicate pulse. Matt pressed in with his fingertips, acting on the overwhelming need to feel you, to feel the proof as if your woven bodies and intertwined tongues weren't enough. That you were real, and you were here with him. You only parted when you felt like your body could slip away from your consciousness. You heaved hard, feeling the gasps of air on your lips as Matt touched his forehead to yours. He whispered against your lips.

"Please. Stay with me."

You closed your eyes. You were tired of running, of letting your rage consume you. You and Matt were two flames. Similar to a fault, but he brought balance to you in his own way. He soothed that anger inside you and showed you that there was more to you than your past, the deadly intents you carried in the company of your wrath. You had a chance to start over with a future that wouldn't end in solitude, with the man who had so much trust in your potential when you didn't. At last, you weren't afraid to take it for yourself, as long as Matt was with you. You nodded; your face bore joyous tears and a genuine smile.

"I'm all yours."

*Likes, reblogs and comments are greatly appreciated!*

#matt murdock #matthew murdock #matt murderdock #matt murdock x reader #matt murdock x you #matt murdock x y/n #matt murdock x oc #matt murdock x gn!reader #matt murdock x gender neutral reader #matt murdock x f!reader #matt murdock fanfic #matt murdock fanfiction #matt murdock fic #matt murdock au #matt murdock angst #matt murdock one shot #matt murdock daredevil #daredevil #daredevil x reader #daredevil x you #daredevil x y/n #daredevil x oc #daredevil x gn!reader #daredevil x gender neutral reader #daredevil x f!reader #daredevil fanfiction #daredevil fic #daredevil angst #marvel imagine #no use of y/n

[hischierdevils]

I LOVE the Forget Mer Series so much! Can you do a blurb where Y/N is unintentionally talking about Nico and the Devils so much to Mat and he gets really angry. Maybe she has a moment she realizes that those are her true people

That’s so sweet of you to say! 🫶🏻

“And then Jack and Nico broke all of my tortillas!” You laugh as you tell Mat about your day at work.

He shifts on the couch next to you as he eats the take out you guys ordered. “Are you just going to talk about other guys the entire time you’re here?” He asks you.

“What?” You frown at the look of annoyance on his face. “I didn’t- I was just trying to tell you about my day.”

“Why are you always around the players anyway?” He huffs. “You’re on the media team.”

Noticing the shift in his mood, you draw your limbs into your body, trying to make yourself as small as possible. “I know your media team is shit Mat but we try to get as much content as we can.”

“So now your team is better than mine?” He raises an eyebrow at you.

“Mat, I…just forget it. Okay? I didn’t mean it like that.” You shake your head apologetically.

Surprisingly, he does drop it and turns his attention to the tv as he scrolls through movies to watch. He ends up choosing an action movie.

“Oh Nico was tell-“ Mat scoffs and you quickly stop talking.

“If you want to go be with Nico so bad why don’t you go be with him?” He asks as he takes the takeout container out of your hand.

“What the fuck?” He grabs your wrist and pulls you to your feet. “I want to be here with you, Mat!” You insist as you push him back.

“All you fucking do is talk about Nico and Dougie and Jack so go be with them y/n!” He shoves you toward the door of his apartment. “Go be the Devil’s whore for all I care!”

Tears stream down your face as you stop fighting him. “I love you! I want to be with you!” You yell as he hands you your coat and opens the door for you.

“Come back when you’re ready to act like it then.” He tells you as you walk out the door. He slams it behind you, leaving you sobbing in the hallway.

As you walk into the elevator to go down to the lobby, your phone vibrates with a text from the group chat you have with the guys.

From: Lil Jizzy

Y/n I’ll give you $100 if you don’t post that video

From: Nico

I’ll give you $200 if you do

To: Devs Group

You can’t pay me off

From: Lil Jizzy

You let Dougie off the hook yesterday during the question of the day!

From: Ham

I’m her favorite

By the time you get back to Manhattan, Mat’s angry outburst has taken the back seat in your mind. The boys have effectively cheered you up and have planned a weeks worth of lunches for you as they argue over who your favorite is.

#forget series #crystals asks #mat barzal x y/n #mat barzal blurb

[doctorofmagic]

First look at Doctor Strange v6 #1!

Full interview:

Surprising no one, Dr. Stephen Strange is back from the dead, less than two years after he departed the mortal plane. March’s Doctor Strange #1 resurrects the Sorcerer Supreme for the latest chapter in writer Jed MacKay’s Strange saga, which began with 2021’s Death of Doctor Strange and continued in the Strange series, spotlighting Stephen’s widow, Clea. Artist Pasqual Ferry and colorist Matt Hollingsworth join MacKay for the new series, which focuses on Stephen and Clea’s marriage — and plenty of magical superhero life shenanigans.

