𝐉𝐀𝐂𝐊 𝐐𝐔𝐈𝐍𝐍 (𝐎𝐂) 𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓

I am me

The lab was a cathedral of cold steel and sterile light, buried deep beneath Gotham’s decaying underbelly. Vials hissed, monitors pulsed, and the air hummed with the arrogance of creation. Dr. Elias Varn, a man whose ambition outstripped his humanity, stood before the culmination of his life’s work: a figure suspended in a glowing tank, muscles taut, eyes closed, a paradox of sinew and menace. The clone. A perfect fusion of Gotham’s greatest hero, Bruce Wayne’s discipline, and its most infamous monster, the Joker’s chaotic brilliance.

But Varn had never considered that the clone might have a mind of its own.

They called him {your name}. A name you didn’t choose, but one Varn etched into your file—like a cold, indelible mark. The first sinner, the first to shed blood, the biblical outcast. {your name} was feared before you even took your first breath. Your creators saw only the potential for ruin—Bruce’s tactical genius combined with Joker’s unpredictable fury. But what they couldn’t see was this: you looked at chaos and found it… wasteful.

Your first memory was the hum of the lab, the weight of eyes upon you, and a question that burned brighter than the fluorescent glare: Why destroy when you can build? It wasn’t about morality, not exactly. Morality was for others—guilt and virtue were clumsy dances. You saw the world in probabilities, in outcomes. Destruction was loud, fleeting, inefficient. Helping, fixing, optimizing—that was the puzzle worth solving.

Gotham was a city of screams, and you walked its streets like a ghost. Six feet of lean muscle, your features a haunting blend of Bruce’s chiseled resolve and Joker’s sharp, unsettling grin. But your eyes—one green, one gray—were entirely your own; the only flaw in Varn’s perfect design.

People flinched when they saw you, sensing the danger in your stride, the latent power in your hands. They didn’t know that you’d spent the morning rerouting a soup kitchen’s supply chain to feed twice as many mouths with half the waste.

Tonight, you stood in the shadow of a crumbling tenement, watching a woman named Mara load boxes into a battered van. Her face was streaked with tears, her movements frantic. Divorce had gutted her, left her scrambling to escape a home turned hostile. The neighbors had offered hugs, platitudes, casseroles. But you saw their gestures for what they were: emotional noise, useless in the face of logistics.

You stepped forward, silent as a predator, and Mara froze. “You’re… you’re him,” she whispered, voice trembling. The papers had leaked your existence weeks ago—Varn’s hubris ensuring that. The Clone. The Monster. The End of Us All.

You tilted your head, assessing. “You’re moving out. You need help.”

Her eyes widened. “I—I don’t—”

You didn’t wait for permission. In ten minutes, you’d packed the van with ruthless efficiency, stacking boxes in a Tetris-like arrangement that left room for her daughter’s crib. By midnight, you’d secured a lease on a subsidized apartment across town, one with a deadbolt and a view of the river. Mara stammered thanks, but you were already gone, her gratitude irrelevant. The task was done. The outcome optimized.

The world didn’t understand you, and you didn’t care. You weren’t good, not in the way people wanted. Good was Batman, cloaked in sacrifice, or the civilians who clutched their pearls and prayed for heroes. You were something else—a mind that saw systems where others saw stories, a heart that weighed effort against impact. Danger pulsed in your veins, yes. You could kill with a flick of your wrist, outwit a SWAT team, or burn Gotham to ash. But why?

Chaos was a tantrum, and you weren’t a child.

Your next project was a man named Carl, a dockworker whose father had been diagnosed with pancreatic cancer. Carl’s friends had clapped him on the back, sent cards, and organized a fundraiser. Nice, but insufficient. You spent three nights combing through medical journals, hospital records, and survivor forums. By dawn, you handed Carl a dossier: a ranked list of oncologists with the highest success rates, a breakdown of treatment costs versus outcomes, and a dietary plan tailored to bolster immunity. Carl stared at the pages, dumbfounded. “Why’d you do this?” he asked.

You shrugged. “It was the logical thing to do.”

