#adjustable compression wraps

[pentanguine]

In case anyone is wondering about top surgery recovery, I haven’t been posting about it because it’s been uneventful

Ever since I got the drains out, I’ve felt totally fine, and it’s honestly been like a nice two week vacation from work. I’ll hurt a little bit if I try to move in a way I shouldn’t (which is basically just reaching for things), and for the first week, I couldn’t walk as fast as I normally do, but other than that? Non-event

Emotionally, this still feels like the most normal thing in the world. It’s hard to imagine there was ever anything there. I keep spontaneously grinning while I’m taking a shower, in unselfconscious joy

I have had the top surgery recovery from heaven, so I can’t guarantee anyone else’s will be like this, but even if there had been more problems, it would still definitely be worth it

[sirfrogsworth]

I think in this new age of A.I. the general public is going to need to increase their photography and lighting literacy. The response to this photo has just been a shit show.

There are people pointing out perfectly normal edge lighting and misunderstanding how reflections work.

First the plane is parked at an angle. The tail is farther back than the nose. But also that is a curved surface and it tapers. It's reflecting the area to the right of the photo.

And the bottom of the plane is reflecting what is directly underneath. Which is the tarmac, not the crowd.

It should also be noted that photo was shot with a very telephoto lens and everything is super compressed. The crowd appears much closer to the airplane than they actually are.

But then someone who should have good understanding of lighting said this...

And now I'm worried for her clients. Because that's very... wrong.

Well, wrong-ish.

First, let's try to understand why this photo is setting off some alarm bells.

The crowd toward the rear is in shadow, but they are still very well exposed. But then there is also a bright light source creating a strong edge light on them. Looking at this photo with just the context of what is in it, there are some things that seem uncanny.

The information we do not have is the people in the shadow area are inside a very brightly lit airplane hangar.

So they have artificial light blasting them from the top.

But that light is still much dimmer than the sunlit areas outside so they appear in shade. But we are used to shade being much darker than areas in direct sun. So the balance seems off in our brain. We expect the people to be darker because we don't have the context of the bright hangar lights above them.

But the other issue is that the photo was post processed. It wasn't manipulated. The pixels weren't changed. But the exposure balance was altered.

If I were to guess, the original photo looked more like this...

But newer digital cameras can have 13 to 15 stops of dynamic range. And if you shoot in RAW, you can easily lift shadows and bring down highlights. You can balance the exposure so the dark parts aren't as dark and the bright parts aren't as bright. This photographer might have overdone it a bit in this case, but this is a fairly standard edit used to bring balance to photos.

And lastly, where does the edge light come from?

Edge lighting or backlighting or rim lighting (all the same) should probably be called wrap-around lighting if you want to be more accurate.

It comes from a homogenous light source that is larger than the subject being lit. So with my knife photo, I placed it on a large LED panel light.

The light source was bigger than the subject so it wrapped around the edges.

And I'm afraid the airplane is not nearly large enough to create a light source to wrap around everyone in the crowd. It isn't even reflecting direct sunlight. So I'm sorry to say that lighting designer was mostly mistaken despite the confidence.

The light source is... everything.

That entire red area I highlighted is the light source.

As well as everything above and everything to the sides.

And the biggest aspect of that light source would be the sky above. I think people always forget the sky is a light source. If you are seeing blue, you are seeing light. And I guess the plane is included in that, but that entire highlighted red area is so bright, and so filled with sunlight bouncing around, that it creates basically a giant softbox. It becomes a huge single light source for the people in the hangar.

If you look at footage taken from way inside the hangar, you can see the camera adjusting exposure for the crowd inside, but look at what happens to the sunlit area outside.

What does that look like?

A giant softbox.

A single homogenous light source blasting light inside the hangar.

The sun is so incredibly bright that even when it is not directly lighting something, the light just bouncing around outside is enough to overpower the very bright hangar lights.

So, what have we learned from this?

Perhaps people should hire me to be their lighting designer.

Though I'm sure she is actually very talented. She seems to work with stage lights and this is more physics and photography.

Phystography.

[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.”

[science-hoes]

Addict

Michael Robinavitch x Reader

Warnings: Smut, 18+, on-call room oral sex

Michael Robinavitch Masterlist

--

It wasn’t often that Robby had a break during his 12 hour shift. Between the sea of patients and bumbling medical students, he rarely had any free time at all. Even to eat.

Which is ironic.

Because he was currently between your legs, large hands gripping your thighs like they were the only thing tethering him to reality. His tongue expertly and feverishly lapped the juices from your overwhelming orgasm that wracked your body. Like he knew it was the only sustenance that he was going to get until the end of his shift.

“Such a good fucking girl for me.” He mumbled against you, the bridge of his nose brushing against your overstimulated clit.

You tightened your grip on the sheets of the on-call room bed. “Michael…” You breathed. “You have to go back to work. I have to go back to work.”

Robby’s brown eyes flicked up to you, glistening in the low light of the room. “Just five more minutes.” He pleaded, pressing a kiss against the inside of your thigh.

You ran a lazy hand through his hair, down to gently scratch his beard. “You’re an addict.” You teased.

