#Ben Hardy owns me

[urdreamydoodles]

MARVEL COMICS CHARACTERS X FEM!READER

You are clumsy and hurt yourself all the time

Characters: Peter Parker, Tony Stark, Steve Rogers, Thor, Loki, Clint Barton, Natasha Romanoff, Bucky Barnes, Matthew Murdock, Frank Castle, Bullseye, Marc Spector, Taskmaster, Johnny Storm, Reed Richards, Ben Grimm, Susan Storm, Felicia Hardy, Stephen Strange, Namor, Johnny Blaze, Eddie Brock / Venom, T'Challa, Elektra Natchios, Muse, Victor von Doom, Peter Quill & Nova

Peter Parker (Spider-Man)

- Peter notices before you do. His eyes are sharp, trained to pick up the smallest of changes, the faintest of shadows blooming beneath your skin. He doesn't just see the bruises; he maps them, cataloging each one like constellations he wishes he could erase from your body. Every time he catches you wincing, biting your lip to muffle a yelp after knocking into yet another corner, he sighs. "Again?" he teases, but there's worry threading through his voice, twisting between the syllables like spider silk.

- He starts to hover, though he tries not to. It's instinctive—he's always been the protector, the boy who runs into burning buildings without thinking twice. But with you, it's different. It’s not just about keeping you safe; it’s about keeping you whole, unmarked by the world’s cruelty—or your own clumsiness. So he starts catching you before you fall, pulling you out of the way just in time, reaching out without thinking. Sometimes, you swear he moves before the accident even happens, like he's learned the rhythm of your missteps, predicting the inevitable before it can bruise you.

- When you do get hurt (because of course you do), Peter is relentless in his care. He’s crouched in front of you in an instant, thumb tracing the new bruise with reverence, an almost desperate tenderness in his touch. "You're gonna be the death of me," he mutters, but his hands are so impossibly gentle as he presses a cool compress to your skin. His lips ghost over the hurt, as if he can will it away with a kiss. Sometimes, you wonder if he wishes he could wrap you in webbing, cocoon you in safety so that the world—and your own two feet—could never touch you again.

- He starts making excuses for why he needs to hold your hand. "Crowded street," he'll say, even when it's not. "Slippery floor," even when it's bone-dry. The truth is, he just wants to anchor you, to be the tether that keeps you upright, steady. And when you trip anyway—because, of course, you do—he laughs, shaking his head as he catches you. "You just like falling for me, don't you?"

- But late at night, when you're half-asleep and curled against him, he traces over your skin like it's something sacred. His fingers brush against every fading bruise, every place you've been hurt, and he whispers, "Wish I could take these for you." His voice is raw, aching with the helplessness of loving someone breakable. And you, tangled in the warmth of him, only smile. Because you know that, in every way that matters, Peter has already caught you.

Tony Stark (Iron Man)

- Tony notices, but not in the way you expect. He doesn’t gasp or fuss the first time he sees you sporting a fresh bruise on your knee. Instead, he raises an eyebrow, tilting his head as if considering a puzzle. "So, what was it this time? Rogue chair leg? Malicious doorframe? Did a coffee table rise against you in rebellion?"

- But beneath the teasing, there's a flicker of something deeper. A calculation, a quiet kind of concern buried beneath the bravado. Tony doesn’t do helplessness well. He can build suits that defy physics, craft weapons that could level cities—but he can't seem to keep you from bruising yourself on the furniture. It frustrates him, gnaws at the edges of his mind, so he does what Tony Stark does best: he finds a solution.

- At first, it’s little things. He adjusts the lighting in your shared spaces, claiming it’s for "ambience" but really so you can see obstacles better. Then come the AI sensors in the furniture, making tables shift slightly if you’re about to walk into them. At one point, you find yourself nearly colliding with a moving bookshelf that, at the last second, scoots out of your way. "What the hell?" you gasp. Tony only grins. "Self-adjusting furniture. Stark tech. You’re welcome."

- But for all his technological fixes, it’s his hands that surprise you the most. Because Tony, for all his arrogance, is delicate with you. When you come to him with a fresh injury, he tuts, shaking his head dramatically—but his touch is careful, reverent. He traces over the bruises like he’s memorizing them, pressing a kiss against each one as if sealing them with something stronger than science. "Y'know," he murmurs against your skin, "if you wanted my attention, there were easier ways than body-slamming a desk."

- And at night, when you think he’s asleep, you feel his fingers drifting over your skin, tracing every hurt like he’s trying to rewire you, make you something invincible. He’s never been good at loving things that break, but with you, he’s learning that maybe some things—some people—are worth protecting, even if he can’t build them indestructible.

Steve Rogers (Captain America)

- Steve doesn't laugh. Not at first. The first time he sees you stumble, his reflexes kick in before his brain does, hands catching your waist before you hit the ground. "Careful," he says, voice steeped in quiet concern, but there’s something else there too—something deeper, a weight that lingers in his gaze.

- You realize quickly that Steve doesn't see bruises as just bruises. To him, every mark on your skin is a reminder of fragility, of the world’s ability to harm. He carries the weight of lost battles, of friends who weren’t fast enough, strong enough, and something in him aches at the thought of you being hurt—even by something as simple as a misplaced step.

- So he becomes your shadow. A quiet, steadfast presence at your side, always an arm’s length away. He doesn’t smother, doesn’t hover—but he’s there, a constant, an anchor. When you trip, he catches. When you stumble, he steadies. When you crash into a table, he’s already pressing a gentle hand to your arm, checking for injuries before you can brush it off.

- "You need to be more careful," he tells you, voice soft but firm. You roll your eyes. "Steve, I’ve been like this my whole life." His lips press into a line, but instead of arguing, he takes your hand, thumb sweeping over your knuckles. "Then I’ll just have to keep catching you."

- And he does. Every time. Even in sleep, his arm drapes over your waist, protective even in unconsciousness. You don’t tell him, but you think it’s fitting—because Steve Rogers has always been the one to hold the world together, and now, he holds you.

Thor

- Thor booms with laughter the first time you walk straight into a doorframe. "By the gods, you fight invisible battles, my love!" he declares, pulling you into his chest as if you’ve just won a war. You grumble against him, but he only kisses the top of your head, eyes gleaming with amusement.

- But for all his laughter, Thor is not careless with you. When you trip, his hands are always there, warm and unyielding, lifting you as if you weigh nothing. "The world trembles before you, yet you are felled by a mere step!" he teases, but there is no mockery—only adoration.

- He carries you more often than necessary, sweeping you into his arms at the slightest provocation. "You are too precious for the ground," he says, as if that explains everything. When you protest, he only grins, pressing a kiss to your temple. "Indulge me, my beloved."

- He takes to inspecting your bruises like battle wounds, solemn as he traces them. "A warrior bears their marks with pride," he says. But then, softer, "Though I would gladly take them for you."

- And when he holds you at night, it is as if he cradles the most precious thing in all the realms. Because to Thor, you are not just beautiful. You are his most cherished treasure, and even if you stumble, even if you fall—he will always be there to catch you.

Loki

- Loki watches you with an expression caught between amusement and exasperation, his sharp green eyes tracking the way you stumble through life as though gravity itself is your greatest adversary. He does not rush to catch you—no, he prefers to observe first, to let you flounder, to let the world trip you up just enough to be entertaining but never enough to truly hurt you. “It is almost an art form,” he muses one evening as he traces his fingers over a fresh bruise blooming along your arm. “How you manage to battle furniture and lose so spectacularly.”

- But beneath the teasing, there is something else—something darker, more possessive. Loki is not a man accustomed to powerlessness, and watching you mar yourself on the mundane sends an unfamiliar frustration curling in his chest. He is not mortal, not fragile, and neither should you be. If he could enchant your very skin to be impenetrable, he would. Instead, he does the next best thing—subtle spells woven into your jewelry, charms hidden in the fabric of your clothes. Nothing too obvious, nothing you would notice. Just enough to slow a fall, to dull an impact, to ensure that when you inevitably crash, the world is kinder to you.

- He does not hover, not the way a lesser man might. No, Loki’s interventions are quieter, more insidious. A flick of his fingers when you’re about to knock a glass off the table. A shift in the air that redirects your fall just enough to keep you from truly hurting yourself. He plays it off as coincidence when you point it out, though the smirk curling at the corner of his lips betrays him. “Perhaps Midgard itself has simply decided to stop punishing your carelessness,” he offers smoothly, tilting his head. “Or perhaps, darling, you’ve finally learned some semblance of grace.”

- And yet, for all his feigned indifference, his hands are gentle when they trace over your bruises, long fingers ghosting over each mark as though committing them to memory. “Such delicate skin,” he murmurs, something unreadable flickering in his gaze. You think, sometimes, that he looks at you like a paradox—something fragile and untouchable, something he wants to protect and break in equal measure. He presses his lips to each bruise, his voice silk-soft against your skin. “If only you would let me make you indestructible.”

- At night, when you think he is asleep, he holds you closer than necessary, one arm wrapped around your waist, the other draped possessively over your thigh. His fingers find the bruises even then, absently tracing them, as if even in sleep, he cannot stand the marks of a world that does not know how to handle something as precious as you. And if, in the morning, your injuries fade just a little faster than they should—well. Loki has never been one to play fair.

Clint Barton (Hawkeye)

- Clint takes one look at you, covered in bruises from yet another misadventure with an unassuming coffee table, and snorts. “Jesus, sweetheart,” he says, shaking his head. “It’s like you’re in a fight with the furniture and losing every damn round.” He teases, because that’s what Clint does, but beneath the dry humor, there’s a glint of something softer, something close to concern.

- He’s got quick hands, calloused and steady, and they catch you more often than not. He doesn’t even think about it anymore—it’s instinct, muscle memory, the same reflexes that let him shoot arrows with inhuman precision now redirecting themselves to keeping you upright. Sometimes you don’t even realize you’re falling before he’s got a firm grip on your waist, pulling you against him with a smirk. “I should start charging for this,” he muses. “Professional girlfriend-wrangler. Gotta make a living somehow.”

- But he’s not always fast enough. You take your hits, your bruises, your scrapes, and Clint swears every time he sees a new mark on you. He cups your face in his hands one evening, tilting your chin up so he can inspect the latest damage—a dark bruise along your cheekbone from where you’d misjudged a doorway. His thumb brushes over it, his mouth pressing into a tight line. “Y’know, for someone so damn beautiful, you sure spend a lot of time brawling with inanimate objects.”

- He starts carrying a first-aid kit just for you. Not the standard SHIELD-issued one—this one is filled with little things he knows you’ll need. Cooling gel for the bruises, tiny bandages that come in ridiculous designs (because he knows they’ll make you smile), painkillers for the inevitable aches. He patches you up with a surprising gentleness, his hands rough but careful as he works. “I should just start wrapping you in bubble wrap,” he mutters, shaking his head. “Or at least get you some damn kneepads.”

- And in the quiet hours of the night, when you’re tangled together in bed, he presses absentminded kisses to every bruise, every scrape, every mark. He doesn’t say anything, doesn’t make a big deal out of it—just lets his lips linger against each injury like a silent promise, like a prayer. Because Clint Barton knows better than most that the world is unforgiving, that sometimes you don’t get there in time. But here, now, with you—he can at least make sure someone’s always there to catch you when you fall.

Natasha Romanoff (Black Widow)

- Natasha doesn’t panic when you fall, doesn’t gasp when you hit the ground, doesn’t rush to your side with frantic worry. She simply raises an unimpressed eyebrow as you groan, flat on your back after tripping over absolutely nothing. “You’re unbelievable,” she says, crossing her arms. “A trained assassin would have heard that floor coming.”

- But that doesn’t mean she doesn’t care. She does—deeply, fiercely, in the way only Natasha Romanoff can. She just doesn’t show it in obvious ways. Instead, she adjusts her stride so she’s always close enough to catch you, casually offering an arm when she senses you wobbling. She never draws attention to it, never makes a big deal of it, but you notice. You always notice.

- When you inevitably end up bruised and battered, she clicks her tongue but says nothing, simply sitting beside you with an ice pack in one hand and a knowing smirk on her lips. She presses the cold compress to your skin, her touch deliberate, precise. “You should let me train you,” she muses. “At least teach you how to fall properly.”

- Natasha never coddles, never fusses, but she is always prepared. She has a quiet way of making sure you’re okay—subtle, effortless. When you stand up too quickly and nearly topple over, her hand is already on the small of your back, steadying. When you stumble, she catches you before you even realize you’re falling. It’s instinct to her, the way protecting you has become second nature.

- And at night, when the world is quiet, she pulls you against her, her fingers ghosting over every bruise like a whisper, like a secret. She does not apologize for the world’s cruelty, does not wish you were stronger, does not sigh at your clumsiness. She only holds you tighter, her lips brushing against each mark in silent reverence. Because Natasha Romanoff knows what it means to hurt, to endure, to survive—and if she cannot keep you unbroken, then at the very least, she can be the place you fall.

Bucky Barnes (Winter Soldier)

- Bucky notices before you do. His eyes, trained by war and decades of violence, catch every shift in your body, every wince, every faint hesitation in your step. At first, he thinks it’s something worse—that someone put hands on you, that danger came too close. But then he watches you slam your hip into the corner of the counter, trip over absolutely nothing, and he exhales sharply, rubbing a hand down his face. “You’re killin’ me, doll,” he mutters, but his hands are already on you, steadying, checking.

- He doesn’t hover—not exactly. But suddenly, he’s always there, always within reach. If you stumble, his hands find your waist before you even realize you’re falling. If you misjudge a step, his arm is already around your shoulders, pulling you against his chest with a sigh. “Y’know, most people walk without gettin’ into a fistfight with the air,” he teases, but there’s something softer beneath it, something like worry.

- When you come home with fresh bruises—scattered across your arms, darkening your knees—he’s quiet. Too quiet. He sits you down, metal fingers unnervingly gentle as he rolls up your sleeves, brushing over each mark like he’s memorizing them. “You gotta be more careful,” he murmurs, and there’s something heavy in his voice, something weighted with history. He’s seen too much damage in his life, inflicted too much of it himself. He hates seeing it on you.

- But Bucky Barnes is a man who prepares, who anticipates. He starts keeping a first-aid kit on hand, not that he needs it much—he’s better at easing your pain with his own touch, the press of his lips against your bruises, the warmth of his palm smoothing over sore muscles. He doesn’t say much when he does it, just presses kisses against every darkened patch of skin like he’s willing them away. Sometimes, when he thinks you’re asleep, you hear him whisper, “Wish I could take ‘em for you.”

- And at night, when the world is quiet, he wraps you in his arms, tucking you close as if that alone will shield you from harm. His metal arm rests heavy over your hip, protective, unyielding. “You’re gonna give me a heart attack one of these days,” he murmurs into your hair. And you—smiling, safe in the warmth of him—only kiss his jaw and whisper, “Guess you’ll just have to keep catching me, then.”

Matthew Murdock (Daredevil)

- Matt hears it before he sees it—the way you hiss through your teeth when you smack your shin against the table, the sharp inhale when you stub your toe against the doorframe. He tilts his head, amusement curling at the edge of his lips. “Again?” he asks, voice laced with something dangerously close to fondness.

- He doesn’t need sight to know where the bruises bloom. He traces them with careful fingers, mapping your pain like he’s reading scripture. His touch is featherlight, reverent. “You keep this up, I’m gonna start thinking the furniture has a vendetta against you,” he murmurs, lips grazing over each sore spot in silent absolution.

- He tries not to be overbearing, but he’s always listening, always attuned to the way your heartbeat stutters when you nearly fall. His reflexes are faster than yours will ever be—so when you trip, his arms are already there, catching you with effortless ease. “You’ve got to stop tempting gravity,” he teases, even as he steadies you against his chest.

- But there’s a weight to his concern, something deeper than amusement. He’s spent too much of his life in pain, too much time enduring wounds that never quite healed right. He doesn’t want that for you. So he starts reaching for you more, keeping you close, a hand resting at the small of your back whenever you walk together, his grip firm when he senses the inevitable stumble.

- And at night, when you’re curled against him, he skims his fingers over your skin, cataloging every mark, every faint ache. “You take too many hits,” he murmurs, voice thick with something unspoken. You laugh softly, pressing your face into the crook of his neck. “So do you.” He huffs out a breath, pulling you impossibly closer. “Guess that makes two of us.”