Logical. That was the word they didn’t get. To Gotham, you were a walking apocalypse, the Joker’s madness wearing Batman’s cape. They saw your lineage and wrote your story before you could. Varn had wanted a destroyer, and the city braced for one. But you weren’t their puppet. You were your own man, carving a path neither Bruce nor Joker could have imagined—one where power served purpose, not chaos or control.

The Bat watched from the shadows, his cowl a mask of conflict. Bruce Wayne had found you, tracked you through Gotham’s veins, and now stood on a rooftop, grappling with the truth. This clone, this abomination, wasn’t the monster he’d feared. You didn’t kill, didn’t scheme, didn’t revel in pain. You helped. You solved. You were neither hero nor villain, but something Bruce couldn’t categorize—a man who saw the world as a machine and chose to fix it, not break it.

The Joker, too, had heard the whispers. In his latest hideout, he cackled at the irony. His DNA, his legacy, turned into a do-gooder? It was hilarious, infuriating, perfect. “Oh, kid,” he muttered, twirling a knife. “You’re gonna ruin my brand.”

But you didn’t care about brands, or legacies, or the war between order and anarchy. You cared about outcomes. And tonight, as you slipped into an abandoned warehouse to dismantle a gang’s fentanyl operation—not with fists, but with evidence mailed to the DA—you felt the weight of eyes on you. Bruce’s. The Joker’s. Gotham’s.

Let them watch. Let them fear. You weren’t their story. You were your own.

BATFAM X NEGLECTED! MALE READER - PART TWO -

----- Warnings before you read ----- torture, experimentation, angst, death, use of needles

A soft ringing noise wakes you from your rest, you tried to find the cause of it, however you couldn't find the strength to open your eyes. Slowly, the noise got louder. The ringing caused a pounding in your head that made you desperately want to cover your ears, to try and block out the terrible noise. Then, it faded into a low ringing, not exactly perfect but much better.

It was in that moment of peace that everything came back to you, your family, the fight, your death.

You suddenly felt cold; an unbearable chill ran through your body. You weren't sure if the sudden chill was from the fear of your death or if it was because of the temperature. You wondered if this was how your mother felt when she died. No, you don't want to think about her, knowing how disappointed she would be in you. Your heart started racing as panic began to set in, a single thought repeated over and over again, like a mantra inside your head.

"I don't want to die"

"I don't want to die"

"I DON'T WANT TO DIE"

You needed to calm down and breathe.

Your body felt heavy as if tons of weight were resting on it, everything hurt. everything but your arm... Why couldn't you feel your arm? You could feel your heartbeat getting faster and your breath getting shorter-

Then your breath caught as you realized something, you could feel your heart beating. That had to mean you weren't dead. With this realization you tried even harder to open your eyes, you struggled for a few minutes before you could finally crack them open. You took a few moments to look around the room. The walls and floor were completely concrete with a red door near the foot of the bed you were in, to the right you noticed a small rolling table that seemed to have tools on it, but you weren't able to see from your current position. A soft clack of metal caused your attention to drift to your left hand; you were strapped down by a thick piece of metal. When you tried to lift that arm you noticed that one of the screws were loose, maybe you could unscrew it with your other hand. Your gaze drifted over, and you noticed a large wrap around your stomach, your heart shuddered as you decided to ignore that, escape comes first. As you looked over, all the hope left you. Your arm was gone, cut off just below the shoulder. It was wrapped in some white gauze that was drenched in blood.

A loud creek caused your body to tense, looking over to the cause of the sound, you saw a man holding a clipboard walk in. He wore a long lab coat and had a stethoscope draped around his neck. His dark brown hair just barely reached his shoulders; his eyes had a bored look to them however, as soon as he noticed that you were awake his eyes lit up.