Over the past year, MacKay has established Clea as the Sorcerer Supreme of both Earth and her native Dark Dimension, a dual role that makes her an especially formidable hero. Early in Strange, which concludes with this week’s issue #10, Clea declared herself the “Warlord of Manhattan,” and she’s been very aggressive in taking out mystical threats to her domain while searching for a way to resurrect her husband.

Now that Stephen is back, MacKay has the opportunity to delve deeper into their unique mystical marriage. “What I find interesting about Clea and Stephen’s relationship is that it has a pedigree that is up there with all the other great Marvel superhero partnerships,” said MacKay. “This is a relationship that extends way back into Marvel’s history, and I wanted to see that expressed on the page. These are two people who have known each other for a very long time, have suffered their ups and downs, and have come through them to find a new balance in their lives together.”

“I think there’s a certain gravitas in the two of them together — neither of them are young, fresh, unseasoned,” said MacKay. “Stephen Strange is an elder statesman in the Marvel universe, the person that’s always brought in when magic intrudes into lives of other heroes, and Clea is every bit his equal: an alien warlord who possesses great power of her own. I think Clea and Strange are a power couple in every sense of the word, and I’m interested in exploring that relationship and bringing it back to the forefront in the world of Strange.”

Their marriage is especially rife with storytelling potential because up until Stephen’s death, Clea had lost all memory of their relationship in one of those deals with the devil that Marvel heroes do every so often (see: Spider-Man’s “One More Day”). “[Stephen’s death] has brought them together after every power in the world conspired to keep them apart,” said MacKay. “In bringing Stephen back, our heroes have a fresh start. What remains is seeing how they use it.”

With a fresh start comes a new art team. Artist Pasqual Ferry has been working in superhero comics for over 25 years, drawing big-name characters like Superman, Iron Man, Thor, and the Fantastic Four. After taking a few years off from monthly comics, Ferry returned in 2021 with the Spider-Man: Spider’s Shadow miniseries, and there was a notable shift in his artwork. He began incorporating panel layouts evoking the grid-based abstract paintings of Piet Mondrian, giving the alternate-universe horror story its own distinct design sensibility.

With Spider’s Shadow, Ferry tackled one of the two heroes he’d been dreaming of drawing since he was a kid. Doctor Strange is the other one, and the new series is a passion project for the artist. “I have always liked magic, I have always liked the world of fantasy and anything that has to do with imagination,” said Ferry. “I’ve been intrigued by the designs by Steve Ditko, whom I admired for his work on Spider-Man. I always thought that the character of Doctor Strange gives artists a lot of potential to play with and imagine new things.”

“It’s the possibility, the challenge, the idea is to bring something new and wonderful to the table,” said Ferry. “There have been many great artists working on the character, from [Mike] Mignola, P. Craig Russell, Paul Smith. Great artists that have given us their version, and it is important that when Doctor Strange is in those worlds that we create an environment maximizing the use of panels and designs.”

“Pasqual is a marvel,” said MacKay. “He brings a seemingly effortless magic to these characters that sets them apart in the way those who live in the worlds of magic should be. He has an appetite for the weird and unearthly, and I can’t wait for people to see the strangeness he’s going to conjure!”

Ferry is also looking outside of superhero comics for artistic influences to maximize the book’s visual impact, from the nightmarish fantasy painting of Hieronymus Bosch to the surrealism of René Magritte and the mind-bending distortion of psychedelic art. He’s excited to translate these more abstract artistic concepts through a superhero whose aesthetic has been shaped by visionary comic book creators. Ferry’s frequent collaborator Matt Hollingsworth rounds out the art team, and his extreme versatility means that no matter what influence Ferry incorporates, the colors will match the style of the line work.

Stylistic contrast also plays a big part in how Doctor Strange’s and Clea’s specific types of magic are represented on the page. “I am going to try to differentiate Clea’s powers from those of Doctor Strange, making it clear that Stephen’s are fundamentally White Magic, while Clea’s come from the Dark Dimension, inherited from her parents, Umar and Orini,” said Ferry. “Aesthetically, while Strange’s spells will be bright, perhaps with an art deco touch in their shapes — I love P. Craig Russell’s designs — Clea’s will be darker in tone, more twisted, baroque, while remaining harmonious in shape. It could be said that Clea’s are more subtly threatening.”

That extra bit of menace ingrained in Clea’s personality will cause tension between the Spouses Supreme. Like any marriage, Stephen and Clea’s relationship has its own challenges, largely stemming from fundamental differences in their perspectives and how they engage with the world.

“We’ve seen in the past how Stephen’s background as a doctor is something that informs his every action,” said McKay, “while we’ve also more recently seen Clea carve her way through the arcane gangsters with little concern for bloodshed. How will these irreconcilable philosophies clash?”