Frank Castle (Punisher)

- Frank notices everything. The first time he sees you flinch after knocking into a table, he frowns. The first time he spots a fresh bruise blooming across your arm, his jaw tightens. His first instinct—always, always—is violence. “Who did that?” he demands, voice low, dangerous. And when you tell him it was just a doorframe, just another misstep, he exhales hard, dragging a hand down his face. “Jesus Christ, sweetheart.”

- He’s not soft, not in the way other men might be. He doesn’t coo over your bruises, doesn’t pepper you with gentle reassurances. But he is there, solid and unwavering. If you trip, his hands are on you before you hit the ground. If you stumble, he pulls you upright with an exasperated sigh. “Gonna wrap you in goddamn bubble wrap,” he mutters, shaking his head.

- He doesn’t say it outright, but his actions betray him. He starts clearing the apartment, making sure nothing sharp or precarious is within your usual walking path. He makes you wear his jacket when it’s cold, grumbling about how “it’ll keep you warm” but really thinking about how it might cushion the inevitable next fall.

- When you come home with fresh bruises, he just exhales sharply, shaking his head. “C’mere,” he mutters, dragging you onto the couch. He’s rough around the edges, but his hands are steady as he presses an ice pack against your shin, his thumb tracing absent patterns against your knee. He doesn’t say much, just sits there with you, brows furrowed, jaw tight. You know he’s thinking about how much he hates this—how much he hates seeing you hurt, even in the smallest ways.

- At night, when the world is quiet and his guard is finally down, he pulls you into him, tucking you beneath his chin. His arms are heavy, unyielding, caging you against the steady rhythm of his heartbeat. “Gotta stop gettin’ hurt,” he mutters, voice gruff, tired. You smile against his skin, pressing a kiss to his collarbone. “Guess that means you’ll just have to keep catching me.” And Frank—haunted, weary, unbreakable—only holds you tighter.

Bullseye (Lester)

- Bullseye watches you trip over your own feet like it’s the greatest tragedy he’s ever witnessed. “You’re kidding me, right?” he drawls, arms crossed, head tilted. “That was a flat surface.” He doesn’t get it—how someone can be so inherently uncoordinated, so effortlessly doomed to collide with the world. He was born to hit every mark, to never miss, to control his body like it’s an extension of his will. And you? You can’t even walk across a room without making it a goddamn spectacle.

- He teases you relentlessly. “You’re gonna give me an aneurysm,” he mutters as you walk straight into the edge of a table, recoiling with a hiss. He crouches in front of you, fingers lazily tilting your chin up so he can inspect the damage. A bruise is already forming, shadowing your delicate skin, and for a brief second—just a flicker—something darkens in his gaze. He brushes his thumb over the mark, contemplative, before grinning. “Y’know, most people get bruises from fights. You? You look like you went ten rounds with a door and lost.”

- But the thing is, Bullseye doesn’t like seeing you hurt—not like this. He’s a man who thrives on violence, who carves his love in blood and broken bodies, but this? This is just the world battering you around, and it pisses him off. He starts standing closer, walking behind you with a hand hovering at your back, catching you before you can even process that you’re falling. He makes a show of rolling his eyes every time, but his grip is firm, his hands steady. “You should not be this much work,” he grumbles, right before setting you back on your feet like it’s nothing.

- The first time you cut yourself on something mundane—a knife, the sharp edge of a cabinet—he reacts badly. His jaw clenches, his hands flex, and for a second, you think he might kill the inanimate object responsible. “Okay, that’s it,” he mutters, dragging you to sit down. He cleans the wound with the kind of skill that suggests he’s done this a thousand times before (he has, just not for someone he cares about). He presses a bandage over your skin, shaking his head. “You’re a menace, babe. An absolute disaster.”

- At night, when he thinks you’re asleep, his fingers trace over every bruise, every scrape, cataloging them like they’re personal offenses. His body is a weapon, built for precision, and here you are—this thing he doesn’t quite know how to protect. He scowls in the dark, arms tightening around you. The world doesn’t get to hurt what’s his. If it does? Well. He might just have to start fighting gravity itself.

Marc Spector (Moon Knight)

- Marc watches you trip over your own feet with a kind of exhausted patience. “Again?” he sighs as you collide with yet another piece of furniture. He doesn’t get mad, doesn’t tease—he just pinches the bridge of his nose like a man trying very hard to accept the absurdity of his reality. “You’re a walking hazard.” But his hands are already on you, steadying, checking, making sure you’re not hurt.

- He starts anticipating your disasters before they happen. A shift in your balance, a misstep, a doorframe you will forget to account for—he’s already moving before you even realize you’re about to fall. His reflexes are freakishly fast, and it’s almost irritating how easily he catches you, setting you back on your feet like nothing happened. “You doin’ this on purpose?” he mutters, tilting his head. “Tryin’ to give me a heart attack?”

- When you come home with fresh bruises, Marc doesn’t say anything at first. He just looks at you—eyes dark, expression unreadable. Then, quietly, he sits you down and rolls up your sleeves, brushing his fingers over the marks like he’s trying to commit them to memory. He’s a man who knows pain, who lives in it, and something about seeing it on you makes his chest go tight. “You gotta be more careful,” he murmurs, voice low, almost pleading.

- He starts carrying first-aid supplies specifically for you. “It’s not paranoia,” he insists as he bandages a fresh scrape on your elbow. “It’s preparedness.” He takes care of you with the same clinical efficiency he applies to himself—focused, practiced, no wasted movements. But there’s a softness in the way his hands linger, the way he cups your face afterward, pressing his lips to your forehead like he’s trying to will the world into being gentler with you.

- And at night, when his demons creep in, when sleep is a thing that eludes him, he watches over you. His fingers brush over every bruise, every cut, and he exhales sharply, wrapping himself around you like a shield. “You’re not allowed to get hurt,” he mutters against your hair. “Not on my watch.” And even though you know it’s impossible—you are impossible—you let him hold you like he can keep you safe from everything. Even yourself.

Taskmaster (Tony Masters)

- Taskmaster watches you trip over nothing and just stares. “Are you—” He gestures vaguely at you, expression unreadable behind his mask. “Do you want to be a liability?” His whole thing is mastering movement, precision, efficiency—and you? You are chaos incarnate. A living, breathing contradiction to everything he stands for. It offends him on a fundamental level.

- He makes it his mission to “fix” you. Not because he’s particularly sentimental—just because he cannot handle watching you get defeated by furniture on a daily basis. “Alright, sweetheart,” he drawls, arms crossed. “Time for some goddamn coordination training.” And you try, you really do, but it turns out even Taskmaster can’t overwrite whatever curse makes you a constant disaster. He watches you attempt a basic balance drill, sees you immediately wipe out, and just rubs his temples. “Hopeless. You’re hopeless.”

- But despite his endless frustration, he starts catching you without even thinking about it. His body reacts before his brain does—an automatic reflex, like blocking a punch. One second you’re mid-fall, the next you’re in his arms, blinking up at him. He doesn’t say anything, just sets you down and shakes his head. “You owe me,” he mutters, but the way his hands linger at your waist suggests he doesn’t actually mind.

- The first time he sees a particularly nasty bruise along your ribs, something shifts. He’s seen all kinds of injuries—inflicted most of them himself—but something about seeing you marked up like this makes his fingers twitch. He drags his gloved hand over the darkened skin, tilting his head. “You let the world beat you up, huh?” His voice is softer than usual, something contemplative curling at the edges. Then, with a click of his tongue, he straightens. “Guess I better even the odds.”

- And he does. Aggressively. If the world insists on bruising you, he insists on teaching you how to hit back. He drags you into training, makes you learn something—if only so he can stop watching you lose to stationary objects. But at night, when you’re curled against him, he traces every bruise, every cut, his grip possessive. “You’re a goddamn hazard,” he mutters, pressing his forehead against yours. And you, smiling, whisper, “Yeah, but I’m your hazard.”

Johnny Storm (Human Torch)

- Johnny finds your clumsiness hilarious. The first time he sees you trip over absolutely nothing, he has to physically restrain himself from bursting into laughter. “Babe, was that—was that the air?” He leans against the nearest wall, clutching his stomach. “Did the air just take you out?” But beneath the amusement, there’s a flicker of concern—because you don’t just stumble; you collide with the world, leaving a trail of bruises like constellations across your skin.

- He teases, but he watches. The moment you lose your balance, he’s there, faster than reflex should allow, catching you with an arm around your waist. “Whoa, easy there, graceful,” he murmurs, voice somewhere between exasperation and affection. He holds you longer than necessary, fingers splayed over your back, and for a moment, the world stills. Then he grins. “Y’know, I think you just fake this so I have to keep holding you.”

- When you come home with fresh bruises, his reaction is always the same—dramatic outrage. “Oh my God, babe. Did someone attack you?” He gasps, placing a hand over his chest in mock horror. Then his eyes narrow. “Was it the doorframe? The table corner?” He shakes his head, feigning deep betrayal. “I knew they were out to get you.” But behind the theatrics, he’s already pulling you into his lap, pressing warm hands over your sore limbs, his heat radiating through your skin like a living balm.

- He insists on carrying you at the most ridiculous times. “No, no, I refuse to let you go into battle against gravity again.” And by ‘battle,’ he means walking through a perfectly normal room. He swoops you up, laughing as you protest, his arms far too strong for someone who acts like an overgrown child. “Babe, let’s be real. This is for your safety.” He winks. “And because I like showing off.”

- At night, when the fire dims and it’s just the two of you tangled together, he traces over every bruise with careful fingers. He doesn’t joke then. He just exhales softly, pressing a kiss to your shoulder, your wrist, the softest parts of you. “You gotta be careful,” he murmurs, voice barely above a whisper. And when you hum sleepily, he tightens his hold. “Not kidding this time, babe. Just… don’t break yourself, alright?”

Reed Richards (Mister Fantastic)

- Reed observes your clumsiness with scientific fascination. The first time he sees you walk directly into a doorway, he pauses, fingers tapping against his chin. “Hmm.” His brows furrow as he watches you rub your arm, wincing. “This is a pattern.” And just like that, you’ve become an experiment.

- He analyzes you. It starts subtly—adjusting the furniture so there’s more space between sharp edges, rerouting the lab’s layout so you’re less likely to trip over stray equipment. But soon, he’s measuring things, taking notes, muttering things like, “Your peripheral awareness seems statistically lower than average—fascinating.” He tries to be helpful, really. He even attempts to create a stabilization suit—something sleek, futuristic, designed to predict and correct your missteps. It… does not go well. (You trip anyway, and now the suit is mildly offended.)

- When you inevitably come home with bruises, Reed is deeply troubled. He gently takes your wrist, rotating it carefully as he examines the latest damage. “Your body is too delicate for this frequency of injury,” he murmurs, more to himself than to you. His mind is already racing, calculations spinning behind his sharp eyes. But then he exhales, carefully brushing his thumb over your knuckles. “Perhaps a different approach.” The next day, there’s a custom-designed, ultra-soft padding system discreetly woven into your daily outfits.

- He isn’t always the most physically affectionate, but when you stumble, his body reacts before his mind does. His limbs stretch, elongating with effortless precision, catching you before you even realize you’re falling. “I anticipated that,” he says simply, setting you back on your feet. He doesn’t tease, doesn’t scold—just accepts your clumsiness as another variable in his universe. And when you raise an eyebrow, he merely shrugs. “I prefer solutions over criticism.”

- At night, when you curl into him, he allows himself a rare moment of softness. His hands, always so deft and purposeful, trace absent patterns against your skin, lingering over each bruise. “I wish I could prevent every injury,” he murmurs, voice quiet in the dim light. You smile against his chest, pressing a kiss to his collarbone. “I’d still find a way to trip.” He huffs a quiet laugh, tucking you closer. “Then I suppose I’ll just have to keep catching you.”

Ben Grimm (The Thing)

- Ben sees you trip over absolutely nothing for the third time in a single day, and his immediate reaction is a mix of exasperation and concern. “Aw, c’mon, sweetheart, you got somethin’ against stayin’ on yer feet?” he grumbles, folding his massive arms as you rub your latest bruise. But the second he catches the way you wince, his voice softens, and he sighs. “Lemme see.” His hands are big, rough like weathered stone, but impossibly gentle as he inspects your skin. “Yer like a walkin’ accident waiting to happen, ain’t ya?” It’s not judgment—it’s worry.

- He’s the only person in the world who doesn’t flinch when you crash into him. You could be falling at full speed, and all that happens is you bounce harmlessly off his broad chest. “See? That’s why ya gotta stick by me, doll,” he teases, catching you before you can hit the floor. “Nothin’ knocks this over.” But there’s something else in the way he holds you close, something fiercely protective. If the world insists on beating you up, then fine. Ben’ll just make sure he’s there to take the hit instead.

- He starts keeping a mental tally of your injuries, gruffly scolding you whenever a new one appears. “Yer gonna make me gray before my time,” he mutters, shaking his head as he wraps your wrist with surprising delicacy. But despite the grumbling, he never complains when you come to him for help, never denies you the warmth of his careful hands. And if you rest against his side afterward, your body pressed to the indestructible wall of him, he won’t say a word about how long you linger there.

- He adapts to you in ways he never outright acknowledges. Moves furniture just a little out of your way, catches things before they can topple over when you inevitably bump into them, subtly places himself between you and whatever hazard might cross your path. “Dunno how ya made it this far without me,” he says, grinning. “Guess that makes me yer personal bodyguard, huh?” But the truth is, it scares him sometimes—how fragile you are. How easily you bruise. How the world isn’t made to be kind to people like you.

- Late at night, when you curl against him in the quiet, he traces his fingers over the faint marks on your skin, his touch achingly gentle. “Y’know,” he murmurs, “for someone so soft, ya sure take a beatin’.” There’s something heavy in his voice, something unsaid. I wish the world didn’t hurt you like this. I wish I could keep you safe. But he doesn’t say it out loud. Instead, he just holds you tighter, as if that alone could be enough. And maybe, just maybe, it is.

Susan Storm (Invisible Woman)

- Susan is used to being the responsible one, the caretaker, the steady force amidst chaos. But even she isn’t prepared for just how accident-prone you are. “Sweetheart, again?” she sighs as you stumble for the fifth time that day. She moves faster than thought, catching you with an invisible force before you can even hit the ground. “At this rate, I’m going to have to wrap you in a force field just to keep you intact.” There’s a teasing lilt to her voice, but the concern beneath it is very real.

- She starts using her powers instinctively around you. A glass about to slip from your hands? Caught. A misplaced step sending you toward disaster? Redirected. A force field cushions you from the sharp edge of a counter before you even realize you were about to walk into it. “You don’t even notice you’re doing it,” Johnny teases her one day, watching as she effortlessly prevents you from tripping again. Susan just huffs, crossing her arms. “Well, someone has to keep her in one piece.”

- She doesn’t scold you for your clumsiness. She doesn’t make you feel less because of it. Instead, she watches, learns, and then rearranges the world around you, subtly shifting things to make your life just a little easier. It’s a quiet kind of care, the kind that manifests in softened corners, restructured pathways, and the ever-present, unseen embrace of her protective fields. She won’t stop you from moving through the world the way you do, but she will make sure it doesn’t hurt you as much.

- When she heals your bruises with careful hands, her fingers linger against your skin, her expression unreadable. “You’re so delicate,” she murmurs, almost to herself. “I forget, sometimes, how easily people can break.” There’s something fragile in the way she looks at you then, something she rarely allows herself to show. “You’re lucky I love you,” she finally says, voice lighter, pressing a kiss to your temple. “Because otherwise, I’d have to start charging you for all this medical attention.”

- But there are nights when she lets her guard down, when she pulls you into her arms and whispers against your hair, “You have to be careful, okay? For me.” It’s the closest she’ll come to admitting how much it scares her—how the thought of losing you, of not being there the one time she’s needed, terrifies her. She’s lost too much already. She refuses to lose you.

Felicia Hardy (Black Cat)

- Felicia thinks your clumsiness is adorable. And hilarious. “Oh, kitten, you poor thing,” she coos, watching as you walk directly into the edge of a table. “The universe really isn’t on your side, huh?” But even as she teases, she’s already moving, already guiding you to sit so she can inspect your latest injury. “Tsk, tsk. What would you do without me?”

- She starts calling you her bad luck charm, but with the kind of affection that lingers like a purr in her voice. “See, it’s perfect,” she says one evening, lazily draping herself over you. “I bring the bad luck to everyone else, and you bring it to yourself.” She grins, tapping your nose. “We’re a match made in chaos.”