"Good morning!" he walked up to your right side and looked closely at the bandage. "You woke up a bit faster than I thought you would. Very good" After a moment he clicked his tongue at the state of the bandage. The man then walked over to the small table, placed his clipboard down and rolled it over to the bed. Thanks to this you were able to see most the stuff on it. There were multiple tools that looked like something a doctor would use and a few that you couldn't recognize. You opened your mouth to speak, to ask the man where you were. However, as if reading your thoughts he stopped you. "Try not to speak for a few days. Your throat was damaged a bit during the explosion. But you don't need to worry, you are safe here. I will take good care of you". His soft smile did not match the look in his eyes. "Your stomach was in the worst shape, you lost a lot of important internal organs, but I was able to get some...replacements" You wanted to ask the man what he meant but decided to save the questions for later. The man then began unwrapping the bandage on your shoulder, his touch was gentle, yet it still caused a sharp pain to shoot through your body. You grunted in discomfort but that only seemed to make your throat ache. The man then shook his head and sighed. "See? what did I tell you about speaking?", You wanted to argue that a grunt wasn't speaking, and it only happened because of him but the lingering pain in your throat caused you to instead just give him a glare. The man simply ignored your glare and instead picked up a fresh roll of gauze and rewrapped your shoulder you had to hold back any sounds in fear of the pain from your throat. He then looked at your throat. "This one was replaced a just a few hours ago, and lucky for you I am almost done with the replacement for your arm". At his words you shot him a surprised look, was this something Bruce paid for? You found it hard to believe given the state of the room you were in.

While you were lost in thought, the man then pulled out a needle and stuck it into the side of your neck, the pain was immediate. You let out a sharp yell which only made it worse. You looked up at the man, he was speaking to you, but you couldn't hear what he said. Your eyes got cloudy before sleep pulled you under.

The next time you woke up you were in a different room, this one was bright, the walls were white and there was a large light positioned overtop of you. The man from before slouched in his chair on your right side. He seemed very focused on what he was doing, he hadn't even noticed that you wake up yet. You steadied yourself and watched the man, making sure not to move any muscle more than necessary. You knew that the best thing to do in this situation was to stay quiet, after all this unknown man held a sharp tool against your skin. He seemed to be attaching the nerves to something metal, an arm you guessed, you couldn't see form this angle.

Your gaze was trained on the man as he worked. You realized that you didn't feel any pain from the operation, you realized that it must've been from whatever drug he injected you with before.

It took a while, but the man finished with a satisfied expression. After checking over his work he looked to you, a look of surprise crossed his face as he noticed you awake.

"Oh my, how long have you been awake?" He asked, as if you could answer him with what he did to your throat. Your glare seemed to speak volumes because he let out a laugh "Don't worry, you can speak now. You have an incredible healing speed. Definitely something to take advantage of" The man seemed to mumble the last part.

"Who are you?" Your voice was rough and scratchy from not using it. How long have you been out?? "Where am I?" You tried to sound threating, however given your current situation, you probably looked no more intimidating than an injured doe.

The man smiled back "I am the one who saved you, my name is Dr. Crane. During the fight between Batman and Joker you were left to die, the building you were placed in blew up. Luckly for you I was grabbing supplies for an experiment nearby and happened to be passing through the wreckage", He watched you carefully as he recounted that day's events, "Unfortunately, there was no saving your right arm. After all, it was hardly attached. Not to even mention the terrible state of your stomach, I was surprised you were even alive, it was then that I knew I had to have you as my patient. However, I had to sever the remaining bit of your arm and drag you with me. Once we were safe and far enough, I stitched you up enough to survive and brought you back to my lab."

You knew you couldn't trust him however knowing your family left you to die shattered your heart. You never thought they would just leave. You realized then that you had never truly mattered to them; you were just a tool. You resigned yourself to the painful truth before asking Dr. Crane another question.

"So, what do you plan to do with me? Kill me? Use me against Batman, I'm sure you figured out his identity because of me". You felt tired. Honestly, at that point you wished you had died, at least then you would've been able to see your mother again, feel her warm arms wrap around you, more comforting than a blanket.

At your question the man let out a laugh. "What I plan to do? It is simple. I plan to make you into my greatest project. No one will stand in your way when I am done." He seemed excited at the mere thought of your future success, "Ah, and about Batman. I honestly could not care less about him; I am a scientist after all, my projects are the most important to me".

You squinted your eyes at him, disbelief coating your features. However, you paused when you saw him reaching for a needle. "What is that for?" You demanded.

