Absolute Martian Manhunter #2 Has A Strong Visual Style, And John Yells At A Baby.

KISS OF AN ANGEL

akiko yosano x reader | sfw

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

The way she called your name haunted you.

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

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

She was crying.

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

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

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

Recognized the horrors those soldiers felt.

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

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

"I'm okay..."

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

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

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

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

You clung to her chest as she held you tightly.

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

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

She kissed you again and you relished in it.

Feeling at peace despite the destruction around you.

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

Maybe I have a request for Kung Lao x Tall and Buff Muscular!fem reader. How his reaction of Muscular!Fem reader flex her muscles

EMBRACE OF A GODDESS

kung lao x reader | sfw

Cw! female reader, fluffy, light suggestive content, drabble

Summary! Kung Lao has a crush on a literal goddess (his words not mine)

Kung Lao wasn't jealous by any means. He swears.

Or enamored either.

"You're lying to yourself, dude." Johnny was amused at his pain. Kung Lao never seen such a woman, and she could most definitely break him in half.

Somehow he couldn't find himself disliking such a thing. You were tall and smiling. A goddess next to the likes of Liu Kang. A strong woman and a strong fighter.

"Oh my, you're red." Raiden giggled as his eyes drifted between him and you. You standing in your glory in the sun.

With the flex of your arm muscles, you could see all that you worked for. Kung Lao was floored. His face was hot and he was confused.

His mind flashed with pictures of his head between those thick thighs of yours. Or even his entire body wrapped in a hug, like a blanket of warmth.

"God dammit! Leave me alone!" He grumbled.

His outburst caused you to look over, and he visibly stiffed.

No! He had no crush, nor did he want to be crushed by you. Definitely didn't want to be on his knees for you.

"It's too hot in here!" Kung Lao shouted before storming off. His face only became hotter when he heard your faint giggle when Johnny loudly told you what Kung Lao was doing earlier.

He would have his revenge, and get a spar with you soon.

He swears he's not imagining you taking him down, and dominating him.

Totally...

the sillies

That just means he likes you :))

❝DOCTOR I CAN’T TELL IF I’M NOT ME.❞

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

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

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

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

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

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

You clung to that.

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

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

For a while, it was enough.

For a long while, you were selfish.

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

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

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

Your existence and your power meant something.

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

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

Bruce Wayne.

Billionaire. Philanthropist. Playboy.

Batman.

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

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

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

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

And that was the cruelest part of all.

Not being able to use it.

Not being able to save.

Not being able to be useful.

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

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

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

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

And now? Now you live among strangers.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But he doesn’t understand.

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

“I’m busy.”

“Not now.”

“We’ll talk later.”

“It’s for work.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

That’s what hurt the most.

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

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

Why do you still need him to see you?

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

Because with you, it was always different.

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

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

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

“Next time, I promise.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Jason, Tim, Damian…

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

So, you avoid him.

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

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

Almost clinical.

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

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

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

No one asked you.

No one thanked you.

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

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

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

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

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

Alfred... Alfred is a different matter.

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

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

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

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

You don’t want that for yourself.

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

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

They can’t give you purpose.

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

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

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

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

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

No one found it funny.

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

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

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

You didn’t. Not for him. For you.

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

They weren’t. Not yet.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Everything fit so perfectly wrong that it almost seemed planned.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Not once.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It was the mask.

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

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

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

And yet, you prefer them this way.

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

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

In Gotham, you can’t do anything.

You can't heal.

You can't save.

You can't be useful.

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

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

They can’t give you a purpose.

They never could.

They didn’t even try.

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

Until you found him.

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

A miracle.

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

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

A weapon.

A tool.

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

A perfect puppet.

And you, grateful for the strings.

He gave you direction when all you had was guilt.

He gave you structure when all you had was emptiness.

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

It can't be that bad, right?

Clinging to that.

Clinging to him.

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

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

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

Even if guilt drowns you every night.

Even if the nightmares never rest.

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

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

Right?

Maybe you're a weapon.

Maybe you're selfish.

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

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

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

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

Because in the end, it wasn't Bruce.

Nor your brothers.

Nor your sisters.

None of them ever knew who you were.

None of them understood.

Only him. Only Masashi.

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

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

Not even that belongs to you.