- But beneath the teasing, she’s hyper-aware of how easily you get hurt. The first time she sees someone shove past you carelessly on the street, causing you to stumble hard against the pavement, her entire demeanor shifts. “Oh, sweetheart,” she murmurs, brushing off your scraped palms. And then, with a smile so sharp it cuts—“Excuse me a sec, love. I’ve got some business to handle.” She returns a moment later, looking satisfied, and you don’t ask why the guy is now desperately patting his pockets for a missing wallet.

- Felicia is grace incarnate, the exact opposite of you in every way. And yet, she doesn’t mind being the one to catch you. Doesn’t mind slipping an arm around your waist as you both walk, keeping you steady without making a big deal of it. Doesn’t mind the way you instinctively grip her when you know you’re about to trip. “Mmm, I like it when you hold onto me,” she muses. “Should I start pushing you more often?”

- One night, as you curl against her, she traces a slow finger over the faint marks dotting your skin. “You bruise so easily,” she murmurs, her usual playfulness absent. “The world must love marking you up, hmm?” Her voice dips, something dark curling in her tone. “I don’t share what’s mine, you know.” She presses a kiss just below one particularly dark bruise, her lips lingering. “Next time something wants to hurt you, it’s going to have to go through me first.”

Stephen Strange (Doctor Strange)

- Stephen watches you knock over a stack of books and sighs like a man who has witnessed a lifetime of disappointment. “By the Vishanti,” he mutters, rubbing his temples. “You are utterly hopeless.” But there’s something in the way he steps forward, fingers already reaching for your wrist, steadying you with the effortless grace of someone who bends reality itself to his will.

- He doesn’t waste time with teasing—he just starts fixing. He places wards around the Sanctum, subtle protections that nudge objects away from you before you can collide with them. He enchants the stairs so they refuse to let you trip, much to your annoyance. “It’s undignified,” you argue. “It’s necessary,” he counters, arms crossed. “If I wanted to spend my days healing bruises, I’d return to mundane medicine.” But despite his grumbling, he still traces careful sigils over your skin, murmuring spells that ease the aches from your body.

- When you stumble in his presence, he doesn’t catch you, per se—he merely redirects reality so you never truly fall. One moment you’re tilting dangerously, the next, space itself shifts, leaving you upright, untouched. He raises an eyebrow, smug. “You’re welcome.” You groan. “That’s cheating.” He smirks, tucking his hands into his robes. “No, that’s adapting.”

- But sometimes, magic isn’t enough. Sometimes, you come home with new bruises, fresh scrapes, evidence that the world has been unkind despite all his efforts. His jaw tightens as he kneels beside you, pressing cool fingertips against your injuries, golden light shimmering between his hands. He doesn’t speak, just concentrates, the tension in his shoulders betraying more than he’d ever say aloud. “You are a force of nature,” he mutters finally, exasperated. “A clumsy force of nature.”

- And yet, despite all his frustration, all his complaints, it is his cloak that wraps around you when you’re tired, his magic that cushions your steps, his hands that linger, tracing soft patterns against your skin long after the bruises have faded. At night, when you murmur sleepily about how he’s overprotective, he only pulls you closer, voice quiet against your ear. “Someone has to be.”

Johnny Blaze (Ghost Rider)

Namor

- Namor watches you as one might observe an impending shipwreck—equal parts fascination and inevitability. “You are…” he begins, pausing as you trip over absolutely nothing and barely catch yourself against the nearest surface. He exhales sharply, pinching the bridge of his nose. “…a disaster.” But there is something almost fond in the way he says it, as though he has already accepted your fate as an unstoppable force of chaos.

- It does not take long for him to forbid you from walking unassisted near the palace’s more perilous edges. “You are fragile,” he declares, tone imperious, brooking no argument. “And you will not test the patience of the sea.” You scoff, rolling your eyes, but he merely crosses his arms, unimpressed. “You think me overprotective? I think you underestimate your own recklessness.”

- When you return to him with yet another bruise blooming across your skin, he does not scold you. He does not chastise. Instead, he looks at you for a long moment, something dangerous and unreadable flickering in the depths of his eyes. And then, with a sigh that sounds suspiciously like surrender, he scoops you into his arms and strides toward the ocean. “What—? Namor!” you protest, but he does not stop. “If the land insists on bruising you,” he says, wading into the waves, “then perhaps you should take refuge where it cannot reach you.”

- The water cradles you as he holds you close, the salt healing, the sea itself shifting to accommodate you. “The ocean does not break so easily,” he murmurs against your temple, his breath warm against your skin. “Perhaps you should learn from her.” And yet, for all his talk of resilience, his hands remain gentle, steadying you as though even he fears how easily you might slip through his fingers.

- There is a moment, quiet and rare, when he traces a fading bruise along your arm with something like reverence. “The land does not deserve you,” he mutters. “It does not know what it has.” And then, softer, almost to himself—“Perhaps I should steal you away.” It is not a threat. It is not a promise. It is simply the thought of a king who does not share his treasures with the undeserving world.

- Johnny has seen pain. He’s seen bodies burn and souls wither, seen the way suffering etches itself into people like a brand. But you—you bruise like a peach, delicate and fleeting, and it makes something in him twist in a way he doesn’t know how to name. He watches you trip, watches you collide with the world, and it’s not the pain that unsettles him—it’s how easily you laugh about it, how you wave it off like it’s nothing. Like you don’t realize how breakable you are.

- “Babe,” he drawls, lifting your wrist, examining the fresh bloom of purple beneath your skin. His fingers are calloused, rough in a way that should be too much, but his touch is gentle. Reverent, even. “You ever think about not throwing yourself at death every other hour?” He says it lightly, but his eyes flicker with something else, something darker. Something that says he knows exactly how fragile life is. And it scares him.

- The first time you fall in front of him, he doesn’t catch you—he doesn’t have the reflexes of a hero, doesn’t have the instinct to soften the world. He’s used to destruction, to things breaking permanently. But he does something else. His hands light up instinctively, flames flickering in his palms, and for the first time, heat wraps around you instead of cold, buffering your impact. “That was new,” he mutters as he helps you up, eyes still glowing faintly. “Guess my body decided I have to keep you intact.”

- He gets angry—not at you, never at you, but at whatever unseen force keeps sending you stumbling into harm’s way. “It’s like you attract pain,” he growls after yet another scrape, another bruise, his fingers flexing with barely restrained frustration. He doesn’t do helplessness well. So instead, he teaches you how to land right, how to fall without it hurting so damn much. “You’re not gonna stop running into things,” he says, resigned. “So at least learn how to hit the ground better.”

- At night, when the fire is low and the world is quiet, he traces the places where pain has kissed you. His hands, so often clenched into fists, smooth over your skin with something close to reverence. “You gotta be more careful,” he murmurs against your hair, voice softer than he’d ever admit in daylight. You hum, half-asleep, and he exhales, pressing a lingering kiss to your temple. “I already got enough ghosts,” he whispers. “Don’t make me add you to ‘em.”

Eddie Brock / Venom

- The first time Venom notices your clumsiness, it hates it. “SHE IS DELICATE,” the symbiote snarls, its voice a guttural growl in Eddie’s head. “SHE FALLS LIKE A DYING ANIMAL.” Eddie sighs, rubbing his temples. “Yeah, bud, I see that.” But when you trip for the third time that day, Venom is offended. It doesn’t understand why you keep hurting yourself. “UNACCEPTABLE,” it hisses. And just like that, you have an overprotective alien bodyguard.

- Eddie, for his part, is torn between amusement and exasperation. “Babe,” he says, guiding you away from the eighth table corner you’ve hit that week. “How do you function?” But the teasing doesn’t last long, not when he sees the bruises, the little winces you try to hide. That’s when the humor fades, replaced by something else. Something possessive. “You’re ours,” Venom growls one night, curling around you like living armor. “We do not let what is ours get hurt.”

- Venom actively prevents you from getting injured. When you stumble, inky tendrils lash out, steadying you before you can hit the ground. When you reach for something sharp, something dangerous, the symbiote moves it, shifting reality around you to keep you safe. It gets frustrated when you still manage to find ways to get hurt. “SHE DEFIES LOGIC,” it complains. “SHE SEEKS OUT DESTRUCTION.” Eddie sighs. “Buddy, she’s just clumsy.”

- Eddie pretends to be indifferent, but you know him. You see the way his jaw clenches when he notices new bruises, the way his fingers flex like he wants to fight whatever inanimate object wronged you. “I know it’s not a person,” he mutters, rubbing a hand down his face. “Doesn’t mean I don’t wanna punch something.” Venom, unhelpfully, adds, “WE WILL KILL THE TABLE.” Eddie groans. “We’re not killing the table.”

- At night, when you curl against him, Venom wraps around you both, a cocoon of inky black warmth. Eddie traces absent patterns over your skin, his fingers ghosting over bruises with something close to reverence. “Y’know,” he murmurs, pressing his lips to your forehead. “For someone so damn fragile, you sure take a beating.” You hum sleepily, and Venom purrs around you, protective and possessive and endlessly devoted. “OURS,” it whispers. And you know, without a doubt, that it will never let you fall alone.

Muse

T’Challa (Black Panther)

- T’Challa moves like poetry, every step precise, every motion purposeful. He does not stumble, does not falter, does not yield to anything less than absolute control. And then there is you—soft, chaotic, forever colliding with the world like a wayward star. He watches, fascinated and exasperated in equal measure, as you misjudge a doorway again and clip your shoulder against the frame. He sighs, closing the book in his hands. “My love,” he says, voice smooth as still water, “are you at war with inanimate objects? Or do you simply enjoy losing to them?”

- He does not laugh at your clumsiness, though a smile often tugs at his lips when you fumble gracelessly into his arms. “Mm,” he muses, catching you effortlessly. “How convenient. It seems I am your refuge, once more.” There is amusement in his voice, but also something warmer—something indulgent, something fond. He does not need you to be perfect. He only needs you to be his.

- Wakanda’s technology adapts to you with quiet precision. Furniture shifts subtly out of your path. Doors widen at just the right moment. The palace corridors, once an intricate maze of sharp corners and regal opulence, now seem to flow around you like a river carving space through stone. “You think me excessive,” he remarks one evening, tracing a careful finger over the fresh bruise on your knee. “But I am a king, beloved. And it is my duty to protect what is mine.”

- When the bruises come, he treats them with reverence, his hands steady as he applies a salve crafted just for you. “Vibranium enhances healing,” he explains, voice low, rich, soothing. “It will lessen the ache.” But there is something in the way he lingers, something in the way his fingers glide over each mark, that betrays the deeper truth—he hates to see you hurt, even in the smallest of ways. He would raze nations for you, but against your own wayward steps, he is powerless. It frustrates him more than he will ever admit.

- And yet, late at night, when the weight of his kingdom is too much to bear, he finds solace in your presence. Finds peace in the way you curl against him, careless in your softness, in your ease, in your unrelenting humanness. “You are chaos,” he murmurs against your hair, amused and reverent all at once. “And yet, somehow, you bring me peace.”

Elektra Natchios

- Elektra is grace incarnate, a blade honed to perfection, a whisper of red silk against the dark. And then there is you, a creature of unintended violence, of misplaced steps and unintentional collisions. The first time she watches you walk directly into the corner of a table, she merely tilts her head, expression unreadable. “You are… fascinating,” she says at last, watching as you rub your arm with a wince. “And utterly defenseless.”

- She does not understand it at first—the way you allow the world to hurt you, as though you have no instinct for self-preservation. “Your body is a temple,” she tells you one evening, fingers ghosting over the constellation of bruises scattered across your skin. “Why do you let it be desecrated so carelessly?” But there is no judgment in her voice. Only curiosity. Only something sharp and knowing, something that feels dangerously close to care.

- She starts moving differently around you. Not obviously—not the way lesser people might—but in ways that matter. A hand at your lower back, subtly guiding. A sudden shift in position, intercepting your path before disaster can strike. A flick of her wrist that sends a stray object skidding out of your way before you can trip over it. You never see her do it. You only feel the absence of pain, the absence of disaster, and the silent weight of her gaze as she watches you, always watching.

- “Your luck is remarkable,” she muses one evening, twirling a dagger between deft fingers. “That you have made it this far, untouched by the world’s cruelties.” Her voice is unreadable, but her eyes are not. There is something dark in them, something possessive. As though she alone is allowed to mark you. As though the world itself has no right to harm what she has claimed.

- She never says the words, never softens in the ways you might expect, but when she pulls you into her lap, when she traces absent patterns over your skin, when she presses her lips to each fading bruise as though sealing them away—that is her devotion. She is a creature of war, but for you, she will be a shield.

- Muse finds your clumsiness beautiful. He doesn’t see accidents; he sees art. The way you stumble, the way your body meets the world with reckless abandon—it’s a performance, a dance only he can truly appreciate. “Fascinating,” he murmurs after you trip, his eerie, empty eyes drinking in the sight. “Such graceful destruction.”

- He paints your bruises. Not with actual paint—no, he uses his hands, his mouth, his presence. He traces the purple stains blooming beneath your skin, committing them to memory, adoring them. “A masterpiece in flesh,” he whispers, pressing his lips against a particularly dark bruise. “You walk through life like a canvas left to the mercy of the world.” There is no pity in him, only reverence.

- He doesn’t stop you from getting hurt. Why would he? Pain is an artist’s language, and you—you are his magnum opus. He watches as you collide with existence, as you collect the evidence of your mortality, and he loves it. “Every mark tells a story,” he muses, his fingers ghosting over your skin. “A testimony of movement. Of impact.” He smiles, sharp and unhinged. “Of life.”

- But for all his fixation, he is not indifferent. No, when you truly hurt yourself, when you cry out—something in him snaps. The world shifts, reality bending to the will of a mind unmoored. “No,” he breathes, his voice lilting, distant. “No, no, no. This is wrong.” And suddenly, the thing that harmed you—be it a person, an object, the air itself—becomes a target. He erases it. Obliterates it from existence. And then he turns to you, tilting his head. “I prefer when the world marks you softly,” he murmurs. “Only I am allowed to make you truly suffer.”

- At night, he watches you sleep, eyes unblinking, hands still moving, still creating. He maps out every bruise, every scrape, carving them into his mind like sacred scripture. And as you breathe, as you rest in the arms of something not quite human, he leans down, whispering against your skin. “You are a masterpiece in motion,” he murmurs. “And I will watch you fall until the end of time.”

Victor von Doom (Dr. Doom)

- Doom does not tolerate weakness, nor does he suffer foolishness. And yet, you—his beloved—possess both in abundance, an infuriating contradiction wrapped in beauty. He watches as you stumble through his castle halls, colliding with ancient Latverian artifacts, knocking over things that should not be knocked over. “Again?” he drawls, arms crossed, as you nurse yet another bruise. “Must I encase you in armor simply to keep you upright?” The remark is laced with exasperation, but the way his gloved hand lingers against your injured skin betrays something deeper.

- The first time you fall in his presence, Doom does not reach for you. He is not one to coddle. But his magic moves before he can think, catching you mid-collapse, suspending you in the air like a marionette in invisible strings. “Hmph,” he muses, as if analyzing a puzzle. “A clumsy creature, yet I cannot abide the thought of you damaged.” And just like that, you are lowered to the ground, untouched by harm. His voice is softer then, begrudgingly so. “Try not to make this a habit.”

- Doom solves problems, and your perpetual clumsiness is one he refuses to leave unchecked. You wake one morning to find your world altered—corners of tables dulled, Latverian marble floors softened ever so slightly, even the air shifting subtly to break your falls before you hit the ground. You glance at him, suspicion blooming. “Victor,” you say slowly, “did you…modify reality to childproof the castle?” He doesn’t look up from his work, but his lips curl into something smug. “Doom merely enhances what is flawed.”

- He lectures you whenever he finds new bruises. “Do you have no spatial awareness? No sense of self-preservation?” His hands, clad in cold metal, trace the injuries with something dangerously close to tenderness. “You walk through the world as if you are untouchable.” He pauses, voice lowering to something unreadable. “But you are touchable. And that…is unacceptable.” You don’t need to ask what he means. Doom does not lose what is his.

- At night, when the world is quiet and his mask is cast aside, his fingers brush over the marks on your skin. No one else is permitted to witness this: the way his jaw tightens, the way his touch gentles. “Latveria’s queen,” he murmurs, barely audible, “should not bear wounds from her own foolishness.” He exhales sharply, pressing his lips against your temple. “I will not allow the world to hurt you.” A pause. “Not even yourself.”