"Well, I thought since you keep waking up, we can try a few experiments. you seem healed enough for now". With that he injected the needled into your upper left arm. Pain shot through your body. Red dots danced through your vision; you hollered out in pain. You tried to move away from the pain, how? the pain is everywhere, but you were strapped to the table. Dr. Crane only watched as you withered in pain. You thought you were going to pass out, but you couldn't allow yourself to.

Use him. Use this man's smarts and take revenge on Bruce. For what he did to you. Don't give into the pain. Stay awake!

A voice echoed in your head pulling you from unconsciousness, forcing you awake. Forcing you to suffer through the pain.

Someone- Please it hurts. Please, make it stop! Save me! PLEASE!

Your pleading only seemed to make the voice stronger in your ears, refusing to let you rest. Until finally, the pain subsided into a dull ache across your body. You could feel your own face wet with sweat and tears, your body trembled and twitched. Your eyes were blurry as you tried to focus them on Dr. Crane.

"You managed to stay awake?" the surprise evident in his voice, "Interesting..." Dr. Crane rustled around the table, picking up a small vile and holding it up to your lips, "Let's keep going until you can't anymore. Ok, M/n?" Although he phrased it as a question, you didn't get the luxury to answer before he poured the liquid down your throat. You tried to turn your head, but he squeezed your cheeks with his other hand and forced your mouth open and your head still. You could feel the strange liquid slide down your throat as you tried not to swallow. Eventually you couldn't hold it anymore and had to swallow it down.

Dr. Crane did many experiments that day, you don't remember how many, only the unforgettable, excruciating pain. You lost count of the experiments after around number five.

You learned a new meaning of pain that day.

You don't know how long you were out, but when you woke up again you were in the first room you started out in. You realized you weren't strapped to the bed this time. After gathering the strength to move you got up and looked around the room, for a way out. A Sharp pain emerged from your stomach and arm thanks to the movement. Ignore it, you told yourself, there's more important things to focus on. It was obvious that your only hope was the door. So, you walked to it, using the wall for assistance.

The door was locked, you sighed, of course it was. The faint sound of footsteps echoed through the halls; you hurried back to your bed and just as you sat down, Dr. Crane walked in carrying a tray with food. After noticing you sitting back down, he let out a small huff.

"Now, now. If you're going to be trying to escape, I will have to strap you back down". He sounded like he was scolding a disobedient child. Dr. Crane placed the food down on the table that was now cleared of tools, aside from some gauze. He rolled the table over to you. On the tray was mashed potatoes, some kind of soup, and water. You looked down at the food, unsure. Dr. Crane, noticing your reluctance, picked up the spoon and grabbed some mashed potatoes, he made eye contact with you, then ate the spoonful. "See? Nothing to be afraid of, no poison. We well work on poison resistance another time"

You hesitated before hunger took ahold; you quickly scarfed down the food, as if someone would take it away. Dr. Crane watched as you ate, making sure you finished it all. You chose to ignore the obvious hint of amusement in his eyes.

"How long have I been here?" You asked once you finished eating. Dr. Crane seemed pleased that you spoke with him, he most likely assumed you would hate him. You do; you just need information.

"It has been 9 months and 13 days since I brought you here". He answered, "but, who's counting?"

You hesitated for a moment however you couldn't hold the question back. "And my family, do they know?" Your voice was quiet, as if you didn't want to hear the answer. As you met Dr. Crane's gaze your eyes held an unspeakable plea, one not even you could understand. As if Dr. Crane could read your every thought; he left your question unanswered. You laid down on your side, away from Dr. Crane, as though hiding from the truth. Dr. Crane gathered the empty dishes and left in silence; the soft click of the door rang through the air.

The next day Dr. Crane sat and chatted with you as you ate. When you finished eating, he grabbed the tray and pulled a newspaper out of his pocket and set it down on the small table. Once he left the room you cautiously picked it up. After reading the headline you felt your heart drop in sadness? fear? anger? you couldn't say for sure.

"BRUCE WAYNE REFUSES TO SPEAK AT M/N WAYNE FUNERAL"

Your fingers traced the words, then drifted to the article. Your funeral was court and simple, much like your mother's. Her voice soft in your ear as you read.

See? they never cared about you. Take revenge on them. Don't forget all those years of neglect.