[Source]

#doctor strange #stephen strange #clea strange #spouses supreme #spider-man #peter parker #luke cage #bats the ghost dog #jed mackay #pasqual ferry #marvel comics #doctor strange v6

[russosafehaven]

All Of Your Parts

Series Name: All Of Your Parts

Chapter Title: One - Baking and Lavender

Pairing: Billy Russo x System!Reader

Content: Reader with Dissociative Identity Reader, Soft!Billy, Established Relationship, Billy and Reader have been together around 5~ weeks, This chapter is Billy’s first introduction to the alters, written in first person so readers can get a feel for the difference between alters, name in bold is who’s fronting, host is Y/N

These will all be drabbles!!

BR Taglist: @snowkestrel

~

Elisadora / Eli

The scent of cinnamon and apples wafted through the air as they stewed on the stove top. Billy’s apartment was chic and slick, untouched by time unlike my own. The place we lived was cheap and all we could afford on our pension. Until we met Billy we lived a rough life, still living with our mother in the small place. It was home though and the first place Y/N picked out when we turned 18. Our brother had long been gone by then, moving in with his best friend. Currently we worked at the gift-shop in a museum, it was a quiet job and we knew it well.

“You home- what’s cooking? Didn’t you tell me you can’t cook?”

That was my first mistake. It was true, Y/N had told Billy they couldn’t cook because well they can’t. In our youth they’d burn everything or over cook it. It was odd considering we’d been brought up baking and cooking, making treats for our family. I suppose that’s something unique with our disorder, when I split I took all that knowledge with me. My name is Elisadora, a whimsical name I know but I formed in the mind of a child.

“Oh, well I found a recipe and I thought I would try it out”

Billy and Y/N had been seeing one another for a few weeks now. They were lovely together, everything they didn’t have he did and vice versa. One may see them and say soulmates, considering Billy had told our host he’d never settle I may just believe those who call them that.

“Isn’t that dangerous without adult supervision?”

He cracked a smile, walking towards me slowly. Even with the heavy work of the day his clothes remained primped and smooth, not a wrinkle in sight. Something that always impressed me. I may not share Y/N’s taste when it comes to dating but I must say they know how to pick them. Billy leaned in for a kiss to which I promptly pushed him away.

“Get into something more comfortable first, then we’ll see. You must be sore from your day”

Trying my best to fake the New York accent of the host was difficult, typically we didn’t mask. There was no need. We live in Manhattan and don’t have many friends. Our co-workers at the museum pay little attention to us. Everyone we see is typically once and gone, they never remember our odd behaviour so what’s the point in masking? Only three people in our life knew of our disorder. Our mother, our brother and our one close friend, Marc Spector. Marc is a childhood friend of ours and we learnt about his DID early on. His symptoms presented longer then ours had but we got closer over it. Steven and Jake were close to us as well. The Moon boys, as we call them, have a special bond with us no one else can.

“When did you become so bossy?”

He huffed, walking away slowly. Eventually I’d have to tell him that I’m not his lover but in fact a fragment of their mind. For now I’d just let Billy change, focus on my baking and maybe ask Marc for advice. My phone elicited a notification and speak of the devil it was Marc.

🌙: Has Steven ever asked you lot about your service dog?

☀️: No, why? - E

🌙: Hey Eli and I’m asking cause he remembers meeting a dog but can’t pin point who’s

☀️: This is New York Marc, he’s probably meant plenty.

☀️: Actually I wanted to ask you something.

🌙: Ask away, not like I’m doing anything important anyways

☀️: When you lot first told Layla about your DID how’d she take it? Better yet how did you do it?

🌙: Well not sure I’m the greatest example of that, but after the whole Khonshu and Ammit thing. Harrow was taken down shit like that. We sat down and had a proper discussion about it. What it meant for me and Steven all that. Steven did most of the talking. Why? I thought Y/N told Billy ages ago

☀️: They’ve probably thought about it but I think after our teen years, after the whole Beri incident and our father they’re hesitant. I’m at his apartment now and I don’t know what to tell him.

☀️: Well look at that, he’s coming back. I’ll update you later.

Turning off my phone I throw it onto the bench. Billy’s arms wrap around me and I can’t help but feel guilty. Lightly I tug them away and turn to face him. He looks confused and understandably so.

“Billy there’s something we need to discuss”

#billy russo #billy russo imagine #billy russo x reader #billy russo fluff #the punisher imagine #ben barnes #the punisher #x reader #dissociative system #dissociative identity disorder #dissociative alters #this is such a niche i’m sorry #hopefully there’s other systems out there who like billy russo????

[disneytva]

Moon Girl And Devil Dinosaur Sets More Moon Girl- Books To Read In Hiatus Time

🌕Reading time can make the hiatus more magic 🌕

Disney Publishing Worldwide and Little Golden Books have listed new cover pages for upcoming Moon Girl And Devil Dinosaur Books both slated for August 1st, 2023.