Peter Quill (Star-Lord)

- Peter finds your clumsiness adorable. Where Doom sees a problem to be solved, Peter sees endless entertainment. “Babe, you’re like…a baby deer,” he laughs as you trip over absolutely nothing on the Milano’s deck. “Like, you got the vibes of someone graceful, but your body just betrays you.” He catches you before you hit the ground, grinning as he holds you close. “Lucky for you, you got me. I’m like your personal superhero and your crash pad.”

- The problem is, Peter is also kind of clumsy. Which means, sometimes, instead of catching you, he also trips, sending you both sprawling in a tangled heap. “Okay, that one was not my fault,” he insists, flat on his back. “We’re just, like, cosmically doomed to fall together.” He wiggles his eyebrows. “Metaphor for love?” You groan, swatting at him, and he only laughs.

- He starts keeping a running tally of your bruises. “Alright, babe, let’s see—knee from the control panel, elbow from Gamora’s sword rack, forehead from the freakin’ doorframe—” He clicks his tongue. “We’re gonna run outta room soon.” But despite the teasing, his hands are always so gentle when he checks you over, his usual playfulness softening into something warmer. “Y’know,” he murmurs, tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear, “maybe the universe keeps knockin’ you around ‘cause it knows I’ll always be here to catch you.”

- The other Guardians get involved. Rocket builds you a helmet (“Ya clearly need it, sweetheart”), while Drax solemnly declares that he will “eliminate” any object that dares to harm you. “That is…not necessary,” you assure him as he glares at a particularly sharp table corner. Peter just beams. “See, babe? You got a whole crew of bodyguards. Ain’t that nice?”

- Late at night, when the others are asleep and the stars stretch endlessly beyond the ship’s windows, he pulls you into his lap, fingers tracing absent patterns over the bruises on your arms. “You ever notice,” he murmurs, “how you bruise kinda pretty?” You huff against his shoulder. “That shouldn’t be a compliment.” But he just kisses the top of your head, voice softer than usual. “Still is.” And when he whispers, “Don’t go breaking yourself too bad, okay? I kinda like you in one piece,” it’s almost too quiet for you to hear. Almost.

Nova (Richard Rider)

- Nova is alarmed by how often you get hurt. He doesn’t understand how someone can be so beautiful yet so accident-prone. “Babe, you literally survived intergalactic wars with me,” he says, exasperated, “and yet a coffee table is your worst enemy?” You pout. “It came out of nowhere.” He pinches the bridge of his nose. “It’s been in the same place forever.”

- He starts using his helmet’s sensors to track your movement. If you so much as stumble, he’s there, catching you before you can even process the fall. “I got, like, cosmic-level reflexes, babe,” he brags, grinning. “You are officially under Nova Corps protection.” You squint at him. “Did you really just use space cop powers to stop me from tripping?” He smirks. “And I’d do it again.”

- But beneath the teasing, there’s worry. He’s lost too much—friends, home, whole planets—and every little bruise on you is another reminder of how easily things can be taken. “I know it’s dumb,” he admits one night, rubbing at the back of his neck, “but every time I see you hurt, even just a little, it just—it freaks me out, okay?” He sighs, pulling you into his arms, holding you tight. “I don’t wanna lose one more thing I love.”

- He doesn’t try to fix you. He doesn’t wrap you in cosmic energy or change the world around you. He just adapts. He positions himself at your side when you walk, places a steadying hand at the small of your back, moves things subtly out of your way before you can even reach them. He doesn’t make you notice. He just…does it. Because loving you means protecting you, even from yourself.

- “Y’know,” he murmurs as you both float above the atmosphere, weightless, surrounded by stars, “you can’t trip in zero gravity.” You smile, pressing a hand to his chest. “Maybe we should just stay up here forever, then.” He chuckles, tilting his forehead against yours. “Tempting,” he whispers. “But, uh… I kinda like keeping my feet on the ground, if it means keeping you from falling.”

[laurfilijames]

Breathe

Part 6

Pairing: Will 'Ironhead' Miller x female reader

Words: 5.4K

Warnings: Rated E, 18+. Swearing. Unprotected intercourse. Oral sex (female receiving). ANGST. Oh the angst. Mentions of war and deployment.

Summary: Will starts to distance himself from you to the point of being unable to mend things and tension rises between the Miller brothers over his actions.

A/N: No notes. Just tears. GIF by the amazing and generous @mrs-hardy-hunnam-butler and beautiful banners by the loveliest and most supportive @spaghettificationandpretzels who also was my sounding board for my ideas and maniacal mood swings while writing this 💗💗

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5

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“What if I hurt her, Ben?”

“You won't.”

“If she was in that bed with me last night-”

“You won't.” Benny insisted, cutting Will off before he could continue, sending his older brother a concerned, but stern glance as he turned around after filling his mug with coffee.

Will sighed and looked down at his feet, clenching his teeth together as the same thoughts that hadn't left him since last night continued to occupy his mind.

“It was so real, man…”

“I can imagine!” Benny sympathized, his eyebrows raising on his forehead, silently assessing his brother who he'd only seen that distraught once or twice before. “But you're not going to hurt her. That,” he emphasized, referring to Will’s nightmare, “isn't going to happen.”

Will puffed out his cheeks as he exhaled again, looking out the kitchen window where the early morning sun was casting a yellow glow over the room, hoping Benny was right, but not feeling convinced.

“Are you seeing her today?”

Will pursed his lips and nodded, looking over at Benny who stared at him over the rim of his mug as he took a long sip, waiting for a proper response.

“Yeah, I'm going to her place tonight.”

Benny shook his head up and down as he swallowed his coffee, appearing pleased with that answer.

“Good, that's good. We’ll have a hard session at the gym and hopefully that'll help you sleep better, too.”

“Yeah, you're right. Thanks, man,” Will smiled, feeling slightly guilty that he knew he wasn't going to sleep or feel better about this anytime soon, watching Benny light up and start excitedly going on about their training after Will’s convincing lie.

After refilling his cup of coffee, Will pulled a chair out from the kitchen table and sat, staring blankly at the black beverage steaming in his mug, tuning out whatever else Benny was saying, the exhaustion he felt from not sleeping the rest of the night and the pure panic that hadn’t truly left his veins making his whole body feel like lead in the wooden seat.

He wondered exactly how he would even manage to get through a workout, but knew with his tour coming up he’d have to keep training, and as he was always used to doing, he would push through even the toughest days.

Will picked his phone up off the table, checking it again to see if you had text, wondering if he should send one now, or wait until a bit later, or if he should just call you and risk you hearing that something wasn’t right in the tone of his voice.

He tossed it carelessly, sighing as he picked up his mug and took a drink from it, setting it down and then grabbing his phone again, spinning it in his hand indecisively.

Will roughly rubbed his hands over his eyes after he parked his truck in your driveway, exhaling deeply before finding the strength to get out and walk to the door, his workout draining him even more than he already had been. It temporarily gave him hope that being that tired would result in him actually sleeping, but the feeling in his stomach reminded him how anxious he still felt about his nightmare and that it was something his mind wasn’t going to simply let him forget.

For a moment it was all whisked away, seeing your face as you opened the door before he even had the opportunity to knock, your smile immediately making one appear on his own lips.

“Hey!” you greeted enthusiastically, your presence bringing him some calm as soon as you wrapped your arms around his torso and hugged him.

Will placed his lips against your head, inhaling your scent and pressing a light kiss as he squeezed you back, the relief to have you in his arms mixing with the now persistent fear that he was capable of hurting you.

“How was your day?” you asked, peeling away from him slightly to look at him.

“Good,” he lied, nodding and hoping he didn’t look half as weary as he felt. “What about you?”

“It was good,” you smiled. “Better now.”

Will chuckled and followed you inside, kicking his boots off before following you further in and through to the living room.

“Are you hungry?”

“Hmm, no, I’m good, thanks.” Will declined, seeing a quizzical expression draw over your features.

“Okay…are you not staying the night?” you asked, finally noticing he came with just himself, no bag with a change of clothes or toothbrush.

“Uh, no…” he confirmed through a sigh, feeling guilty about it already. “I gotta be up early, something for work. It’s looking like I’m going to start getting back into things soon,” he lied, omitting the fact that he was already cleared and scheduled for duty in a matter of weeks.

You smiled despite feeling a slight sense of disappointment. “Well, I’m glad I get you for a little bit at least. How are you feeling about going back?”

Will shrugged. “It’ll be good to have a purpose again, maybe it’ll make things feel normal…get me back to being who I was before I was the guy who choked someone out in the cereal aisle.”

His heart ached at how you were looking at him as he spoke, your expression so genuine and clearly caring about him and how he felt, making that sourness in his stomach amplify from his dishonesty.

“Yeah, I think so, too,” you spoke softly, your eyes bright as the smile on your lips met them. “I’m really happy for you, Will. This is great news.”

You reached for his hands which he let you take hold of, pulling him in for a sweet, slow kiss that grew deeper and harder with each second, a sense of relief flooding Will over the fact that he didn’t have to explain more or evade the truth.

He focused on your kiss, breathing you in as your hands began to roam each other’s bodies and clumsily tore at clothing, stumbling toward your bedroom where he hoped that for as long as he was inside you, he would forget about everything.

It was all a mix of slow and fast, Will constantly reminding himself to relax and breathe, all of his emotions toiling within him uncontrollably.

As eager as he felt to have all of you as much as he could, Will wanted to take his time, soaking up each moment with you while he had the chance, every touch and kiss one that he tried to imprint in his memory.

Will sat on the bed, looking up at you as you stood close to him between his legs, his hands gently running up the backs of your thighs to your bum.

You sighed out slowly and closed your eyes, feeling his fingers find the edge of your panties and start to tug them down your hips, his lips landing on your bare stomach where he kissed you over and over.

He breathed in, keeping his nose and lips pressed against you, able to smell your arousal as he slipped your thong down to your knees before letting go where they fell the rest of the way to the floor.

Dragging his face along the crest of your hip bones and further down to your groin, Will moaned, his fingers indenting your flesh instinctively, feeling himself relax when your hands smoothed over his tense shoulders and back, your touch everything he needed right now.

He pulled you onto the bed with him as he laid down, both of you resting on your sides where your leg fell over his, his arms embracing you while your foreheads touched, his hand cupping your cheek to keep you close to him.

“Are you okay?” you whispered, sensing something from him you couldn’t quite put your finger on.

“Hmm, yeah,” he responded, moving his head so your noses rubbed together.

You gave a quick kiss to his lips, testing the waters, only to have him pull your face hard into his, his tongue delving into your mouth desperately, his claim over you clear as he released his hand from your face and grabbed under your bum, pulling your core against him where he ground his hips into yours.

With what little space there was between your bodies, you reached down and found his cock straining through the thin cotton of his boxers, grabbing it and tugging it free before angling it down to the apex of your thighs where it nestled perfectly between your folds and began to grind on him.

“God, you feel so good, sweetheart,” he groaned, hardly able to believe it felt that incredible without even being inside you yet.

You squirmed against him, moving along his length as you breathed out slowly and closed your eyes, your mouth teasing his before slotting your lips together again. His beard was soft on your skin, but you knew with how eager you were to keep kissing him that your face would feel raw by the time you were sated, the taste of him too good to stop.

Moments passed with you just like this, kissing and teasing, indulging in the soft and slow that you seldom did, usually unable to stop yourselves from choosing a rough and fast pace.

A long whine came from you as his tip breached your entrance, pushing through and settling no more than an inch inside, the tease of it almost equally as satisfying as if he was buried completely in you.

His hands grabbed at your ass, pulling your cheeks apart, the stretch feeling so good you automatically brought your hips closer to his body, making his cock go deeper while you increased the fervor of your kiss.

Will groaned into your mouth as he shifted his body, moving at lay on top of you where his weight pressed you comfortably into the mattress, lifting his hips so his cock slid out before slowing forcing it back in again.

His fingers raked over the sides of your head, holding you securely and angling your face up to his, his tongue exploring your mouth wildly as his thrusts grew into a deep, purposeful rhythm.

The thought of never being able to do this with you again crossed his mind, wondering what the outcome of telling you he was leaving would be and if he would even make it back alive, dreading what he knew he would have to face sooner rather than later.

Trying to ignore that panic, he relished in the way your hands smoothed over his back, your touch so soft yet so meaningful it helped make everything more profound, and he vowed to put everything he had into making love to you.

There had been so many times already he had wanted to say it, to tell you he loved you, because fuck did he ever, but now he knew he couldn’t, wanting to protect you from him even more and what he feared he was capable of.

Each rolling thrust was met perfectly by you, your hips purling into his to take him deep, allowing him to drag out slowly before pressing back in, the rhythm addicting and working to send you both over the edge.

Your bed moved against the wall as he put more power behind his pace, moaning and breathing into your mouth desperately as he lost himself completely in you, feeling your hand search for his where you laced your fingers together and held onto it tightly, his grip squeezing as he brought your linked hands up beside your head.

Will knew you were on the brink, able to read your body on instinct and almost better than his own, feeling your breathing change and the pitch of your whines switch, your free hand leaving marks on his back as your movements became erratic.

He felt you tense, every muscle in your body that was wrapped around his straining through your pleasure, your walls choking his cock as a surge of wet lubricated his strokes.

Will kissed you harder, absorbing your cries until your body relaxed under him, but he'd only allow you a short moment of reprieve.

He crawled down your body, a whiny moan sounding from you when he pulled out of you, your hands clawing for him to stay, but when his mouth landed on your soaked cunt your protest stopped, your hips bucking off the bed against his face as he worked to make you come again quickly.

“Are you sure you can't stay?” you whispered, tracing your fingers all over his sweaty face in a way that made him never want to move.

He sighed, closing his eyes and praying for the courage to give the answer he knew he needed to.

“I'm sure. I'm sorry.”

You looked crestfallen despite your best efforts not to, the side of your mouth turning upward as you nodded your head in understanding.

Will kissed your palm that rested beside his mouth, wanting more than anything to stay in bed with you, not even caring if he ever slept or not, but his nightmare kept nagging him and reminding him exactly why he couldn't.

“I'll call you tomorrow,” he explained, stepping out of bed and finding his boxers, leaving you in the mess of sheets to watch as he dressed.

It was so late already, making you question even more why he wouldn't just stay the rest of the night, feeling a sense of unease and confusion, and hoping you weren't reading into things too much.

“Get some sleep,” you wished, sitting up to meet him in a kiss when he came back over and leaned down, your hand slipping behind his neck where you felt him groan to your touch.

“Yeah, I will. You too,” he said quietly, knowing damn well he wouldn't. “I'll lock the door behind me.”

Both of you hesitated a moment, your eyes searching each other’s, your silence screaming the words neither of you dared to.

With a weak smile, Will turned and walked out, and everything in you felt so anxious that something between you was changing, and you couldn't determine if it was for better or worse.

The rest of the week played out the same; Will coming over to your place each evening to have dinner and spend time with you, only to make himself scarce as soon as turning in for the night was being considered.

He caught you staring a few times, watching him finish the dishes or studying his expression as you watched tv together, trying to work out what was going on in his head.

He did everything he could to act as normal as possible, but could feel himself slowly pulling away, distancing himself like he was gradually building up to the inevitable.

All of that seemed to fade the moment his body made contact with yours.

His hands would grip you tighter, each kiss more intense and passionate than the last, the time spent with his arms wrapped around you in a hug growing longer with each one, savouring your presence and everything good that you gave him.

He almost wished you would just ask, call out what you seemed to know he was doing, his guilt growing the same his love for you was, but the pain he felt in his heart at knowing he was hurting you, and was going to hurt you even more, was outshining both easily.

Six hours and forty-seven minutes. That was the total amount of sleep he'd had in the last three days, finding himself growing more irritable and angry on top of being exhausted.

He sighed when he came in the door, noticing the tv on and blaring, Benny still awake and watching a fight.

The last thing he wanted was an interrogation from his brother, and he prayed as he slipped out of his boots and put his keys in their spot that one wouldn't come tonight.

Out of the corner of his eye he could see Benny’s head whip around, and as he walked into the kitchen, he waited for the comments to come.

“Do you keep fucking and bailing? Because it really seems like you keep fucking and bailing.”

Will took a deep breath and ignored him.

“Nice,” Benny added, sarcastically.

Will opened the fridge to get a glass of water, glaring at him over the door with warning, which only encouraged Benny more.

He always had a habit of testing Will, seeing how far he could push him until he snapped, and while Will wasn't sure if that was what he was doing now, it was definitely getting on his nerves.

“Getting your fill and then leaving her hanging. You must really love her,” he drawled, staring at the tv as Will walked into the room.