The voice was all around you, there was no escape from it. It demanded revenge, you began wanting it to.

Days turned into months, then years. Every day was similar; Dr. Crane would do experiments; he'd keep testing new things until you passed out. After the experiments He would bring you food, during these times he'd always sit and talk with you, it would be about anything that came to mind, you began to feel a type of connection with him. You almost felt like he was your friend, or maybe like the big bother you always wished you had. You resigned yourself to this fate, vowing to one day get the revenge that voice promised you.

After the first couple months Dr. Crane started putting his experiments to the test. He'd take you to what he called the 'training room'. It was a white padded room with vents in all corners. There you would train in strength, agility, resistance and even testing your smarts. The worst experiment that would happen in this room was when he would release a poisonous gas, you were told to bear with it, and you did, past limits you once thought you had.

Other times he put the room to a terrible cold temperature, leaving you with nothing more than your boxers. Even as frost bite gnawed at your bare body, you gritted your teeth and refused to give into the pain.

Everyday Dr. Crane would try injecting you with something new he invented. Sometimes the drug would fail, and he would have to rework it until he deemed it a success, then after that he would take you to the training room to test it.

It was a miserable experience. However, it allowed the betrayal and hatred to build over the years you were there.

You were strong, stronger than ever before. You had him to thank for it, and you knew it. So, you resolved to give him a painless death. You had been planning your escape for years and finally you could leave and extract your revenge. As you looked down to Dr. Crane's smiling face, you knew you did what you had to do. However, you could not stop the silent tears that fell down your face. In one way or another, this man had become someone you learned to care for.

"Wonderful..." Dr. Crane's voice was shaky, he coughed up some blood. So much for a painless death. "No, don't cry over this. You are my greatest success; through your actions I will live on". His voice faded as the fire you caused wrapped around the two of you. However, His eyes remained open, so you leaned down and closed them as a final gesture of gratitude, then you left. You walked through the fire that consumed the lab, the building crumbled around you. The scene almost beautiful in a way, your white pajama pants slightly charred at the ends, you didn't even flinch as your bare feet stepped on the burning embers.

Thanks to Dr. Crane you have truly become a monster, driven only by the need for revenge.

TO BE CONTINUED

Tags @mallowryblog @blover143 @venomsvl @sunnyfield

hey, we had fratboy shauna, lottie, and... fratboy jackie?

— so into you || fratboy and g!p jackie taylor headcanons 🎬

a/n: nothing smart to say this time. just need her. also, she gives strong ariana grande songs vibes if you ask me.

summary: she changed since high school and turns out…she’s not as bad as you thought she is. modern college au. girlfriend!jackie.

warnings: NSFW - content - MDNI

★ — well, you didn’t know that someone like jackie taylor exist til the day you walked in class. she sits spread open at the desk. varsity jacket around her shoulders with college soccer team logo. there’s weird, like really concerning amount of silver rings on her fingers. and, oh god, boxers are picking out from the waistband of her jeans.

★ — after that you learn that this girl is a soccer team captain! and your friends are pretty sure she’s into you. you let it slide for now, cause jackie…simply doesn’t make a move. sure, smiles at you, sometimes throw compliment or two. but nothing besides that.

★ — and hell, that girl got reputation. people say she’s mean which…just doesn’t make sense in your head. she’s so nervous around you, how could she be mean to anyone? then, when she finally gets her shit together, she catches you in cafeteria and in front of all your friends she asks you out.

i mean, she tries. cause what comes from her mouth sounds like she’s choking. “hi…so…” she swallows. “i actually don’t know, i mean, you don’t have a boyfriend, yeah? or hell, girlfriend? i just…” she stutters. “maybe you wanna go out? tomorrow? i mean, no rush! we don’t have to, it’s your choice, really…”

“jackie” you cut her off. “just pick me up around 6.”

she stares at you for a moment then she looks like she’s suddenly buzzing with energy. “oh fuck, great—“ she says relieved. “i mean, yeah. cool. whatever.” she mumbles, trying not to sound overexcited. she does anyway. she blushes like a total idiot walking away.

★ — did i mention her obsession with varsity jackets? no? cause this asshole has whole ass collection in her closet. not like you’re complaining when she borrows you another one. they’re smell like hell. (borrows is a big word, she just warps you in it. deal with it.)