📚 Moon Girl And Devil Dinosaur: Little Golden Book

Written By: Frank Berrios

Disney Publishing Worldwide

Disney Press

Little Golden Books

August 1,2023

When young super-genius Lunella Lafayette's experiment brings a big red dinosaur to present-day New York City, the unlikely duo teams up to protect their neighborhood--and the world! Boys and girls ages 2 to 5 will love learning about Lunella and Devil Dinosaur's amazing abilities, friends, and foes in this Little Golden Book. The book is based on the new Disney Channel hit series Marvel's Moon Girl and Devil Dinosaur.

📚Moon Girl And Devil Dinosaur : One Girl Can Make a Difference

Written By: Michelle Meadows

Disney Publishing Worldwide

Disney Press

August 1,2023

This paperback novelization follows the 13-year-old Marvel Super Hero around her Lower East Side of Manhattan neighborhood, where her family owns and runs a roller-skating rink. As Moon Girl explores the cause of so many unexplained neighborhood power blackouts lately, readers will  learn how Moon Girl came to be, meet her sidekick, a giant red T-Rex, and follow them on their first adventure fighting against the evil villain who is bringing darkness to her beloved community. If you like this book, you might also like:

#Moon Girl And Devil Dinosaur #Moon Girl & Devil Dinosaur #MGADD #Marvel #Laurence Fishburne #Helen Sugland #Steve Loter #Jeffrey M. Howard #Kate Kondell #Jack Kirby #Brandon Montclare #Amy Reeder #Natacha Bustos #Frank Berrios #Michelle Meadows #Moon Girl And Devil Dinosaur Books #Disney Books #Little Golden Books #Disney Publishing Worldwide #Disney Publising Worldwide Books #Disney Press #Marvel Press #Marvel Publishing Worldwide Books #Marvel Publishing Worldwide

[opticblasting]

uncanny spider-man is a win for me personally.

Following July’s X-MEN: HELLFIRE GALA #1, mutantkind will enter a thrilling new era of uncertainty, danger, and mystery known as FALL OF X! As some of your favorite X-Men are crushed under the weight of this new age, one among them will "BAMF" his way into bright Super Hero stardom! Introducing Kurt Wagner, the UNCANNY SPIDER-MAN! 

UNCANNY SPIDER-MAN will be a five-issue limited series written by mutant mastermind Si Spurrier, continuing his thought-provoking work in the Krakoan era after LEGION OF X and NIGHTCRAWLERS, and drawn by Lee Garbett, known for his breathtaking art on DEATH OF DOCTOR STRANGE. The heart of the X-Men, Kurt has always shined as one of the most heroic and daring mutants in the franchise. Now, as the darkness of FALL OF X overwhelms his fellow mutants, Nightcrawler will embrace a new role as a classic New York City-bamfing hero! 

Escaping the turmoil of FALL OF X in a flash of smoke and brimstone, it’s time for Nightcrawler to play the swashbuckling, devil-may-care hero he was always destined to be! A potential new lover, battling some of the most iconic members of Spidey’s rogues gallery, and saving civilians, mutant and human alike—Kurt is having the time of his life! But it’s not all fun and games… Nightcrawler will also be a lone soldier on the frontlines of mutantkind’s upcoming war with Orchis. Throughout the saga, he’ll also confront a long-simmering mystery surrounding his mother, Mystique, as Spurrier’s bold transformation of the character approaches a startling climax! 

“What we've got here is a spectacular new beginning - which, yes, is code for ‘perfect jumping-on point’ - which leans hard into heroic, joyful, street-level action,” Spurrier explained. “Writing Kurt has always been an exercise in heart. He was the first to feel the cracks in Krakoa... and the first to try and do something about it. Unfailingly loyal to his people, his friends and his responsibilities, he's gone through a lot. What's been missing for him is the joy. The freedom. The thrill. And that's where we find him now. In a restyled Spidey Suit, BAMFing across New York and rubbing shoulders (and butting heads) with the best heroes and villains of the Manhattan milieu...but of course it's not quite that simple. Is Nightcrawler really doing this for the thrill? Or is he hiding? Is it easier to put on a mask and punch some villains in the nose than it is to stare trauma in the eye...?

“For me this series is a dream come true. A chance to write what my various briefs have never before allowed: pure, joyful, bold, fun superheroic action. And thanks to Lee, it looks astonishing.”

[ID: Cover of Uncanny Spider-Man #1. Nightcrawler is in a black Spider-Man costume, with a big Spider symbol in red, spreading to his back. He's high in the air, smoke behind him like he just teleported.]