“Fuck off, Ben. You know why I'm not sleeping there,” Will huffed, plopping himself on the chair opposite the couch.

“I told you it isn't going to happen for real. It was a dream, man. I know you-”

“You don't know shit!” Will barked, cutting him off.

He stood and stormed to his room, hating how his brother could be so good and understanding one minute and then go totally against him the next, but mostly hating how he knew he was right.

Coffee was barely enough to keep him functioning at this point, and after another sleepless night, Will wondered just how much more of this he could take, especially with his deployment date looming and getting closer and closer.

He counted the tablespoons of grounds he scooped out of the container and into the coffee maker, hoping a stronger brew would help him drag his feet less but worried it would only do the job of amping up his anxiety.

For the brief moments he had slept, that same nightmare kept recurring, seeing your lifeless face in his hands until he jolted awake, gasping for breath and covered in sweat.

He knew should tell you about the nightmare and that he was leaving, but his selfishness was getting the better of him, feeling as if the moment he said it out loud that his whole world would actually fall out from under him, and the thought terrified him.

Benny came into the kitchen, his arms stretched above his head with a long exaggerated yawn, and even though Will told himself he wasn't trying to, it was like he was rubbing it in his face that he’d slept so well.

As Will went to grab a mug from the cupboard, Benny brushed by him, reaching around his brother to get his own, nudging Will in the process.

Will sighed, but ignored his irritation, opening the next cupboard over to put the coffee away where Benny stuck his hand in to get the sugar.

“Don’t fucking start,” Will warned under his breath.

“I didn’t say anything.”

Benny gave him a look, smoothing his hair back and out of his face as he grabbed the bag of bread and took out a couple of slices.

“No, but I know what you’re doing.”

Benny didn’t respond, and Will knew he was carefully choosing what he would say when he did speak next, seeing a tension in his back as he went about his business.

“You’re gonna have to tell her at some point, Will,” he said quietly, not looking at him.

Will swallowed thickly, feeling every muscle in his body tense up while choosing to bite his tongue.

Benny shoved him with his shoulder as he sidled up next to him, grabbing the pot of coffee before Will was able to.

“Can you stop?” Will barked, holding his empty mug up in disbelief.

Benny glared at Will as he put the pot back down, almost as if he was daring Will to make a move.

“Fuck you.”

“Really?”

“You’re acting like a dick and you know it,” Benny accused, not moving from where he stood.

Will took a step back, hanging his head. “I don’t need this shit right now.”

“No?” Benny asked excitedly. “Stop being such an ungrateful piece of shit. You treat everyone like shit, like you’re owed everything because you’re hurt.”

Will shook his head, feeling anger rise up through him, but Benny just kept going.

“You landed yourself the best girl and look what you’re doing with that. You don’t think she deserves to know you’re fucking leaving in eight days?”

Benny’s voice continued to rise as he went on, making Will’s teeth clench harder and his grip on the countertop get tighter as he leaned forward against it.

“Now you’re just pissed off because you know you’re fucking everything up. How the hell are you gonna go over there and focus when you’re turning into a complete fucking mess here?”

Will stayed quiet, hanging his head and unable to look his brother in the eye, knowing everything he was saying was true.

Benny watched him for a minute, waiting, and gave his final say before walking out of the kitchen.

“Get your shit together, man. Or something bad might really happen.”

More and more days passed between seeing each other, and by now Will imagined you had gotten the hint, having stopped initiating conversations due to how cold and short he was being with you, knowing you were doing your best to give him space in hopes that would fix everything.

Texts were rare and visits were brief, and Will could see and feel the worry radiating off of you when he was with you, your uncertainty if you were the problem blatant.

Two days remained until he deployed, and with his bag packed and everything else in order, he reached for his phone.

Can we talk?

You gave him a smile when you opened the door to let him in, but the rest of your face said it all, your eyes bleary and barely able to hold contact with his, your body language nervous as you rubbed your arm up and down even though it was brutally hot and humid.

“Can I get you anything?” you offered, the question feeling too formal but suiting the atmosphere, neither of you reaching for the other for a hug and kiss like you used to.

“No, I’m okay, thanks.”

“I’m guessing this isn’t going to be a fun conversation, so I’d like you to spare me even more grief then you’ve already caused, Will.”

Your words came out quickly, like if you didn’t rush to say them you wouldn’t get them out, and your voice shook, making Will’s heart break even more than it was.

He sighed and nodded, raising his eyebrows on his forehead.

“I think we should stop before we get too far ahead of ourselves here.”

“What does that mean?” you scoffed, your frustration and confusion clear as day.

“What do you think it means?” he said pointedly, crossing his arms over his chest as he stared at you bluntly.

You nodded your head as you looked up at the ceiling, blinking quickly to fight off the tears he knew you were struggling to keep back.

“I thought this was what you wanted,” you explained. “Why didn’t you say if it was too much or too fast?”

“I’m sorry,” he said flatly, looking at your face contort with even more hurt and confusion.

“You’re sorry?” you blurted. “You’ve spent the last however many weeks stringing me along and acting like everything was fine until all of a sudden it wasn’t and then you fucking ghost me? And all you have to say is you’re sorry?”

“Why is that so hard to understand?” he spat, the chill of his words surprising himself.

He watched your expression shift, your anger switching to a gut-wrenching hurt he knew too well, your pain washing over you in a rippling effect after his words slapped you across the face.

“Because I’m falling in love with you!”

He felt like he’d been punched in the stomach, knowing all along that you were but hearing it hit him so much harder, and in the act of self-preservation, he continued his facade of not loving you in return.

“Yeah? Well stop, because you’re only gonna end up hurt.”

“Wha-” you started, but he cut you off before you were able to start asking questions.

“I’m deploying in two days.”

Your mouth opened and closed, and he knew the feeling of not being able to properly take the breath you so desperately needed, the shock on your face forcing Will to look away and down at his boots, too cowardly to face what he caused.

“I can’t go do this mission with any distractions,” he explained, his tone flat and expressionless.

“Is that all I am to you? Do you not think I care or wouldn’t offer support…I can't just put how I feel about you on hold or dismiss it completely, Will. Us breaking this off isn't going to make a difference in me worrying about you or erase what we have.”

Will shrugged, not knowing what else to say and feeling like he was out of lies to spew, and at this point nothing he said would make any of it better or worse.

You shook your head quickly and grunted frustratedly, wiping the tears that finally fell off your cheeks.

"I don't know why I'm crying,” you laughed, looking at him defeatedly. “You're not mine to cry over."

Will couldn’t bring himself to look at you again as he made his way over to the door, knowing damn well that he was yours as much as you were his, his entire heart left behind with you as he walked out.

After crying more tears than you thought you ever had, you peeled yourself out of bed and dragged your sorry ass to the gym, needing to distract your mind and do something good for your body, even if it meant risking seeing one or both of the Miller brothers there.

Your reflection was like a stranger, a hollowed-out version of yourself with puffy, blood-shot eyes lifting the dumbbells in your hands up and down as you worked through a set of bicep curls.

You were barely able to count through your reps, thinking how ironic it was that that was how you and Will met in the first place, but you knew the exact amount of hours it had been since he came and broke things off with you, and how long it was until he’d be on a plane flying out to wherever hell he was going.

You did a double-take in the mirror when you saw Benny come out of the change room, spinning around to see him better, the large black and blue bruise swelling around his left eye making your mouth hang open. A cut on his lower lip looked like it was still bleeding, and you thought it all to be strange when you recalled Will telling you he didn’t have any more fights until the fall.

The sympathetic smile he gave you was a reminder of all the things you knew you would be missing out on, but you shoved those feelings aside and walked over to him, your curiosity getting the better of you.

“What the hell happened to you? I thought you weren’t fighting for a while?”

Benny huffed out a laugh, rolling his eyes. “You should see the other guy…”

That drew your attention to his hands, seeing the skin on his knuckles broken and red, knowing whoever was on the receiving end of it was likely in far worse shape than him.

Before anything else could be explained, you followed Benny’s gaze as he looked up, your heart stuck in your throat as you watched Will walk in the front door, his face even more beat up than Benny’s was.

You looked at Benny where he just shrugged, knowing you had put two and two together.

“He deserved it,” he said flatly, clearly not proud of it. “I don’t know what the hell has gotten into him. I’m sorry for what he did to you.”

You nodded and bit your lip, looking down at the floor because you knew if you met Benny’s kind, blue eyes, you would crack again.

You sighed, praying your voice didn’t break when you spoke. “Do you think he’s going to be okay?”

Benny nodded convincingly, the faith he had in his older brother never faltering despite whatever was happening. “Yeah, he’ll be fine.”

You nodded, feeling the lump in your throat return.

“Are you gonna be alright?” he asked, making you nod faster and look anywhere but at him, the tears coming on fast as all the equipment surrounding you began to blur in your vision.

“I’m sorry he’s such a dipshit.”

You laughed through your tears, and Benny did too, his broad smile making you feel a little better.

“It’s just crazy,” you started, finding your courage to speak. “I don’t even hate him for what he did. I just want him to be happy and be safe.”

“Yeah, me too,” he agreed. “That’s what happens when you love someone.”

It was silent in the truck on the way over.

Benny hadn’t even turned on the radio which was unusual, leaving Will with nothing to listen to other than his thoughts and the sound of his pulse, counting each heartbeat until his brother pulled onto the tarmac and parked.

“You sure you're gonna be okay over there?” he asked, and Will could feel his eyes fixed on him.

Puffing out his cheeks, he breathed, “I think so. Kinda have to be.”

Will looked out the window, seeing all the families saying goodbye to his fellow troops, his heart aching in his chest as his mind went to you.

He blinked and then turned toward Benny, shaking his head and laughing, seeing how bad Benny’s beat up face was and knowing he looked ten times worse.

“We look like idiots.”

Benny ripped down the visor to look at his face in the mirror, offended Will would say such a thing.

“I look like this pretty much all the time. Are you saying I always look like an idiot?”

“I'll leave that up to you.”

Their chuckles faded out, leaving them to sit in silence for a couple of minutes, Benny studying Will carefully for any tell that he wasn’t stable enough to get on that aircraft.

He saw his brother’s chest rising and falling sharply, the pulse in his neck thumping wildly, the muscles in his cheeks flinching as he tried to control his emotions.

“Everything will be fine, man.” Benny assured him, referring to both things with you and his mission.

Will nodded and finally found the courage to look over at him, his eyes wet.

“Keep an eye on her for me?” he choked out, trying to swallow the broken sob that followed his words.

“I will.”

Benny clapped his shoulder and shook it, his eyes welling up too, knowing he would never get used to these goodbyes regardless of how many times they happened, seeing his big brother go off to war something he hated more and more over the years.

Will leaned over and pulled him into a hug, squeezing his back so tight while feeling himself start to crumble as Benny reciprocated it with equal force.

“I love you, man,” Benny mumbled against his brother’s shoulder.

“I love you, too, Ben.”

Benny knew there was no point in punishing him anymore, it was punishment enough with his own guilt and having to go do what he was, and losing you on top of it was about all Will could handle.

He’d have his brother’s back no matter what, even if he didn’t agree with some of the things he’d done, and knew Will would do the exact same for him if it was the other way around.

Benny had never seen Will so happy as when he was with you, and promised to himself that he would do everything in his power to help get you two back together, refusing to let him give up on what he knew was the real deal.

The brothers parted, Benny squeezing the back of Will’s neck as Will pulled the handle to open the door.

“Go get ‘em and get on home.”

---

Part 7

Taglist:

@sotwk @dailydragon08 @sunnys-day @thedreadandthefugitivemind @glassgulls

@littlenosoul @glitterypirateduck @momia2910 @maggotzombie @rmwarn90

@paintlavillered @casa-boiardi @stealfromthedevil @kmc1989 @justreblogginfics

@spaghettificationandpretzels @whatever-lmaoo @steviebbboi @christinhunnam @hp-hogwartsexpress

[lildoodlenoodle]

Some random spider noir information from the comics! I’ve specified where the movies might come in and fanon stuff!

Noir was raised to be and is a socialist activist.

Dude most likely has a 1920-30s NY Bowery accent.

His first run takes place in 1933, in ITSV he comes from 1933, his second run(EWAF)takes place 8 mo. after, so he’d be coming off EWAF to ATSV.

Age wise this makes him 17-20.

Noir has been spiderman for like 2 yrs at most by ATSV, he started in 1933 and is from 1933 in ITSV.

Was bitten by a mythical spider rather than a radioactive one(its a whole thing let’s not get into it).

His costume is/based on his Uncle’s WW1 fighter pilot outfit

He has a black cat named Ding Ding.

Has an ambiguously strained relationship with aunt May bc she’s against killing, he is not.

Yes, he kills Nazis.

Yes, his uncle was cannibalized, his ‘love’ interest had her face mutilated, and his best friend was lobotomized.

Had two paternal figures named ‘Ben’ who died lol.

One of the few spiders who are always strapped.

Has organic black webbing!

If I’m remembering this right unlike the other Peters he’s more interested in physics than bio.

In the comics he’s not as physically strong as the other spiders and carries around a small vile of venom for emergencies.

He lives/grew up in a Bowery welfare center with his Aunt and Mj(sometimes) but later gets his own office/apartment.

Recruited to Superiors death squad before working with the other spiders.

Has died at least once(confirmed), but implied multiple times, and was resurrected from another dimension by a spider god back to his own universe.

Fanon wise, most people call him some variation of Benjamin(while avoiding Ben lol) like Benj, Benji, B, etc. with various justifications but ultimately to more easily differentiate between the other Peters. Me personally, I think he takes on the name ‘Benjamin Urich’ but that’s a different post.

Noir does have canon love interests. He has had a romantic(mostly sexual) relationship with White Widow aka Felicia Hardy, but she was like 40 he was like 16/17 it’s weird and gross. He has also had a weird relationship with his MJ but it’s not super flushed out and he even says in the comics it’s strained, so most fanon views her as a sister figure.

Fanon wise, he is often shipped with his best friend Robbie Robertson(who dies very traumatically) or Jean DeWolfe, a federal agent, he’s seen working with. Recently, I’ve seen him shipped with a lot more characters, most notably Ham, Hobie, and Miguel.

[michelle-is-writing]

Sick, Ben Hardy

Word Count: 1.2k~

Saturday nights are always date nights for me and Ben. No matter what, we always go out and do something fun together. We'll go to dinner, watch a movie, see a game, anything that sounds like a good time. We always make an effort, and nothing ever stops us from spending time together.

However, as I lay in my bed with nonstop nausea filling my throat and stomach, I feel the need to cancel for tonight. During the seven months that we've been dating, neither of us have ever canceled a Friday night, and that's always something I love about us. Once again, we always make time for each other, so when I think about calling Ben and saying I can't go tonight, I feel even worse.

Reluctantly pressing the green button on Ben's contact, I hold my phone up to my ear and listen to the ringing tone as I wait for him to pick up. As more seconds pass, I find myself trying to hug my blankets as close to me as I can while my body begins to shiver. This stomach pain is starting to cause me to feel cold as well, and it sucks.

"Hello, darling," I hear Ben's voice pick up after the second ring, making me smile. I always love hearing his voice. It carries this tone of protection in it that gives off a feeling of happiness at the same time. "Are you ready for our date?"

At his question, I close my eyes and swallow down the guilt that rises to my throat as my smile lowers into a frown. He sounds so happy - excited, almost. Do I really have to take that away from him? All because of something that could probably be treated with medicine?

As soon as the thought of maybe suffering through the pain and going on a date, another stomach cramp pushes into me, making me almost hunch over in my bed to get through the pain. "Actually, Ben," I start, my free arm wrapping around my stomach as the stinging sensation passes. "I was calling to tell you that I can't come," I explain, my ears almost catching the sound of his heart breaking through the phone speaker. "I think I caught food poisoning from my friend's food at dinner we went to the other night."

"I ate it, and I seem fine," He tells me, his words making me shake my head with an amused smile.

"That's because you have an iron stomach, Ben," I joke, hearing him chuckle on the other end. "And, besides, if you can eat your own cooking, then you can eat practically anything."

"Oi!" Ben dramatically exclaims as if my words hit him with a punch. I laugh at his silliness. "Such harsh and hurtful words from the woman I love!" He further chides as I clench my already hurting stomach from laughing. He soon joins in on the laughing before speaking once more. "But that's alright love. I understand you're not feeling well. I love you! And I'll be over in ten minutes."