Robby chuckled and pressed a trail of kisses back to your throbbing pussy. “I just can’t get enough.” He growled before shoving his tongue as far as he could and sucking hard.

Just as you began to let out a startled scream, large fingers shoved themselves into your mouth as a muffle. Your eyes watered from the depth they reached in your throat, and your legs squeezed around his broad shoulders. “Michael, please-“ You choked.

Robby smirked and lifted his head. He used his free hand to pull you down the bed closer to him until your face aligned with his. He slowly withdrew his fingers from your mouth and grinned. “I’ll need another fix tonight.” He whispered, just barely rolling his hips against yours. His clothed cock teased at your pussy. “But I might need something stronger to take the edge off.”

You giggled and wrapped your arms around his neck. “I’ll see what I can do.” You teased and kissed him gently. “But I expect dirty scrubs and shoes to be disposed of before walking on the new carpet in the bedroom.”

Robby chuckled and nodded. “Yes ma’am.” He pressed a kiss to your cheek before hopping off the bed. He handed your scrub pants to you, and you shimmied them back on. He adjusted his cock, still hard, but thank goodness for compression shorts and baggy scrub pants on tall men. You stood on your toes for one last kiss. “Count to 30, then you can leave.” You said before slipping out the door.

Robby watched you leave, smiling even after you were gone. Even these 15 minute breaks took mountains of stress off his chest. He waited for the slotted 30 seconds, then left for the ED.

[writeriguess]

hi sweetie, I hope you are well ( ˘͈ ᵕ ˘͈♡). I came to request katsuki Bakugou x female reader. They are married but due to Bakugou hero's busy schedule they have few moments together, I would like the plot to be based on the reader discovering Bakugou's infidelity (I want to suffer) (˃ ⌑ ˂ഃ ) following the appearance of a pregnant woman (or some crazy stuff like that?) If it's too much, don't worry! I just want that kind of anguish. tysm .ᐟ.ᐟ

author's note: Thank you, I am well <3 The upcoming work trip stresses me out a little though! I'm likely on it when this publishes.

A House Built on Ashes

The apartment is silent when you wake up, the other side of the bed cold. Again.

You stare at the ceiling, blinking away the sleep that threatens to pull you back under. Katsuki’s been working late. Too late. Always too late. Your hands glide across the empty sheets, searching for warmth that hasn’t been there in weeks. The clock on your nightstand reads 3:14 AM. A part of you wonders if he’ll even come home tonight.

Dragging yourself out of bed, you wrap his hoodie around your frame and pad barefoot into the kitchen. Your heart sinks when you see the untouched dinner, still wrapped and waiting for him. The weight in your chest grows heavier as you unwrap the food, staring at the cold meal you made hours ago. It’s stupid, really. You should be used to this by now.

The sound of the front door unlocking makes you flinch. You turn, breath caught in your throat, as Katsuki steps inside. His ash-blond hair is disheveled, his hero uniform half undone, revealing the black compression shirt underneath. He looks tired—exhausted even—but not in the way he should be. Not in the way of a man who’s just been fighting villains all day.

His crimson eyes meet yours, widening slightly as if he wasn’t expecting you to be awake.

“Yer still up?” His voice is rough, like he’s been screaming. Or lying.

“Couldn’t sleep.” Your fingers tighten around the edge of the counter. “Where were you?”

He hesitates. It’s barely a second, but it’s enough.

“Work ran late.”

A simple answer. A practiced one. But something is off. His uniform smells like detergent—freshly washed. His scent is there, but it’s muted. As if someone else’s perfume had been scrubbed away. A cold tendril of doubt coils around your heart.

“I called,” you say, watching his expression carefully. “Three times.”

His jaw tightens. “Phone died.”

Lies.

You want to believe him. Gods, you want to. You want to be the supportive wife, the one who understands that being the Number Two Pro Hero means sacrifices. But you know Katsuki. You know how meticulous he is about keeping his gear—and his phone—charged.

You know when he’s lying.

A week passes, and the distance between you both grows like a festering wound. He kisses you still, but there’s something different. Guilt, maybe. Or obligation. And then it happens. The moment everything unravels.

It’s a grocery run. A normal, mindless errand. Until you see her.

She’s beautiful. Dark hair pulled into a loose bun, wearing an oversized sweater that hides the curve of her stomach—almost. But you see it. The subtle swell of a life growing inside her. And more than that, you see the way her hands hover protectively over her belly.

You might have walked past her without a second glance if it weren’t for the conversation you overheard.

“Oh, please,” the woman scoffs, rolling her eyes as she adjusts the shopping basket on her arm. “Like she really thinks he’s still faithful to her? She’s pathetic.”

You freeze.

Her friend giggles, covering her mouth. “I mean, Y/N is stupidly naive if she thinks a man like Katsuki would actually stick around forever.”

Your blood turns to ice in your veins.

The woman—this stranger—laughs, a bitter, knowing sound. “Right? He knocked me up, and she’s still playing house like nothing’s wrong. I mean, come on, he spends more nights with me than her at this point.”