#kurt wagner #nightcrawler #spider-man #uncanny spider-man #si spurrier #lee garbett #x-men

[cas-backwards-tie]

The Devil In Manhattan Masterlist

Laszlo Kriezler x Reader

Summary: Attempting to provide for yourself as a woman living on her own in New York City, you pursue a job at the controversial, yet esteemed Kriezler Institute.

Warnings: Scolding, Rudeness, PTSD

Mentions of: Murder

Chapters: A Change In Attitude |

#laszlo kriezler x reader #the alienist reader insert #the alienist x reader #the devil in manhattan series #tdim series #my writing #my series #tdim masterlist #tdim #the devil in manhattan #the devil in manhattan masterlist #the alienist au

[mblematic]

ten books to know me

the way @broomsticks tagged me and I immediately threw myself into bed to answer this!!! books define me for better or *cough* extremely worse. okay here we gooooo these are a mix of older and recent-ish to avoid my usual Top 10

Fates and Furies by Lauren Groff — had to start with an all time fave, a book that pretty much defines what I'm looking for every time I pick up something to read. Characters you get mad at and root for anyway. A love story that's truly a love story, but much more than it appears. The writing!! The writing!!!!

On Beauty by Zadie Smith — This was the book that turned me into a contemporary literary fiction nut I think? Before I read it I was mostly reading fantasy.

The Magicians by Lev Grossman — speak of the devil!!! The Magicians, for me, defined that awkward phase where you grow out of Harry Potter but like. not really?? in retrospect I should have known I was going to be writing HP fanfic when this series became my whole goddamn personality. (Discord is my Free Trader Beowolf btw. Friends in my phone hehe)

Gideon the Ninth by Tamsyn Muir — this series (The Locked Tomb) defines my life RIGHT NOW. Discovering TLT was like scraping back a layer of my calcified cynical adult self and discovering the child that still lives in my innermost easily-delighted soul. It took me two tries to read GTN and reading it the second time was truly revelatory in a way that I haven't experienced in years ........... cannot explain but I cried several times reading Harrow the Ninth and sometimes I get weird and shivery about how fucking good and special and unique this series is.

Sorrow and Bliss by Meg Mason — I just loved this and it ALSO made me cry.

Beowolf: A New Translation by Maria Dhavana Headley — I really like Beowolf, I think it's so bizarre and funny, and this translation is hilarious and so special.

Manhattan Beach by Jennifer Egan — I love books set in New York City (SORRY) and Jennifer Egan is wonderful, and this book especially is like. so sexy and good

The Raven Cycle (but specifically The Dream Thieves) by Maggie Stiefvater — haha. Yeah. Well, u kno

Americanah by Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie — just love it!! a love story!!

Grief Lessons: Four Plays by Euripides, translated by Anne Carson — hard to pick an Anne Carson so I went with the Tumblr fave lmao. Give Anne Carson The Nobel Prize In Literature 2023

ANYWAY this was fun I could go on but I'll stop. Tagging some bookish pals: @femme--de--lettres @billsfangearring @tahtahfornow @pancakehouse @maybebabyplease heheeeeeee can't wait to read all ur lists

#books #tag games

[free-for-all-fics]

Obscure Characters List - Male Edition

Obscure Characters I love for some reason. (By obscure I mean characters that have little to no fanfic written about them. Not necessarily characters nobody’s ever heard of.) Don’t ask me to explain why.

A

Abraham Alastor/Anthony Clarke (Dark Pictures Little Hope)

Adam (Abraham Lincoln: Vampire Hunter)

Adam (Hallmark Frankenstein 2004)

Al Capone (Night at the Museum)

Alan McMichael (Crimson Peak)

Alec Fell (Nancy Drew, The Silent Spy)

AM (I Have No Mouth and I Must Scream)

Amphibian Man/The Asset (Shape of Water)

Anthony Walsh (Blood Fest)

Anton Herzen (Professor Layton and the Diabolical Box)

Ardeth Bay (Mummy series)

Armand (Queen of the Damned 2002)

Armando Salazar (Pirates of the Caribbean 5)

B

Barnaby (Sabrina Down Under)

Baron Humbert von Gikkingen (The Cat Returns)

Baron Meinster (Brides of Dracula)

Beast/Hank McCoy (X-Men, Kelsey Grammer version)

Beast/Prince (Beauty and the Beast 2014)

Ben Willis (I Know What You Did Last Summer)

Bernard the elf (Santa Clause series)

Black Phillip (The VVitch)

Blade (Puppetmaster series)

Bughuul (Sinister 1 and 2)

C

Caliban/John Clare (Penny Dreadful)

Captain Frederick Wentworth (Persuasion)

Captain James Hook (Peter Pan 2003)

Cedric Brown (Nanny McPhee)

Christian Thompson (Devil Wears Prada)

Colonel William Tavington (The Patriot)

Cornelis Sandvoort (Tulip Fever)

Crown Prince Ryand'r/Darkfire (DC comics/Teen Titans)