Just as quick as he said his last words, he hangs up, leaving me to stare across the room with wide eyes as my phone remains resting in my hand, Ben's picture flashing once before the screen goes dark. Did he really just pull a fast one on me? Just like that?

While thinking about Ben, yet another wave of nausea rolls over me, causing me to turn onto my side with my knees close to my chest, a pained groan escaping my lips at the same time. What if this isn't food poisoning, and it's something contagious, and I accidentally give it to Ben? It's not that I don't want him coming over (I'm glad that he is), but the last thing I want to do is make him sick as well.

For what feels like an eternity, I lay on my sides, switching between the two when another cramp comes along. It isn't long before I hear keys being inserted into my front door, twisting and turning before the piece of wood opens and closes a few short seconds later. Footsteps sound throughout my tiny apartment until my bedroom door gently opens, a head full of blond hair and shining blue eyes staring back at me as I smile from my current predicament on the bed.

"There she is," Ben says with a sweet smile. Wearing a plain grey t-shirt and black sweats, he takes one step into my room before happily sighing. "And just as beautiful as ever."

Blushing, I roll my eyes and flop onto my other side to dramatically turn my back to him, only receiving a laugh back before I feel his warm body settle behind my cold one. As soon as he touches me, it's as if all of my nausea and cramping dissipate, the warmth from his body acting as a heating pad for my achey body.

Ben wraps his arms around me and pulls me close to his body as he kisses my temple, his lips soft and warm like fresh pastries. At his sweet affection, I smile even more and raise my hands to rest on top of his, only for him to interlock our fingers together. Even when I'm sick and not able to do the things we usually do, he's still the best boyfriend I could ever ask for.

"Would you like me to make you some soup?" Ben asks, leaning down to nuzzle his face in my neck. Underneath the covers, his legs intertwine with mine, bringing me just enough warmth to stop shivering so bad.

"No, just lay here with me, please," I tell him, snuggling my body further in his hold as a soft sigh escapes my lips. There's nothing better than lying in the arms of the person you love - especially if they're a natural heater.

"Oh, and like I said earlier," I begin, remembering our earlier conversation. "Your cooking is something special," I remind Ben with a smirk, listening as he snickers behind me. Okay, maybe there's nothing better lying in the arms of your boyfriend and teasing him for his helpless qualities.

"I can put on a video or something, go off of that," Ben suggests, leaning his head over mine to cuddle closer to the front of my neck. "Or, I could be safe and just order something," he offers, making me smile.

"That would be nice," I tell Ben, nodding my head. Just as he goes to get up to grab his phone presumably, I tug him back down and snuggle even further into him. "In five minutes, of course," I clarify, hearing him snicker behind me again.

With a simple "okay," Ben gets himself comfortable once more before resuming holding me close. I guess no matter what, Saturday nights will always be our night and not even a stupid stomach bug can stop that.

[foolsocracy]

With all the age discourse around Spider-Man Noir right now, I thought I’d compile parts of the comic that imply his age. I want to state that this pulling from his 2009-2010 comic run before the time skip, specifically the first volume. The spiderverse movie has taken a lot of liberties with the characters, so it is very possible that what Peters age is in 1933 in the comics is NOT what his age is in 1933 in the movies.

Peter’s age is not directly stated in his 1st comic run (I can’t speak for the 2020 ones because it has been a while since I read them, plus there’s like a 10 year jump). It IS however heavily implied that he is young. So much so that you can’t seem to go more than a page without someone referencing it.

Like, these all happen in the same scene. The writers beat you over the head with it.

In this issue alone Peter is called both “son” and “sonny” once, “boy” twice, and “kid” 8 times. Outside nouns, he is also referred to as young, and when Urich brings him to The Black Cat, Felicia calls it “babysitting.” Urich also asks Peter if he is “allowed out after midnight” but after some research I can’t seem to find any evidence of NYC having juvenile curfews at this point in time, though they did exist in lots of towns in the late 1800s and early 1900s because of child labor laws. I think this instance is just Pete just being young and an adult being concerned about his well-being.

It is also mentioned in this volume, and again in Eyes Without a Face (vol 2), that Peter wants to go to college in the future and is currently studying & saving up money to do so. This alone doesn’t necessarily mean he’s under 18 as there isn’t a max age to apply for college, plus Peter comes from a poor family during the Great Depression. It wouldn’t surprise me if he started college later than usual because of that (lack of funds & catching up due to not being in school/working).

There is other evidence that does imply he is under 18 though— he’s too young to drink alcohol!

Spider-Man Noir Vol 1 issue 1 starts in January 1933 before jumping back three weeks to December 1932 where Ben Urich meets Peter Parker

It is during December 1932 that he meets Felicia Hardy who owns the speakeasy The Black Cat. Prohibition is still in place and won’t be overwritten until a year later in December 1933. It is important to note that before Prohibition was instated, the drinking age in New York was 18 years old. That law is what the characters reference when they discuss drinking age. And most importantly, Peter doesn’t deny the fact that he’s too young to drink. He just snarks back in true Parker fashion

This is the most concrete evidence there is towards Peter being under 18 in the noirverse. It can even be argued that Peter is under 17 with how easily Felicia picks up on the fact that he’s underage (and that she does so from a distance might I add, as seen in the ‘babysitting’ panel).

There is also a panel where JJJ refers to Peter as an “orphan.” By definition, an orphan is a kid under 18. This is JJJ, so this can be taken with a grain of salt as he loves good ol hard-hitting words. When people speak they don’t always use words by their exact definitions; sometimes if you’re young and your parents are dead, JJJ is going to label you an orphan even if ur a legal adult lol. But if you take this at face value it’s definitely another indicator that Peter is under 18.

TLDR; Spider-Man Noir from his 2009-2010 comic run is most likely under 18, and can be argued to be 15-16+. If not that, then is definitely college aged or younger.

[thiskryptonite]

If you click HERE you’ll find 425 gifs of Ben Hardy rom his role in Love at First Sight. He is white, so please cast accordingly. All gifs were made by me and are 268 x 160. You are welcome to resize these/edit for personal use, but do not redistribute or claim them as your own. Content warning: eating, drinking, flashing lights, neon, kissing

Happy RP’ing!

[youremyheaven]

angel imagery and vedic astrology 👼🏼🧚🏼‍♀️

i had previously made an observation that angels in cinema are often played by actors who have deva gana nakshatras. upon looking into it more, i noticed that people who repeatedly use angel imagery often have pisces rashi nakshatras, mrigashira, swati, punarvasu or purva & uttaraphalguni placements.

sufjan stevens on stage. he has ubp moon, mrig mercury, jup revati amk, punarvasu saturn amk

this is the album cover of nirvana's last studio album. kurt cobain has mars and ketu in swati. swati is associated with eggs and conception and creation. the album heavily features themes of birth and death, nurturance and violence. the original title was supposed to be i hate myself and want to die (kinda ominous considering the fact that kurt took his own life not long after) but the final title was taken from a poem written by Courtney Love, who has punarvasu sun & moon.

ill make a separate post about this but punarvasu & swati are deeply intertwined nakshatras. both deal with the nature of the universe, creation and reality itself.

Van Halen's 1984 album. this is singer David Lee Roth's last album before his exit from the band. David has swati mercury and saturn with pbp moon

swati sun & stellium, katy perry at met gala wearing angel wings

here she is at the grammys wearing angel wings

david beckham has a large back tattoo of an angel, mrig venus atmakaraka, revati jup punarvasu saturn

revati moon rihanna has the winged egyptian goddess isis tattooed on her chest

angel of the north sculpture by antony gormley. it is said to be the largest sculpture of an angel.

he has purvaphalguni sun, revati moon and swati mars, uttara phalguni ketu

this depiction of an angel is a very modern and "high-tech" and to me the polarity between depicting an angel (in itself a very archaic and otherworldly concept) in a very human albeit futuristic way is 100% the influence of his revati moon and swati mars.

the angel and the woman (1977) is about a murdered woman who is brought back to life and becomes romantically involved with the angel who rescued her. carole laure who plays the rescued woman has purvaphalguni stellium punarvasu mars atmakaraka and revati jup amk meanwhile the angel is played by lewis furey who has mrigashira sun and swati moon

l'ange or the angel (1982) is an experimental art house film and its letterboxd description says its about "The climbing of an immense staircase made up of the most varied stairs- Symbolic scenes occur on different levels where characters seem to be prisoners of their deeds and of their own folly. The steep staircase leads little by little towards the zones of great light where human beings and nonhuman beings meet."

the director has pbp moon, revati mars atmakaraka, mrigashira saturn amk

the character of Angel/Archangel in the X-Men movies has been played by two people

ben hardy, pushya moon and ketu plays Archangel in X Men. like i said in my previous post, angels in cinema are often played by deva gana nak natives and pushya is a deva gana nakshatra.

thisrole was previously played by ben foster who has swati sun, punarvasu moon, uttaraphalguni venus and jupiter

i married an angel 1942 is a very punarvasu coded film

its about a wealthy man, Willie who swears he'll only marry an angel. soon enough an angel comes into his life but due to her divine nature, she is unable to fib and has no human failings. Her honesty alienates her husband's high society acquaintances and his biggest customer and causes a run on his bank. His sister, Countess Palaffi, saves the day by teaching the angel about the real world. Willie and his now Earthier angel live happily ever after.

jeanette macdonald who plays the angel has mrigashira sun, punarvasu moon and mercury and pushya rising with purvaphalguni mars

The Vintner's Luck 2007 is a queer coded movie about a man who is visited by an angel every year. gaspard ulliel plays Xas, an angel, he has anuradha sun and ketu with ubp rising. the movie is directed by niki caro who has uttara phalguni sun, anuradha moon

its based on a book by elizabeth knox who has ketu in revati

Angel's Bone is a one act opera, which follows the plight of two angels discovered on earth who are forced into spiritual and sexual slavery at the hands of a financially troubled couple.

the angels longed for earthly delights and that has, mysteriously, brought them back to our world. they're found by a couple who nurse the wounded angels back to health. but they keep them as prisoners and decide to exploit the magical beings, clipping their wings and forcing them into prostitution to earn back their plucked feathers.

Do Yun who composed this piece has mrigashira sun revati ketu with venus and mars in bharani

Bharani is karma and concerns itself with purging and purifying whatever it touches. everything that is dirty, impure, false or frivolous is stripped away to reveal what is true and real. this specific work of art displays Bharani themes with both the couple and the angels facing their karma in different ways.

in the tv show Touched by an Angel, Roma Downey plays monica who is an angel. she has bharani sun and purva phalguni moon

Bharani is karma and bharani is also tasked with guiding souls to other realms. in this show, Monica is an angel in heaven who travels across to the earthly realm to help and guide people.

Gisele Bundchen has Pushya sun, Swati moon, punarvasu mercury mrigashira venus

Swati moon, Kylie Jenner frequently wears angel wings

she also has revati saturn as her atmakaraka and ive already talked about how much pisces girlies love butterflies<3

here's the whole clan wearing angel wings one halloween

swati sun, ubp moon, kendall jenner dressed up like a fairy

rihanna, revati moon wearing angel wings

mrigashira venus atmakaraka megan fox

as to why these specific nakshatras are drawn to angel imagery, i have a few thoughts.

mrigashira is associated with shape shifting, as Brahma's daughter assumed the form of a deer. angels are divine beings who can assume different forms and travel to different worlds.

punarvasu and swati are both connected to the universe and creation itself. it shouldn't be surprising that these natives are drawn to angel imagery.

purvaphalguni and uttaraphalguni nakshatras are both symbolised by the marital bed, union and consummation of love/marital bliss. again coming back to conception and creation. it seems to me that wherever there is creation, there are angels protecting it.

pisces rashi (pbp, ubp and revati) is the point of dissolution. its the final rashi and here, all that's been learned through all the other rashis is contained, it reaches its absolute point. its the height of moksha. spiritual liberation is the aim and again, it makes sense as to why natives of this rashi of completion and surrendering would be drawn to heavenly and angelic imagery.

[seekdevotion]

*          𝐀𝐍𝐎𝐍𝐘𝐌𝐎𝐔𝐒     𝐀𝐒𝐊𝐄𝐃          :          mw fcs & personality types maybe ? this looks so good !

first of all : love you sweat ! i will point you towards 𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐒 meaty mw fc list, bc many good points were made. but ! i'll also take this moment to self advocate and some will b repeats ... i would go absolutely feral for ella purnell ( duh ), laura harrier, jessica chastain, avan jogia, ben barnes, zion moreno, cillian murphy, blanca padilla, oscar isaac, margot robbie, tom hardy, alexa demie, riz ahmed, samara weaving, zendaya, tom holland, mimi keene, logan lerman, adelaide kane, victoria pedretti, andrew garfield, penelope cruz, emma mackey, charles melton, bill skarsgard, adam dimarco, medalion rahimi, natasha liu bordizzo, dua lipa, archie renaux, robert pattinson, freida pinto, florence pugh, dev patel, jessica alexander, oliver jackson cohen, halston sage, kiowa gordon, lily james, madelaine petsch, jordan connor, hande ercel, phoebe tonkin, nick robinson, savannah lee smith, emily alyn lynd, henry golding, rachel zegler, josh heuston, paul mescal ( i actually can't talk about it... ), daisy edgar jones, rami malek, lily rose depp, aron piper, adria arjona, olivia cooke, and that's just off the dome... now as for personality or character types ? why don't you go ahead & read more for some that have come to me ;)

any and all of the bunnies of mona awad's bunny - pretentious and beautiful budding literary icons , diehard devotees of "the aesthetic" ( or part of a cult most likely )

local carmy ? brilliant , celebrated , seemingly stuck in devo due to some unfortunate emotional ( or physical ) ties - maybe managing the diner or cheffin' it up at the whaler

ex - sea captain who is now devoted to hunting for treasure - both geocache and pirate style . some townspeople think they've lost the plot but others have noticed they really have a knack for this . obviously , quite the casanova

a well liked ghost therapist . came to town years ago as a ' spiritualist ' / more of a lowkey con artist medium but really came into their own in this environment

the seraphic matchmaker , wholesome , in love w love , just wants everyone to be happy , strikes gold every time to the point it is giving witchcraft , world's best and most in demand bridesmaid as a result !

charming and charismatic town official , great at drawing in a crowd and overseeing all the best local events . old money ( as much as you can be in this town , bc their family has always been here ) so obviously corrupt w very questionable morals

THE barber who does put everything you say in their chair on blast via their town meme page / finsta but customers stay loyal bc the only competition has a much darker reputation ( plot twist : and they were roommates ! )

ofc , new in towns / tourists with shady motives , to keep the locals on their toes

[supercalifragipopculturevomit]

WHO'D YOU RATHER?: 100 MALE ACTORS EDITION

A game I often spring on friends who are as obsessed with pop culture as I am is Who'd You Rather?. The terms are loose and we usually do it as a progression (so your last choice is often pitted against a new one). It's light fun but my diabolical goal is usually to torture someone with a choice of nearly equal weight (like I did to myself with the first two selections).

Sharing this here in case anyone would like to join in 😊 My own picks are in bold. If anyone has a round or two for me, feel free to add it in the comment section.

Daniel Brühl vs Benedict Cumberbatch

Cillian Murphy vs Rami Malek

Gael García Bernal vs Diego Luna

Pedro Pascal vs Oscar Isaac

Riz Ahmed vs Dev Patel

John Cusack vs Ethan Hawke

Hugh Grant vs Jude Law

James McAvoy vs Tom Hiddleston

Michael Fassbender vs Tom Hardy

Matthew Goode vs Dan Stevens

Edward Norton vs Sam Rockwell

Brad Pitt vs Colin Farrell

Keanu Reeves vs David Tennant

Matt Smith vs Hugh Dancy

Adam Driver vs Jake Gyllenhaal

Robert Pattinson vs Jamie Dornan

Regé-Jean Page vs Jonathan Bailey

Michael Cera vs Jesse Eisenberg

Andrew Garfield vs Nicholas Hoult

Matt Bomer vs Andrew Scott

Bill Hader vs Paul Rudd

John Mulaney vs Ramy Yousef

Jason Sudeikis vs John Krasinski

Zachery Levi vs Adam Brody

Paul Dano vs Barry Keoghan

Steven Yeun vs Henry Golding

Domhnall Gleeson vs Ben Whishaw

Elijah Wood vs Daniel Radcliffe

Ryan Gosling vs Ryan Reynolds

Hugh Jackman vs Ewan McGregor

Timothée Chalamet vs Tom Holland

Paul Mescal vs Josh O'Connor

Jeremy Allen White vs Aaron Taylor-Johnson

Shia LaBeouf vs Miles Teller

Mike Faist vs Dane DeHaan

Kingsley Ben-Adir vs Daryl McCormack

Mads Mikkelsen vs James Spader

Robert Downey Jr. vs Tom Cruise

Matt Damon vs Mark Ruffalo

Idris Elba vs Michael B. Jordan

Jeremy Renner vs Bradley Cooper

Henry Cavill vs Chris Hemsworth

Chris Evans vs Sebastian Stan

Alexander Skarsgård vs Bill Skarsgård

Austin Butler vs Jacob Elordi

Mahershala Ali vs Sterling K. Brown

Mark Strong vs Stanley Tucci

Steve Carell vs Bob Odenkirk

Michael Shannon vs Bryan Cranston

Joaquin Phoenix vs Christian Bale

[destinyc1020]

Also, piggyback to the last anon, Tom is in dire need of some new fans, lol. That one blog here that deactivated was not a fan, and spidey fans are good, but that fanbase can be a lot, and often, they dismiss his version of Spiderman but to each their own For some ppl, this new nolan film night be their first time seeing Tom in a prestige blockbuster kinda like when I first saw Elvis, I wasn't familiar with Austin's work. Now I'm excited to see what he's up to. Idk if that makes sense. I'm not dismissing the Carrie diaries, I just wasn't aware of it before Elvis.