★ — oh jackie’s smell. always so fresh, with that cologne sticking tt her skin that fills up your nostrils anytime she’s hovering over you.

★ — right! going back to her rings! the same with jackets — whole ass collections is placed at her nightstand. she wakes up in the morning and put random ones on. the more the better. turns out she loves jewellery in general. necklaces, bracelets. yes, she wears your bra strap as a bracelet.

★ — speaking of which — jackie has piercings! just in ears tho. beginning with basic lobes and ending with conch, helix and rook. and well…one hidden one. albert king piercing.

★ — you gasp when you have sex for the first time, feeling something like ring brushing against your velvet walls. you stare at her. not used to this new sensation.

“jackie, is that…?” you start but she nods swiftly, cheeks are flushed both from embarrassment and arousal.

“is it bad, cause…?” she pants but you shake your head swiftly.

“no, fuck that’s…” you manage to choke out. “that’s hot, jax.”

★ — you see, jackie was a virgin until she met you. she’s so panicked when you’re fucking for the first time. constantly asking you if she’s doing okay, if she’s not hurting you.

“jesus christ, jax.” you breathe out with amusement. “just fuck me.”

and god knows she does. firstly, she’s hesitant, taking things slow. but when her dick is buried deep inside your slick folds? she nearly cries out from pleasure. poor jackie, never had pussy around her cock. when she gets more confident, she fucks you like woman possessed. and she even moans way louder than you. whimpering in your ear with each thrust.

★ — not to mention the first time you give her a head. her eyes rolls back in her head from pleasure while you suck her tip with piercing.

★ — here’s another thing: jackie is prideful. jackie doesn’t like when people tell her what to do. always cocky, in charge. like she’s the best in every single thing she does (she’s not. she’s just annoying.) and then, there’s you. and she loves when you put her in her place while riding her dick. or even without fucking her. she just obeys.

★ — she loves affection but only privately. in public she plays this unbothered, smug frat. keeping your close but not always touching you. pressing kisses to your neck occasionally but she doesn’t cling to you. not around people at least. cough, reputation.

★ — cause when you’re alone? fuck, she does cling. her hands are all over you, lips travelling constantly up and down. like she’ll die if she won’t be touching you. call her all you want, she’s secretly an awful simp for you. also, people know that. probably after she fell asleep on you at that one party. gripping you like you’re the last person on planet earth.

★ — she gives you a lot compliments. leaving the notes on the fridge, in your notes, in your bag…everywhere. and you learn to compliment her too by that! she’s blushing like hell when you call her handsome.

★ — she’s annoying. like really fucking getting on your nerves sometimes. caring too much about her reputation. her clothes. her fucking appearance. all the damn time.

“jax, what the hell?” you ask irritated walking into the bathroom. “you’re sitting here for hours.”

“yeah, to look pretty for a date with my prettiest girlfriend” she grins tugging you for a kiss. and yeah…you melt right and there.

★ — she’s a smoker — always walking everywhere with her vape. she probably smokes something awfully sweet. like strawberry or raspberry.

★ — she needs to keep up her reputation of that confident, perfect asshole that somehow is loved by everyone around. but when it comes to you…you’re her safe place. she’s sensitive. more than people think. sometimes she simply cries in your arms because of the pressure. only to feel a little guilty next day and brings you breakfast to your bed. from your favourite restaurant. she memorised.

★ — she doesn’t say much i love you’s. she’s definitely not so obvious with her love. but she’s sure as hell possessive — you’re her absolute everything. and jackie taylor doesn’t share.

eventually you realize you don’t want to die. you just don’t want to live the life you’re living. and slowly you try to create a life you want to live. just gotta start there.

Now I feel like I gotta ask- Jackie with reader who has a tdick?