D

Daniel Le Domas (Ready Or Not)

Death (Final Destination series)

Dimitri Allen (Professor Layton and the Unwound Future)

Dimitri Denatos (Mom’s Got a Date With a Vampire)

Dustfinger (Inkheart)

Dr. Alexander Sweet/Dracula (Penny Dreadful)

Dr. Gregory Butler (Happy Death Day 1 & 2)

Dr. Manhattan (Watchmen)

Driller Killer (Slumber Party Massacre 2)

E

Edward Gracey (Haunted Mansion 2003) 

Edward Mordrake (Urban Legend/American Horror Story Asylum)

Edward/Eddie “Tex” Sawyer (Texas Chainsaw Massacre 3)

Elemer of the Briar (Elden Ring)

Erik Carriere (Phantom of the Opera 1990)

Ethan (Pilgrim 2019)

F

Father Gascoigne (Bloodborne)

Faustus Blackwood (Chilling Adventures of Sabrina)

Fegan Floop (Spy Kids trilogy)

Fox Mask/Tom (You’re next)

G

George Knightley (Emma)

Ghost/Mitch (Haunt 2019)

Godskin Apostle (Elden Ring)

Godwyn the Golden (Elden Ring)

Gold Watchers (Dark Deception)

Greg (Bodies, Bodies, Bodies)

Grim Matchstick (Cuphead)

Gurranq Beast Clergyman (Elden Ring)

H

Henry Jekyll/Edward Hyde (Broadway, Rob Evan version)

Henry Sturges (Abraham Lincoln: Vampire Hunter)

Hugh Crain (Haunting of Hill House, the book and 1963 film. Not the Flanagan show or 1999 movie remake)

Hugo Butterly (Nancy Drew, Danger by Design)

I

Ingemar (Midsommar)

J

Jack Ferriman (Ghost Ship)

Jack Worthing/Uncle Jack (We Happy Few)

Jafar (Once Upon a Time, not the Wonderland spin-off)

Jan Valek (John Carpenter’s Vampires)

Jefferson "Seaplane" McDonough/Alex (Jumanji 2 and 3)

Jervis Tetch/Mad Hatter (Arkhamverse! Video Games)

Jester (Puppetmaster series)

John (He’s Out There)

Joseph “Joey” Mallone (Blackwell series)

Juan (The Forever Purge)

Juno Hoslow, Knight of Blood (Elden Ring)

K

Kalabar (Halloweentown)

Kenneth Haight (Elden Ring)

Killer Moth/Drury Walker (Teen Titans)

King Paimon (Hereditary)

L

Lamb Mask/Craig (You’re next)

Lamplighter (The Boys)

Launder Man (Crypt TV)

Lawrence “Larry” Gordon (Saw series)

Loki (Apsulov: End of Gods)

Lucifer (Devil’s Carnival 1 & 2)

M

Magic Mirror (Snow White 1937/Shrek)

Man in the Mask (The Strangers)

Manon (The Craft)

Man-Thing (Marvel’s Werewolf By Night)

Marco Polo/Merman (Crypt TV)

Marcus Corvinus (Underworld series)

Markus Boehm (Nancy Drew, the Captive Curse)

Mephistopheles (Faust’s Albtraum)

Micolash, Host of the Nightmare (Bloodborne)

Miquella (Elden Ring)

Mirror Man (Snow White and the Huntsman)

Mr. Crow/Aldous Vanderboom (Rusty Lake series)

Mr. Le Bail (Ready Or Not)

Mr. Slausen (Tourist Trap)

N

Nigel Billingsley (Jumanji 2 and 3)

Night’s Cavalry (Elden Ring)

Nothing (The Night House)

P

Pazuzu (The Exorcist)

Pierre Despereaux (Psych)

Prince Anton Voytek (Vampire 1974)

Prince Escalus (Romeo and Juliet, no particular adaptation)

Prince Quartus (Stardust)

Prince Septimus (Stardust)

Professor Petrie/Phantom of the Opera (Phantom of the Opera 1962)

Peter Quint (Turn of the Screw, the book and maybe some other adaptations. Not the Bly Manor Flanagan show.)