I'm more excited if him teaming up with Matt Damon. He's one of our last great actors who seems passionate about films as ppl love using those hot ones clip of him talking about the industry. When he worked with Cillian, him and Ben became producers of Cillian's current film out rn, and maybe he can get Tom to actually shoot the winner, lol. I don't trust that woman with those wigs in Sony, sorry. There are too many empty promises, like what's happening with Fred Astatire?

Also, I'm happy to see you back Destiny, it's queit since you took a break😭💓

Not "the lady with those wigs at Sony"!! Rofl 😂😂🤣 Omg, I nearly choked on the water I was drinking lol 😂

Speaking of Sony, I bought tickets to see "Venom 3" tomorrow night lol. 🤭 I like Tom Hardy, and friends were saying that they loved it, so I figured, why not? 😅

I'll let you all know my review lol.

Anyway, I totally agree with you. Working with Nolan and Matt is definitely going to open Tom up to some other fans (mostly film-loving fans) in the atmosphere, and I for one am here for it lol. 😅

We need some new fans of Tom that are actually into films and aren't just spidey/MCU fans, or stans who just want to engage in fandom wars with other actors all the time. 😒

And yea, you're so right. I had known of Austin for YEARS, but it was the "Elvis" role that really made me (and many others) sit up, take notice, and say "whoa". So yea, I def think that the same will happen with Tom, and he will take many by surprise. Tom is already mega-famous, so most people already know him by name. So that helps also.

I think he's going to gain way more appreciators after this role. Just my guess. 😊

Also, I'm happy to see you back Destiny, it's queit since you took a break😭💓

Thanks so much! 🥰 😘

[lildoodlenoodle]

I dont know if I’ve ever discussed this particular head-canon so I’m gonna do it now. As always I love to hear thoughts on my theories so don’t be afraid of reblogging with tags and the comment section!

I don’t think spider noir goes by the name Peter Parker in his universe, I think he goes by Benjamin Urich.

NOW LET ME EXPLAIN

It’s not just convenient to have a different name than Peter Parker meta wise for distinguishing the different universe’s Parkers, I have actual reasoning. But first we have to talk about universe 90214 Ben Urich, the original. (This is going to b very generalized)

This version of Urich is an investigative reporter, who was really good at his job. So good in fact he’s associated with the likes of J Jonah Jameson(in this universe the bugle is a real newspaper who reports the facts despite criminal/political threats). There’s a lot implied that he used to work a lot more closely with Jonah and Felicia Hardy to run an information network, or web, to inform the public and keep organized crime in check. This is what earned him the name the ‘Spider’. To reiterate, the spider was an anonymous identity that few knew Urich was. However, over time he became addicted to drugs and began to take cuts from the organized crime he was supposedly working against. More specifically: the Goblin, who’s basically a mob boss in this universe. He had gone dirty, which is why I suspect his previous colleagues put some distance between them.

Fast forwards: Urich takes on Peter Parker as an apprentice after getting him out of a fight with some of Goblin’s goons outside of a protest. Peter becomes largely frustrated working for Urich due to just watching and reporting instead of doing something, this is evident during the apartment fire scene. Peter wants revenge on the Goblin for the death of Ben Parker and keeps pushing for Urich to go after him, but because of Urich’s deal with Goblin he essentially gives Peter busy work. This ultimately leads to Peter getting his powers. Later on Peter finds out that Urich has been hoarding information on the Goblin but is getting drugs from the Goblin so he’s not releasing it. He’s angry, there’s a shouting match. This ultimately inspires Urich to publish the Goblin’s information but also causing him to be killed by the chameleon in retaliation. While this was happening Peter swings in in his spider gear and mask to attack the goblin. They all assume this is Urich underneath the mask, and call him the spider. And later on people assume this masked spider is the same one who ran the information web.

Now as to the why I think Peter took the name Benjamin Urich: As seen above Peter is very much taking Urich’s place. He’s already taking the Spider’s name and it’s very convenient to have another alias to use with it. Especially one that people(from the underground at least) already associate the spider with. It’s quite literally perfect, too perfect, but that’s another post and has to do with the spider god. We already know he has a lot of heavy feelings with the name Benjamin for his uncle as well as his own middle name, which could be used against this theory. With that said I also think in this universe Peter doesn’t feel a whole lot like Peter after the spider bite. And maybe it’s gradual, but it most certainly starts with the spider bite/god. He is not the same person by the end of his run to say THE LEAST. Taking on a new identity, especially the one of Ben Urich, a man who wanted to do good, to be good but fell short, who wanted a second chance and didn’t really get it, would be a fantastic way narratively for Peter to express that.

And finally, because this Peter Parker is not the Peter Parker that May wanted him to be, but he is exactly who Benjamin Urich wanted him to be.

[michelle-is-writing]

The Dress, Ben Hardy

Word Count: 3k~

Fashion has always been something I enjoyed. My fiancé, who has a good fashion sense himself, always lets me dress him any chance I get. Even when he goes to significant events like big award shows, my decision-making with clothes is still requested without fail every time.

"(Y/n), can you help me pick out my suit?"

"(Y/n), what shoes would be best?"

"(Y/n), which outfit should I wear?"

And with a smile, each time, I would respond happily.

"Of course, Ben."

Yet, every time I dress him, he somehow convinces me into dressing up as well before heading out into the scene with his arm wrapped tightly around my waist as my head rests on his chest. I enjoy dressing up Ben, and he seems to enjoy watching me get dressed up as well.

Tonight is no different, except the event is much smaller than the usual events we go to. This time, it's just a simple get-together for Ben and his cast members from Bohemian Rhapsody. Just as five rolled around, two hours before the dinner, Ben asks the question I got used to hearing after two years of being together.

"(Y/n), would you mind helping me?" I hear Ben ask, his head peering around the corner as his blonde locks fall against his forehead. From the living room couch, I smile and stand up before heading over to him as he explains. "I can't decide what to wear."

"I'd love to help you, love," I assure him, kissing his cheek. I watch his lips turn up into a sweet smile before I walk into our bedroom, his footsteps following behind mine. Looking into our closet, I quickly pluck out the set of clothes I like. The outfit is casual, but it's one of my favorites. The pants hug his legs just enough to accentuate his muscles, and I can't help but love them.

Handing Ben the black button-up top with beige pants, I pick out his brown oxfords and sit down on the bed with them beside me. With a smile, Ben clambers into the beige pants, eliciting a small laugh from me. "I can't help that I'm a bit clumsy!" He points out, making me laugh even more.

"At least you recognize it," I joke, watching his slightly red cheeks dim down to a pink hue. I watch as he moves onto his shirt, sliding the arms on and straightening it out before beginning to button it. Before his fingers reach the second bottom-button, I stop him.

"Come here." I tell him, moving to stand on my knees on the bed to meet his height. Despite this, he still manages to tower over me by a few inches, making him smile.

Brushing Ben's hands away from the shirt, I begin buttoning it myself before moving onto roll up the dark sleeves. I finish the left one without a problem and switch over to the right one, my hands brushing against his skin each time I do so. Like the other arm, I stop at the middle of his bicep just as Ben leans forward and plants his lips against mine, therefore preventing me from doing anything else.

Giggling, I move my hands from his arm and up to his face as I kiss back at his eager lips. "Mmm, Ben," I say his name, only to be interrupted by another kiss. "I have," another kiss. "to get," another one. "ready too."

Finally listening to me, he pulls back with a smirk and plops down next to me on the bed, watching me as I stand to go into the closet. "Wear the (f/c) dress," I hear him say from the bed.

"Which one?" I ask, popping my head out of the closet. I soon find myself biting my lip as I gaze at Ben as he rests back against the bed, using his elbows to hold himself up while his legs spread out against the edge of the mattress. Right now, he looks comfortable while, at the same time, utterly delectable.

"My favorite," He simply answers, smirking at his own coyness. Shaking my head with a small laugh, I move to my side of the closet and find the dress he's talking about. Pulling the hanger from the metal rod, I hold it out to look at it and see if there's anything wrong with it. Thankfully, it's still the same (f/c) dress that Ben loves. It could be the neckline of it that makes Ben like it so much, or it could also be the soft, velvety material that it's made out of. Or, maybe, it's because the dress hugs me in all of the right spots, and Ben just can't help himself after a long night of unintentional teasing.

Pulling my clothes off and slipping on the dress, I slide into some black pumps before walking back into the bedroom, earning a wolf-whistle from the man I love. The action causes me to smile and roll my eyes, knowing I'm probably going to have to deal with his hands on me for the rest of the night. "There's my sexy fiancé," Ben announces before standing from the bed and walking over to me.

Almost immediately, his hands find their way to my fabric covered hips while his lips lower down to mine. "Uh-uh," I tell him, placing my hand on his chest. "I still have to do my makeup and hair, and I know that if I don't do it now, we will be late."

"But, babe!" Ben exclaims, his arms pulling me closer to him. "You don't need makeup!" He tells me with a smile, causing me to blush.

"But don't you like that lipstick that I always put on with the dress?" I ask Ben, watching him fight the urge to let me go until he finally, but begrudgingly, releases his hold on me.

"Alright, fine," He gives in, stepping back while dramatically hanging his head low. "But I'll be waiting!" He exclaims, popping his head back up with a contagious smile. "Patiently..." He bids, slowly walking backward out of the bedroom with his hand waving up and down.

Once again, I smile and roll my eyes with a shake of the head at his goofiness before heading into the bathroom and finish getting ready. I do my makeup and hair the way I usually do, prompting Ben once again to pull me close to him when I walk into the living room. Thankfully, it only takes fifteen minutes for Ben to temporally satisfy his urge to kiss me, making me glad that my lipstick is smudge-proof.

It only takes a few minutes to arrive at the restaurant, quickly finding Rami and Lucy already seated in a booth. "Did we make you guys wait?" I ask, sliding into the empty side of the booth before Ben so he can sit in front of Rami.

"No, not at all, lovelies," Lucy assures us, both she and Rami giving us bright and happy smiles. "We just got here, actually," She assures me, nodding her head once. "Somebody wanted to kiss me and then not stop when we were getting ready."

At her words, Rami looks down with a dark blush painting his cheeks and a smile that practically shouts "not sorry" taking over his lips. I giggle at her words before looking over at an innocent-looking Ben and giving him a small smirk. "Sounds like someone I know too!" I chide, watching as he gains the same look on his face as Rami's. Both of our guys are so alike, and I can't help but love it.

Conversations between us all come and go as we get our drinks and dinner, having a great time as we all joke around and share stories with one another. Once we finish our meals, we don't head out, and instead, Ben heads over to the bar to fetch him and Rami a pint. Choosing to stay at the booth with Rami and Lucy as they talk to each other, I stare at the love of my life while he talks with the bartender. A few seconds pass before a cute blonde moves to stand beside him and speak up, making my smile turn into a frown as I continue staring.

I trust Ben and all, but that doesn't mean that I'm not bothered by the flirtatious look the woman's giving him or the fact that he's talking to her as if he doesn't notice this. With the way she keeps throwing her hand, I can tell she's flirting, and if I weren't mistaken, the smile on his face shows that he doesn't mind it. Ben knows I can see him, so why is he doing this in plain view?

I hate to admit it, but as I watch it all go down, I feel my self-esteem lower as well. The blonde woman is beautiful, to simply put it. She could get anyone in this bar, and yet, she's trying to get the man that's mine - the man I love. Now that I think about it, Ben could get anyone in this entire world, but he chose me... why?

"Miss?" I hear a voice speak up to the right of me, causing me to look over and see the waiter standing at the end of our table with a small smile. "Did you hear me?"

With a flustered smile, I wave my hand with a shake of my head. "I'm sorry, I didn't," I tell him, blushing with embarrassment. "I wasn't paying attention," I explain. I was too busy staring at Ben and the girl at the bar that I didn't even hear the poor man ask me a question.

"It's alright," The man assures me with a polite nod and smile. "Can I get you anything, hon'?" At his question, I shake my head and thank him before he walks away. Only a couple of seconds pass before I see Ben in the corner of my eye returning with two glasses in his hands, handing one to Rami before sitting beside me. His eyes don't meet mine, and for some reason, he looks almost mad. Going by the fact that the woman back there was blatantly flirting with him and he didn't stop her, I can't help but grow a little upset as well, except my annoyance is for a reason.

Thirty minutes pass before we're all standing from the booth and bidding happy goodbyes before heading to our cars. Thankfully, Lucy and Rami didn't seem to notice me and Ben not speaking to each other, which is good since I wouldn't have known what to say. Meanwhile, Ben hasn't even spared a glance at me once and has chosen to practically ignore me with dull hums as answers to my questions. The ever-growing silence and distant attitude from Ben only further my frustration, and despite trying to pass it off and forget about it, Ben's not letting me by not responding to me.

Once we reach our home, I park the car and turn it off before we head out of the car and into the house, wordlessly. When we walk in, Frankie remains in her bed, feeling the apparent tension between her two owners as our footsteps sound a bit heavier and stiffer than usual. Walking past the couch, I toss my purse onto the plush seat and head straight to the bedroom. Surprisingly, Ben follows me, only stopping in his stride when I do so.

Turning around, I look at his flustered form and grow confused. His cheeks are red and puffy, almost as if he were huffing like a child, and his blond eyebrows are furrowed together in what seems to be aggravation. Not to mention his arms are crossed against his chest, causing the rolled sleeves of his shirt to stretch against his biceps as he taps his foot against the carpet soundlessly, almost like he's waiting for me to speak up, and so, I do.

"What is your problem?" I ask him, trying to sound as calm as ever, but unfortunately, a few hints of malice come out, making Ben let out an angered sigh.

"Oh, I don't know," He answers, shrugging his shoulders dramatically while shaking his head, his eyes squinted. "Other than the fact that you and the waiter were flirting when I left the table for a few seconds, I don't know what could ever be the problem!"

His words take me by shock. The waiter and I barely exchanged ten words - and none of them were even remotely flirtatious. I guess the term "hon'" could be considered flirty, but the guy seemed like he was just doing his job and being a nice person at the same time. Why is Ben getting so upset over this?

"We were not flirting!" I defend myself, my lips parted in utter disbelief. Ben barely listens to my words before speaking up once more.

"Oh, I'm sorry, I wasn't paying attention!" He imitates me from earlier in a high pitched voice while impersonating what could be considered a troubled and overly dramatic version of me.

"Oh, it's not a problem doll-face," This time, his voice seeps with venom in a raspier and less-deep tone than his usual voice. He must be impersonating the waiter.

Despite Ben using the wrong term, I still find myself shaking my head at his childish antics before shooting back. "Oh, so you were jealous of the damn waiter for merely talking to me whenever you were over by the bar, flirting back and forth with some chick while I was waiting for you!" I point out, crossing my arms before throwing my hand in front of me in a questioning manner. His face then plays the same shocked and almost confused reaction like mine does, making me scoff. "Wow, Ben, I can totally understand your reasoning."

"We weren't flirting back and forth!" He argues as if he were offended. His reddened cheeks puff in exasperation while he uncrosses his arms. "She told me she was a big fan of my work, and I thanked her!"