- 💀

maybe im biased but i think all of them would go crazy on tdick.

feel like she'd be the most curious about it, asking you all these lowkey personal questions like asking you how it feels when you get hard or if you can even get a boner and if you can jerk it off.... 😭

jackie who buys you grinders for your tdick, making you grind on the silicone pussy to tease you but she ends up getting jealous of how you fuck it lmfao. also she's just mesmerized by how shiny your slick is and how your tdick pokes in and out of the hole. jackie who gets you one of those realistic prosthetics that attaches to your tdick so she can blow you. she loves holding eye contact with you as she licks the head.

but she very much prefers sucking your own dick.

if you're not dysphoric about it, she will absolutely stick her tongue inside while her fingers jerk off your tdick. her chin always ends up covered in your cum.

likes it when you wear packers just so she can play with it in public. tracing the outline of it while you're sitting outside for lunch, smiling innocently at you when you ask her what she's doing.. adjusting it for you when she notices how it looks like you have a boner and chuckling when she brushes it against your tdick. she also likes jerking it off like a real dick.

jackie and reader who has had phallo or meta......hnghgh.

wilderness baby surviving somehow and nat getting the WORST baby fever watching you take care of him. you’re bouncing him as shauna carves up the deer nat brought back that day, babbling back to him and hes giggling bc yes!! this lady is speaking my language!! and nat is just like huh….maybe i Do want that someday. only with you, of course.

ohh the nat baby saga continues

you're always saying you just wanna be helpful to shauna but ohhh it is so obvious you love spending time around the baby!! whenever shauna can't put him down and he's crying she so relies on you to handle it and best believe you are MORE then happy to do it!!

and natalie is always in the shadow, watching you with heart eyes while you're playing peekabo with the little one

reader who like akilah who is the designated animal caregiver, is the baby's caregiver which also makes shauna be softer around nat

and nat is just SALIVATING all the time

"Hey babe." She says, approaching the two of you "Oh hi! C'mon dear, say hi to mama Nat." You joke, praying that Shauna didn't hear you, little did you know of the effect it had on Natalie "You two having fun?" She asks with the stupidest lovesick smile on her face - to which you nod, rocking the kid In this moment, the girl above you decided that her sole purpose was to get the fuck out of here and spend her settlement money on IVF

Ppl like grumpy x sunshine more than “paint me like one of your French girls” and I mean- if you’re making a series and go for the most votes… can you at least make a one shot on “paint me like one of your French girls”?

Please? For me? 🥺🥺🥺

For the brains behind soul painter?? 👉👈

-🍄🍄🍄

You’d painted before. Hundreds of pieces. Thousands of strokes. But never like this.

She lay there—draped across your studio couch, nude in the golden light, all sharp angles softened by the glow of sunset filtering through the window. A living masterpiece. Every curve a siren’s call.

And still—still—you weren’t looking at her the way a man would. You looked like an artist possessed.

She watched your eyes flick from her hip to her collarbone. Your tongue flicked across your lip as you mixed another color. The veins in your hand flexed as you clenched the brush tighter—focused. Your jaw locked, then twitched.

God, the control in you was intoxicating.

She’d stripped down thinking you’d tease. Maybe flirt. But no.

You were silent.

Worshipping her with the way you looked at her… but not like a lover.

Like an addict.

She shifted, slowly—just enough to make your gaze falter.

It did.

You paused.

Eyes flicked to hers.

“Don’t move,” you said, voice husky, low.

She smirked. “Why not?”

“Because,” you said, eyes dropping back to her form, “this light on your hip—if it slips, I’ll lose it.”

Her brows lifted. “So serious.”

You didn’t reply. Just lifted the brush and went back to it.

She stared at your forearms—taut under the rolled sleeves. At the muscles shifting under your shirt as you painted. At your hands. Those hands.

Veins raised, fingers stained with dried pigment, moving with such control it made her knees press together, even from where she laid.

You didn’t notice.

But then you turned.

And she saw your back.

Shirt pulled tight between your shoulders as you reached for a rag. Muscles dancing as you adjusted your stance. She exhaled hard.

“You’ve been painting me for over an hour,” she said, voice breathy.

You glanced over, surprised by the interruption.

“Is it not working?” you asked.

“No,” she said, sitting up slightly, eyes dark. “It’s working too well.”

You blinked.

She stood, unapologetically nude, walking toward you slowly. “I was trying to be your muse. But I’ve been watching you this whole time, and I realized—”

She touched your chest, eyes raking over your body.