R

Reese Kelly (Scarlet Hollow)

Rene Belloq (Indiana Jones, Raiders of the Lost Ark)

Roland Voight (Hellraiser 2022)

Ronin (Star Trek)

Rorschach (Watchmen)

Rupert Giles (Buffy the Vampire Slayer)

Rusty Nail (Joyride trilogy)

S

Salem Saberhagen (Sabrina the Teenage Witch)

Sam Wayne (Scarlet Hollow)

Silver Surfer/Norrin Radd (Fantastic Four: Rise of the Silver Surfer)

Simon Jarrett (SOMA)

Sir Lancelot (Night at the Museum 3)

Sportacus (LazyTown)

Starscourge Radahn (Elden Ring)

STEM (Upgrade)

Sutter Cane (In the Mouth of Madness)

T

Thantos DuBaer (Twitches 1 and 2)

The Auditor (Hellraiser: Judgment)

The Babadook (The Babadook)

The Black Knight Ghost (Scooby Doo 2 Monsters Unleashed)

The Curator (Dark Pictures Anthology)

The Designer (Devil’s Carnival 2)

The Djinn/Nathaniel Demerest/Professor Joel Barash/Steven Verdel (Wishmaster series)

The Faun (Pan’s Labyrinth)

The Fox (The Little Prince 1974)

The Jester (The Jester, A Short Horror Film series)

The Kinderfänger (Crypt TV)

The Knight/Tarhos Kovács (Dead by Daylight)

The Look-See (Crypt TV)

The Man (Carnival of Souls)

The Merman (Cabin In The Woods)

The Metal Killer (Stage Fright 2014)

The Mirror (Oculus)

The Narrator (Stanley Parable)

The Other (Hellfest)

The Phantom (Phantom Manor)

The Projectionist (Pearl)

The T-1000/Cop (Terminator 2, Terminator Genisys)

The Tall Man/The Entity (It Follows)

The Thing (The Thing 1982)

The Torn Prince/Royce Clayton (Thirteen Ghosts remake)

The Torso/James “Jimmy” Gambino (Thirteen Ghosts remake)

Thomas Alexander “Alex” Upton (TAU)

Tiger Mask/Dave (You’re Next)

Tommy Ross (Carrie, 1976)

V

Valak (The Conjuring)

Valdack and his real world counterpart (Black Mirror)

Van Pelt (Jumanji 2)

Venable (Wrong Turn 2021)

Viktor (Underworld series)

Viktor Frankenstein/Dr. Whale (Once Upon a Time)

Vladislaus Dracula (Van Helsing 2004)

W

Wade Thornton (Nancy Drew, Ghost of Thornton Hall)

Wesley Wyndam-Pryce (Buffy the Vampire Slayer)

Westley/Dread Pirate Roberts (The Princess Bride)

Wildwind/Dark Skull, Stormy Weathers, and Lightning Strikes (Scooby Doo and the Legend of the Vampire)

“William”/The Headless Figure (Crypt TV)

William "Billy" Butcherson (Hocus Pocus 1 and 2)

X

Xenan the Centaur (Xena Warrior Princess)

#Obscure characters list #character list #Obscure characters #Characters list #Obscure fictional characters #Male Characters List #will be added to over time #I'm not even gonna attempt to tag this any further #It'd just be too much #Don't ask me to explain #I don't know what to tell you #characters I like inexplicably

[denimbex1986]

'Doctor Who has long been known for its chaotic camp energy and nothing encapsulates this better than the musical numbers scattered throughout the iconic BBC sci-fi series.

Returning showrunner Russell T Davies certainly seems to love ensure that a banging soundtrack accompanies the hit British TV favourite: That was made clear early on in the season one reboot when “Toxic” by Britney Spears and Soft Cell’s “Tainted Love” played as “traditional Earth ballads” while the planet burned in “The End of the World”, set in the year five billion.

In recent years the show has had a particular penchant for including needle drops, dance breaks and powerhouse musical scenes for its characters, especially the villains. At this point, it’s amazing that there hasn’t been a dedicated musical episode as some sci-fi fantasy shows such as Buffy the Vampire Slayer – have famously done.

In a recent interview, Davies explained why he loved giving his Doctor Who antagonists a spectacular musical number as they enact their evil plans.

“In all great pop music, there’s a savagery to it… It’s like in the middle of a song, people are being slaughtered. It’s pure Doctor Who, isn’t it?” he said during the episode commentary for “The Giggle”, the third of three 60th anniversary specials.

“I’m always using pop music like that. There’s a darkness in there somewhere. The relentlessness, that’s the word. There’s a ruthlessness to pop music.”...

5. ‘My Angel Put the Devil in Me’ from ‘Daleks in Manhattan’ (2007)

We feel bad putting the only musical number not performed by one of The Doctor’s enemies at the bottom of this list, but it falls just short in the face of some truly stellar – and villainous – competition.

We also apologise because Tallulah Francis’ dazzling cabaret performance of “My Angel Put the Devil in Me” is a standout moment from the season three episode “Daleks in Manhattan”.

The glittering outfits, the sultry (and gorgeously synchronised) choreography and dreamy encapsulation of 1930s New York all blend together to make this a performance to remember.

Kind-hearted, devilishly smart and supremely talented on stage, is there anything Tallulah “Three ‘l’s and an ‘H'” Francis, played by Miranda Raison, can’t do? We think not. Well, aside from topping this ranking, of course.