"Ben, she was staring at you with 'fuck me' eyes!" I sadly exclaim, throwing my hands up in an exasperated motion as tears fill my eyes. His face seems to soften at my sudden mood change. "And I didn't want to face the fact that I was jealous, but then, I started thinking about how easily I could lose you to any other woman that might come around and be better than me in every way," I slowly confess, turning my eyes to the floor beneath my feet. Ben then moves closer, wrapping his arms around me and gently pulling me close to him. Despite being so pissed at him, I feel my instincts take over as I nuzzle my head closer to his chest and slowly wrap my arms around his middle.

"And it hurt. So, yeah, I got lost in my own little world with my insecurities, and then the waiter came up, and I didn't hear him talking to me," Looking up at him, I stare into his green eyes as they stare down at me, his eyebrows furrowed in concern. "I swear, Ben, I wasn't flirting with him-" Ben cuts me off.

"I know, I know, baby," Ben assures me, one of his hands rising from my waist to run his thumb over my cheek. "And, I swear, I wasn't flirting with that girl either," He promises me. "She was in my way of getting back to the table and then she started talking, and despite trying to get past her, the only way I got her to move over was whenever I smiled and thanked her over and over again. You are the only woman for me, for the rest of my life, and the only one I will ever need or want," He promises, staring down into my eyes with the utmost honesty just before he lets out a sigh. "When I walked closer and saw the waiter looking you up and down..." Ben goes on to explain, shaking his head and closing his eyes. "I hate to admit it, but I wanted to beat the living-shit out of that guy."

At his words, I giggle and stand on the tips of my toes to press my lips against Ben's soft ones. Instantly, he kisses me back as his hand on my cheek grows firmer and his arm around me pulls me closer, giving us no space between our bodies - just the way we like it.

After a few seconds of passionate kissing, we pull away, leaving us both breathless as his thumb slides up to brush over my now swollen bottom lip. "How were you able to tell that the woman was staring at me with 'fuck me' eyes from so far away?" He asks, his voice clouded with an almost cocky tone.

"Because I've been looking at you with the same gaze for the past two hours," I explain, watching a smirk make its way onto Ben's lips. Soon enough, I find myself being playfully tossed onto the bed while Ben makes his way down my body, lightly nipping at my thighs as he pushes the bottom of my dress upward, his hands lingering on my bottom as he does so.

"I don't know how I've been able to keep my hands off you this entire night," Ben confesses, "And, I have to admit," he starts, his green eyes peering over the bunched-up fabric of my dress. "even though I love this dress, I feel like ripping it off right now," He mutters, making me laugh. Despite his current animalistic feelings, I know he could never rip one of his favorite dresses of mine - he loves to see me in it too much.

[bigassbowlingballhead]

the voyeurs is a film about two women watching each other "without the other knowing" that really should have just been a sapphic romance.

that scene at the spa? i really thought they were 2.5 away from kissing. at least pippa seemed to really want to. where does the line between obsession and attraction really start anyway?

i can't really blame pippa for her actions, because yeah. if i lived across the street from someone fucking in front of their open windows. I'd look. then if i saw the man fucking someone ELSE. I'd be invested in this drama. it's my own personal soap. totally not the point of the film. the point is you don't know people you don't know. but i'd STILL look. and quite honestly, i think you're lying if you say you wouldn't.

ben hardy, no matter where i see him, always surprises me. he does this subtle face acting that pulls me in. all the little ways he reacts to what he's being told, and it's quite a nice face.

fun movie, 3.5/5 stars might watch again

[cinesexual]

Click the link to watch the movie. ☝️☝️☝️

Tip me.

Discover many, many more here.

From Perplexity:

Unicorns is a groundbreaking LGBTQ+ drama film that explores themes of identity, love, and cultural intersectionality. Directed by James Krishna Floyd and Sally El Hosaini, the film premiered at the 2023 Toronto International Film Festival and was released in UK and Irish cinemas on July 5, 2024. It stars Ben Hardy as Luke, a single father and mechanic, and Jason Patel as Aysha/Ashiq, a South Asian Muslim drag queen. Their unexpected romance challenges societal norms and delves into the complexities of sexuality, gender, and cultural identity[1][2][3].

Plot Overview

The story follows Luke, who stumbles into a queer nightclub and becomes captivated by Aysha's drag performance. Initially unaware of Aysha's identity outside of drag, Luke's attraction forces him to confront his own sexual fluidity. As their relationship develops, the film navigates Luke's internal struggles with prejudice and societal expectations while immersing viewers in the vibrant yet secretive "gaysian" drag scene—a subculture blending South Asian heritage with LGBTQ+ expression[2][6][7].

Relevance to Gay Cinephiles

Unicorns is a significant addition to queer cinema for several reasons:

Representation of Marginalized Communities: It sheds light on the "gaysian" drag scene, a rarely depicted subculture in mainstream media. The film authentically portrays this world by casting real-life South Asian drag performers and drawing from historical influences like Mughal courtesans and Bollywood aesthetics[6][7].

Exploration of Fluid Identities: The narrative challenges binary notions of sexuality and gender, focusing on characters navigating fluid identities. This resonates with contemporary discussions about bisexuality, pansexuality, and non-binary experiences[4][7].

Cross-Cultural Romance: The relationship between Luke and Ashiq bridges cultural divides, addressing themes of acceptance within both the LGBTQ+ community and traditional South Asian families[6][7].

Critical Reception

The film has been widely praised for its fresh approach to queer storytelling. Critics have highlighted the chemistry between Hardy and Patel, as well as the nuanced exploration of identity. Joey Moser of Awards Daily called it "an important piece of new queer cinema," while others lauded its balance between romantic comedy elements and deeper social commentary[1][4][5]. It has also won several awards at festivals like the British Independent Film Awards (BIFAs) and the Dinard Film Festival[1].

Cultural Impact

Unicorns stands out as an era-defining LGBTQ+ film that not only entertains but also educates audiences about underrepresented communities. Its focus on queer joy, alongside its critique of societal labels, makes it a trailblazer in gay cinema. For cinephiles interested in films that challenge conventions while celebrating diversity, Unicorns is a must-watch[4][5][7].

Citations: [1] https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Unicorns_(2023_British_film) [2] https://www.thepinknews.com/2024/05/13/ben-hardy-queer-drag-romance-film-unicorn-release-date-trailer-jason-patel/ [3] https://www.attitude.co.uk/culture/unicorns-trailer-poster-465368/ [4] https://www.cityam.com/unicorns-film-review-ben-hardy-in-era-defining-lgbtq-romance/ [5] https://smashcutreviews.com/unicorns-movie-review-tiff/ [6] https://www.bbc.com/news/articles/c4ngwqv0plyo [7] https://variety.com/2024/film/news/lgbtq-romance-unicorns-james-krishna-floyd-sally-el-hosaini-1236049267/ [8] https://www.filmreviewdaily.com/new-reviews/unicorns [9] https://www.themoviedb.org/movie/1008416-unicorns [10] https://www.imdb.com/news/ni64683418/ [11] https://www.rottentomatoes.com/m/unicorns_2023 [12] https://www.imdb.com/title/tt21451014/ [13] https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/List_of_LGBTQ-related_films_of_2023 [14] https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8AMNrX82xys [15] https://www.pluggedin.com/movie-reviews/thelma-the-unicorn-2024/ [16] https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=d2w8Y0RZEP4 [17] https://www.hollywoodreporter.com/movies/movie-reviews/unicorns-ben-hardy-sally-el-hosaini-review-1235583707/ [18] https://www.imdb.com/title/tt21451014/news/ [19] https://sorryneverheardofit.wordpress.com/2024/07/06/unicorns/

[born-to-lose-writing]

Masterlist - one shots (self insert; pt. 1)

♡ - fluff, ♤ - angst, ☆ - smut, ♧ - platonic

Queen - Bohemian Rhapsody cast - Bon Jovi - Guns N' Roses

Queen

Roger Taylor x reader

the most wonderful time of the year ♡ || Ao3

609 words

You watch Queen filming music videos and Roger has got a surprise for you.

Wish I Was at Home for Christmas ♡ || Ao3

2,873 words

Your flight gets cancelled due to a blizzard. Even though you and Roger hate each other, he lets you stay with him over the holidays.

My Baby Does Me ☆ || Ao3

1,121 words

Roger thinks you're cheating on him and ends the fight in his own way…

I Want You to Know ♤ || Ao3

1,371 words

You're Roger's best friend and roommate, but what he doesn't know is that you're in love with him…

One More Chance ♤ || Ao3

961 words

While on vacation with your friends, you have to share a bed with your ex boyfriend Roger.

Out Tonight ♧ || Ao3

2,269 words

You've never been really drunk and you're determined to change that with a little help from your friend Roger.

Brian May x reader

Bite ☆ || Ao3

992 words

Brian has some extra time alone with you before rehearsal…

Nightmares ♤♧ || Ao3

830 words

After a movie session with your best friend Brian, you have a nightmare.

John Deacon x reader

All I Want for Christmas Is You ♡ || Ao3

1,356 words

Deaky got you for Secret Santa and buys you a really expensive gift.

And They Were Roommates ♡ || Ao3

4,026 words

When you found out you're going to share your dorm room with a boy, you hoped you'd be good friends. But it doesn't take you long to realize you might feel more for John…

Bohemian Rhapsody cast

Rami Malek x reader

Sex Dream ☆ || Ao3

2,024 words

After a weird dream about Rami, you can't stop thinking about him naked all day.

Ben Hardy x reader

Thirteen Years ♡ || Ao3

1,665 words

Joe organizes a blind date for Ben. He soon notices the girl he's been set up with played an important part in his childhood.

Joe Mazzello x reader

Feeling Better ☆♡ || Ao3

1,878 words

A back massage from Joe gets out of hand…

Bon Jovi

Jon Bon Jovi x reader

Always ♤♡ || Ao3

4,381 words

You love Jon, but at some point the rockstar lifestyle gets too much for you. While you find a way to move on after the breakup, he's still not over you after two years and writes a song to cope.

Slippery When Wet ♡ (♧) || Ao3

2,081 words

You share a flat with Jon, who regularly serves as a model for your college photography projects. One time he suggests you use the shower as a backdrop.

Guns N’ Roses

Axl Rose x reader

You Take My Breath Away ♡ || Ao3

1,037 words

You're the only person who has ever made Axl feel really loved and he wants to keep you by his side forever.

Cookies ♡ || Ao3

615 words

You and Axl bake cookies for the band.

The Coffee Savior ♡ || Ao3

516 words

On an ice-slicked day, Axl saves you - and your coffee - from falling, so of course you have to return the favour by going on a date with him.

Slash x reader

Your Girl ♡ || Ao3

1,009 words

Slash gets jealous easily when other guys look at you the wrong way.

Obsession ♡ || Ao3

566 words

Slash is obsessed with you and of course, the boys love teasing him about it.

Hello, I'm your boyfriend ♡ || Ao3

716 words

Slash comes to your rescue when you run into your ex by pretending to be your boyfriend.

Cat-and-Mouse ♡ || Ao3

906 words

You spot Slash in the crowd at a small venue concert and you're clearly attracted to each other, but playing a little hard to get never hurt anyone.

Future Lover Boy ☆ || Ao3

1,003 words

You know cheating is wrong, but for an affair with Slash, you're willing to make an exception.

Never Stopped Loving You ♤ || Ao3

1,417 words

You and Slash get hate from the media because of the age difference in your relationship, so he has to make a hard decision…

Drunk Christmas ♡ || Ao3

651 words

You and Slash are invited to a Christmas party, but after a short while, he gets drunk. Way too drunk.

How Christmas Is Supposed to Be ♡ || Ao3

923 words

When Slash finds out Christmas used to be your favorite holiday until it became just another day, he goes all out to make your first Christmas together special.

Izzy Stradlin x reader

New Beginnings ♡♤ || Ao3

776 words

Izzy comes home to you after leaving Guns N' Roses.

Just in It for Sex ☆♡ || Ao3

5,066 words

You and Izzy are fuck buddies, no romance involved, just sex. When your friends think you're more than that, you start questioning your feelings.

Time Gone By ♤ || Ao3

3,264 words

You and Izzy were the perfect couple in high school, but after he moved to Los Angeles, you lost each other. Years later, he comes back to Indiana and you realize both of you have changed in the meantime.

Date Night ☆ || Ao3

1,336 words

You run into your ex and he hits on you, but Izzy fucks you in the next room to show him you're his girl now.

Wild Horses ♡ || Ao3

1,070 words

Izzy calls you while he's on tour.

Walk Me Home ♡ || Ao3

1,117 words

You meet Izzy at a gig and he walks you home.

After All This Time ♡ || Ao3

2,232 words

In 1991, you and Izzy reunite and even now, your old feelings are still there.

Safe With Me ♤ || Ao3

1,235 words

Getting back together with your abusive ex boyfriend was a terrible decision. Thankfully, Izzy gives you a shoulder to cry on.

Fairy Lights ♡ || Ao3

437 words

You and Izzy spend a romantic evening in your garden.

Helping Mouth ☆ || Ao3

837 words

You've never been eaten out before, but Izzy is here to help.

Duff McKagan x reader

Wrong Number ♡ || Ao3

1,569 words

You call Steven to talk about your love for Duff. Or at least you think you're calling Steven…

Home for the Holidays ♡ || Ao3

1,583 words

Steven Adler x reader

Duff's mother invites you, his best friend, to the McKagans' holiday meal in an attempt to set you two up.

Hairstyles ♡♧ || Ao3

572 words

Steven lets you practice some hairstyles on him.

[punkbomb]

( 𝐈 )   ───   𝇄𝇃⠀⠀ׅ⠀ 𝐈𝐍𝐓𝐑𝐎𝐃𝐔𝐂𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍 (THE JINX)   ׅ    ͡  

                      " blah, blah, blah. did I miss anything? "

꒰⠀JINX,⠀but i go as ﹫ sal or ﹫ briar.⠀୧⠀august 16⠀—⠀leo ♌︎ sun.⠀ ✏️⠀✶⠀SILLY FACTS⠀:⠀cabin 13 which means ᐠ hade's daughter.⠀born to be a child of nyx, forced to be hades child. idiotic ravenclaw⠀&⠀intj⠀5w6.⠀꒱

FILMS & MORE⠀⠀🎬⠀⠀♡.⠀⠀naruto.⠀arcane.⠀dcu.⠀marvel.⠀avatar the way of water.⠀percy jackson.⠀atsv.⠀ jujutsu kaisen.⠀bnha.⠀once upon a time.⠀interview with the vampire.⠀mystreet.⠀the owl house.⠀tmnt.⠀alien stage.⠀harry potter.⠀stranger things.⠀avatar the last airbender.⠀the legend of korra.⠀etc.

RANDOM THINGS ABOUT⠀ME⠀⠀🏹⠀⠀♡.⠀⠀was most definitely born w/ blue hair.⠀obsessed with buldak ramen.⠀ i luv all animals but i do own a dog (his name is loki :3).⠀eldest child.⠀wanna major in psychology.⠀wattpad writer before.⠀neurodivergent.⠀ambidextrous.⠀morning coffee.⠀eye bags.⠀white chocolate.⠀melancholic.⠀pink 'n blue. ⠀ introverted. ⠀ guitarist. ⠀ self-taught.

SINGERS & BANDS⠀⠀🎼⠀⠀♡.⠀⠀maximum the hormone. ⠀ insane clown posse.⠀existTtrace.⠀malice mizer.⠀baby metal.⠀my chemical romance. pierce the veil.⠀mccafferty.⠀slipknot.⠀mitski.⠀gorillaz. kimya dawson.⠀boygenius.⠀leith ross.⠀imogen heap. adrianne lenker.⠀pink shift.⠀chappell roan.⠀gigi perez. hatsune miku.⠀ the marias.⠀+ more (anything controversial these artists have done, i do NOT condone. and besides, i pirate music anyways <3)

PEOPLE I STAN⠀⠀🫶🏻⠀⠀♡.⠀⠀mark ruffalo.⠀ ⠀ bella ramsey.⠀pedro pascal.⠀ben schwartz.⠀bailey bass. damien haas.⠀tom hardy.⠀megan thee stallion.⠀jenna ortega. donald glover. ⠀tom holland.⠀ zendaya.⠀ kendrick lamar. andrew garfield.⠀⠀⠀⠀bad bunny.⠀⠀⠀ ⠀justice smith. jack haven.

inspo⠀©⠀faiszt ! ⠀ ⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⠀⠀⠀n.⠀♡5⠀ CHERRY ( we're all gonna die )⠀ playing⠀ 🎧