“You’re the art.”

Her hand moved down. Over your abs, slow and reverent. “You don’t even know, do you? The way you look when you’re painting. That jaw. Those back muscles. The veins in your hands—”

She took one in her fingers. Kissed your knuckle.

“—I want them on me.”

You dropped the brush.

And when you kissed her, it wasn’t frantic. It was reverent. Careful. Like she was another canvas and you were building her color by color.

She reached for your shirt, sliding it off slow, dragging her fingers across the grooves in your back like she’d studied them. She kissed each one, from shoulder to spine.

“You gonna finish that painting?” she whispered, breath hot on your skin.

“Later,” you murmured.

Because right now?

You were the brush. She was the canvas. And the art was made in every slow, aching, soul-painted touch. A/N: Fuck you, now I'm horny 4 this man (I meant it as a joke btw)

Her Heartbeat's Wednesday: You just adopted the path of being down bad, I've lived my life being down bad for my pookie Y/n.

Genderbend!Yellowjackets x leitor

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: mention of blood, language, murder, alcohol and drugs and suggestive themes.

Based on the Paramount TV Series: YellowJackets

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Episodes:

000-The Pit Boy

001- Nostalgia

002- Just Another Trip

extra:

Before The Storm (part 1)

Before The Storm (part 2)

Ghost in the Shell

Negleted male reader x batfamily chapter 1

Probably bad English ⚠️

Prologue - cap 2

Y un montón de orgullo argentino la puta madre >:)

You certainly always were weird, a weird boy and then a weird man

You were born from one night between a respectable and loving woman like your mother and...Bruce.Then you lost the most important woman in your life and your home as a child.

Then you grew up with your father and your family

You were so excited to make them happy, but it was all in vain.His false promises only brought sad hopes to the child.

You naively believed his words without thinking that they were lies or insults

You stayed alone so as not to suffer the consequences of such a beautiful life that could only have been a dream For the child who found comfort in his computer and later considered it his home

Considering the internet as your place, just for being yourself, and then evolving over the years, bringing happiness to millons of persons and hiding invisible shortcomings and pains.

From your first videos as a child to your last as a young adult who inspired others with his parodies, sketches and his accordion, native to your beautiful Argentina and inherited from your mother

Only to begin your own mourning after finishing your shift in the kitchen where you worked and passing away

You were young, still studying and working for a better future for yourself as a Latino only to die with two gunshots to the chest, lying on the floor of an alley

And that was your story so far. Locked inside the same technology that accompanied you in life in one way or another

You possessed your computer,ridiculous as it sounds,Only able to see your own room and what you considered almost your home

According to a Gotham website that recorded deaths, you had died a few days ago.You were successfully registered in the database as t/n and recognized by your family

No one has entered your room since then and for now you have only been doing your same daily routine on the internet, without your work, your few friends and studies of course, trying to understand yourself

Only Alfred came in, bringing with him some personal pain for the loss, you hid from him pretending to be turned off by fear..

The man meticulously dusted the objects in the unopened room while you stood in pure silence with your...Monitor? Face? Off

He walked around the room, stopping after a few steps to see somethings like it was a musem Posters,figures from series or games that Alfred din't know, drawings full of your unique creativity, your old sheets, the stickers of candy promos on the window and other places stuck

Your room seemed almost trapped in time and you loved it that way

Finally, the two great exhibits of "your museum" were your beautiful, and beautiful accordion..or how you like to call it,acordeón o Gardelito Demonstrating your people's characteristic love for your country

It was a beautiful old accordion painted black with a "fileteado" Showing your light blue and white flag with a sun in the center with all its pride

The brightness of the instrument made it charming to anyone and captivated the old butler who looked with interest at its keys

The old man's wrinkled hand landed on the keyboard, about to touch a key, then closed slightly and moved away, welcoming him to the latest exhibit: an old computer

Your old computer

And you

So many years sitting at the same table in front of an old blue chair entertaining one of Wayne's sons..

Only to be seen empty and sad without her partner in the silence of the room

It wasn't the most shocking image the butler had ever seen, but it provoked...a feeling of regret and pain

For the absence of someone Alfred knew deserved a chance