2. ‘Spice Up Your Life’ from ‘The Giggle’ (2023)

Placing Neil Patrick Harris’ musical number as The Toymaker in “The Giggle” as runner-up was not an easy choice given that his performance is truly spectacular, high-camp and unnerving in equal measures.

The Toymaker was lip-syncing for his (and everyone in the building’s) life as he went on a tyrannical rampage while dancing to 90s classic “Spice Up Your Life” by the Spice Girls, dressed in a classic toy soldier’s uniform. A murderous musical number for the ages.

1. ‘I Can’t Decide’ from ‘Last of the Time Lords’ (2007)

A controversial pick for the win, but just forcing its way to victory is John Simm’s inspired performance to Scissor Sisters hit “I Can’t Decide” in the season four finale “Last of the Time Lords”.

Put simply, “I Can’t Decide” walked so “Spice Up Your Life” could run, and we would be nowhere without it. The song perfectly captures Simm’s maniacal take on The Master opposite David Tennant’s (aged-up) 10th Doctor.

He’s a Teletubbies lover, king of needle drops (who can forget the moment he blasted Rogue Traders’ “Voodoo Child” while the Earth is being ravaged), and the true embodiment of a crazed villain.

It’s camp and crazy, and, tragically, many Whovians have been criminally deprived of the full scene over the years after it was left out of certain streaming versions. Some may think it is dispensable, but we certainly don’t. This is a John Simm stan page only.'

#My Angel Put The Devil in Me #Daleks in Manhattan #I Can't Decide #Scissor Sisters #David Tennant #John Simm #Doctor Who #60th Anniversary #Spice Girls #Spice Up Your Life #The Toymaker #The Giggle #Neil Patrick Harris #Voodoo Child #Rogue Traders #Last of the Time Lords #Miranda Raison #Tallulah Francis #Russell T. Davies #Toxic #Britney Spears #Tainted Love #Soft Cell #The End of the World

[wizardysseus]

anyone who says only one era of dr who is misogynistic is selling something: by the numbers

series 1: 0 female writers or directors

series 2: 0 female writers or directors

series 3: 1 female writer (helen raynor, "daleks in manhattan/evolution of the daleks"), 1 female director (hettie macdonald, "blink")

series 4: 1 female writer (helen raynor again, "the sontaran stratagem/the poison sky"), 1 female director (alice troughton, "the doctor's daughter," "midnight")

no specials written or directed by women.

total: 1 female writer across 4 episodes, 2 female directors across 3 episodes, out of 4 seasons (60 episodes and specials)

series 5: 0 female writers, 1 female director (catherine morshead, "amy's choice," "the lodger")

series 6: 0 female writers or directors

series 7: 0 female writers or directors

series 8: 0 female writers, 2 female directors (sheree folkson, "in the forests of the night"; rachel talalay, "dark water/death in heaven")

series 9: 2 female writers (catherine tregenna, "the woman who lived"; sarah dollard, "face the raven"), 2 female directors (hettie macdonald, "the magician's apprentice/the witch's familiar", rachel talalay again, "heaven sent/hell bent")

series 10: 2 female writers (sarah dollard again, "thin ice"; rona munro, "eaters of light"), 1 female director (rachel talalay back at it again, "world enough and time/the doctor falls")

1 special directed by a woman ("twice upon a time," rachel talalay again).

total: 3 female writers across 4 episodes, 4 female directors across 12 episodes, out of 6 seasons (84 episodes and specials)

series 11: 2 female writers (malorie blackman, co-writing with chris chibnall on "rosa"; joy wilkinson, "the witchfinders"), 2 female directors (sallie aprahamian, "arachnids in the uk," "the witchfinders"; jennifer perrott, "the tsuranga conundrum," "kerblam!")

series 12: 3 female writers (nina metivier, "nikola tesla's night of terror"; charlene james, co-writing with chris chibnall on "can you hear me?"; maxine alderton, "the haunting of villa diodati"), 2 female directors (nida manzoor, "nikola tesla's night of terror," "fugitive of the judoon"; emma sullivan ("can you hear me?" "the haunting of villa diodati")

series 13: 1 female writer (maxine alderton again, co-writing with chris chibnall on "village of the angels"), 0 female directors

1 special co-written by a woman ("legend of the sea devils," ella road with chris chibnall). 2 specials directed by women ("eve of the daleks," annetta laufer; "legend of the sea devils," haolu wang).

total: 6 female writers or co-writers across 7 episodes, 6 female directors across 10 episodes, out of 3 seasons (31 episodes and specials)

i did all this basic math just so that i would know, for my own personal databanks, but since it's done i may as well post it. just some food for thought. chibnall's era is the only one where the numbers or percentages increase anything like significantly, and even so, i don't think anyone wins here.

if you were to run this for writers and directors of color, it would also very quickly become depressing.