HOUSE OF CARDS

mortal kombat chrs x zatanna!reader intros | sfw

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

characters! raiden, kung lao, kenshi

part 1

RAIDEN

Raiden : Your naturally gifted with your powers?

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

-

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

Raiden: Me? I’d be honored.

-

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

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

-

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

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

KUNG LAO

You: That hat of yours is quite exceptional.

Kung Lao: Yes! Finally someone understands my vision!

-

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

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

-

You: We should switch hats.

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

-

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

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

KENSHI TAKAHASHI

Kenshi: What does Sento tell you?

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

-

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

Kenshi: How exactly do you know that for sure?

-

Kenshi: You and Johnny surely gave a fantastic show.

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

-

You: I could heal your eyes if you like.

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

I miss them dearly < ♡

shit hurts like hell fr

WHAT

tall people who also like to float

hiii I really like your writing and wanted to request something! :3

shang tsung with a reader who is just in love with him and obsessed with him? not even in the yandere sense, they just love him a lot. they even admired him before he became a merchant and always admired him from afar when he was poor and a merchant. and then when they do get together, they give him lots of love and affection? like nothing he does drives them away or disgusts them, they are just very loyal. they are always looking at him with pure love in their eyes.

LOYAL TO THE END

shang tsung x reader | sfw

CW! gn reader, fluffy, slight yandere on Shang Tsung’s end

Summary! You’ve loved him since the beginning and now that you have him you can show all of what you’ve harnessed. Nothing will ever shake your love for him, not even when everyone’s against him.

thank you for the request. I like the way you think 👀

Call you a stalker sure but you couldn’t help yourself.

You’ve watched him since the very beginning. As an Edenian servant you found yourself in the market for produce, and you found him.

A man who dressed himself in makeup and a make white beard. Shang Tsung was his name when he finally opened.

You didn’t know why you were so drawn to him. He had a magical essence to him that you’ve never felt before. He was something meant for more.

You simply knew it. Somehow.

But you stayed away. You felt horror in your heart watching him get beat every time you went down for food for the palace. He was simply trying to make a living. To get off the streets and not to starve.

You understood the man’s point but at the time your Shang Tsung couldn’t albeit live an honest like. He couldn’t be able to.

Then she came, Demashi stole him away. She brought Shang Tsung and told him truth. He was powerful sorcerer and it was being suppressed greatly.

Watching in the rain you clenched your fists. Shang Tsung was destined for greatness. Why would someone want to suppress such a thing that could help Outworld.

So you betrayed the kingdom. They didn’t serve you anything, and you felt you weren’t meant for the role assigned to you.

Felt like you belonged by Shang Tsung’s side.

And now you have him. The other Shang Tsung was defeated and you have yours. In your arms and he’s hugging you back.

You thought this wouldn’t be possible but it was. You couldn’t ask for nothing more, and Shang Tsung’s own behavior towards you made your giggly.

Especially when he would glare deadly at any person that stared at you. You liked it when he got so protective.

Even when he was torturing and killing others you held admiration. Some may say you have a problem. Some may say you’re sick, even if you weren’t loving him in a sick way.

You purely loved him nonetheless. He was everything you weren’t. Trapped to the palace, and he was free. Queen Sindel ran a golden age, but even so, you felt trapped underneath her rule.

With him you could let wild.

Especially with him.

He welcomed your kisses and embraces. His deep chuckles always causing your knees to buckle and he’d catch you. “My dear for you are my special one.” He’d whisper to you.

Even as the bones of another fell to your feet, or even if blood was splattered against your face you’d kiss him just as passionately. Cruel or not you loved him even if he committed murder right in front of you.

Shang Tsung caressed your face. Blood of the enemy on your face and his remains on the floor. Coating your shoes, and crushing of bones.

“You promise to stay with me? No matter what I do?” That smirk was on his face. He didn’t need to ask but it brought him joy. You, someone random just happened to catch sight of him and you had simply fallen in love with him.

You were sweet with your love, unlike him, who’d fallen in love with you and darkness instinctively made him much more horrible. The slightest look at you made him murderous.

“Loyal to end, my beloved.” You mused. Your eyes shining brightly in contrast of the blood decorating your face.

You two met lips in the chaos of blood and bones along your feet. Nothing or no one mattered to you or him.

You were with the person your desired even if he was an evil man. Shang Tsung was happy to have someone so darling and loyal.

He loved you, and anyone who challenged that he’d rid them.