Your stomach churns. It feels like the ground is swallowing you whole.

Her friend nudges her playfully. “So, when’s Bakugou finally ditching her and stepping up?”

The woman sighs, rubbing a hand over her stomach. “Soon, hopefully. I mean, we all know he’s just staying out of guilt. But once this baby’s here?” She grins. “She’ll just be the embarrassing ex-wife.”

You don’t remember walking out of the store. You don’t remember the drive home. You don’t remember anything except the way your heart beats so violently against your ribs that it hurts.

By the time Katsuki comes home that night, you’re sitting on the couch, his hoodie pulled tight around you, your hands clenched into fists in your lap.

He doesn’t get the chance to speak before you ask, voice hollow—“Do you love her?”

The silence that follows is the worst part. Because it’s not immediate denial. It’s not outrage at the accusation. It’s nothing. Just quiet, suffocating nothingness.

Your whole world burns.

The silence stretches between you like a yawning abyss. Your heart pounds so violently that you can hear the blood rushing in your ears. Katsuki stares at you, crimson eyes unreadable, but his lips part like he’s searching for something to say—an excuse, a reason, a lie that will make this all go away.

But nothing comes.

Nothing.

And that is the final straw.

Your hands tremble as you push yourself to your feet, and suddenly, all the pain that’s been simmering inside you—festering, growing, poisoning every quiet moment you spent waiting for him—boils over.

“You bastard,” you whisper, but it’s more than that. It’s not just an insult. It’s a curse, a condemnation, a blade forged from every night you spent staring at the ceiling, wondering why you weren’t enough.

His jaw tightens, but he doesn’t speak. He doesn’t try to defend himself.

Coward.

“Say something, Katsuki!” you shout, and your voice cracks on his name. His name—the one you’ve whispered in love, in devotion, in trust. Now it tastes like ash on your tongue.

But he doesn’t say anything.

The quiet shatters something inside you. You shove past the coffee table, hands shaking as you grab the untouched dinner you left wrapped for him hours ago. The plate crashes into the sink with a sharp, ringing clatter, the sound echoing through the suffocating apartment. “You could’ve just told me,” you say, voice shaking. “You could’ve told me that you didn’t love me anymore instead of—”

Instead of this.

Instead of letting you rot away in this lie.

Instead of making you look like a fucking fool.

You press a hand against your forehead, breathing hard, fighting against the sob that threatens to rip itself from your chest. Your vision is blurry with unshed tears, but you refuse to let them fall—not yet. Not in front of him.

Katsuki finally moves, stepping forward, hands raised as if he can fix this—as if he has the right to touch you after everything. “Y/N—”

“Don’t,” you snap, voice like glass shards. He flinches, and good. Let him feel just a fraction of what you feel. Let it fucking hurt.

You let out a bitter laugh, though it tastes more like grief than amusement. “I cooked for you. I waited up for you. I defended you every single time someone said you wouldn’t settle down. And you—” You shake your head, chest heaving. “You weren’t even fucking careful. You didn’t even have the decency to make sure I didn’t find out like this.”

His eyes darken, but there’s shame there, too. “I didn’t mean for this to happen.”

You let out a hollow laugh. “Oh, sure. You just tripped and fell into another woman? And now she’s having your kid?”

His lips press into a thin line, and for the first time, you see it. The guilt. The regret. But it’s too late for that now. Too fucking late.

Your hands curl into fists, nails digging into your palms until you’re sure they’ll leave crescent-shaped marks. You’re shaking, your whole body vibrating with rage, with devastation, with betrayal so deep it makes you sick to your stomach.

“You don’t get to do this to me,” you whisper, voice raw. “You don’t get to make me love you, to promise me forever, and then throw me away like I meant nothing.”

His hands tighten at his sides. “You didn’t mean nothing.”

But it’s not enough. It will never be enough.

Your breath catches, the dam finally breaking as a sob rips through your throat. “Then why wasn’t I enough?”

And for the first time, Katsuki has no answer.

You nod, wiping at your face furiously before turning on your heel, heading straight for the bedroom. Your mind is racing, already thinking about packing, about leaving, about never looking back. About how much it’s going to hurt.

He calls your name—soft, desperate.

But you don’t stop.

You don’t look back.

Because if you do, you might break completely.

[playnextdoor]

im sick

summary: vi helps you when your sick

cw: mentions and descriptions of throw/throwing up for my emetophobes, mentions of food that caused said sickeness lol, domestic (?) vi, she is very sweet yay, this is very short

You jolt awake, drenched in sweat, the taste of bile pooling in your mouth. For a moment, everything feels blurry until the sudden urgency hits you. You barely notice Vi sprawled out beside you as you clumsily crawl over her and bolt for the bathroom. The commotion stirs her instantly.

“Hey—wait, what’s wrong?” she calls out groggily, already moving to follow you.

By the time she reaches the bathroom, you’re hunched over the toilet, your hands gripping the porcelain as your body convulses. The sound of you retching echoes off the tiles.

“Shit,” Vi mutters, panic lacing her voice as she turns and rushes out of the room. She’s back in seconds with a towel and a glass of water, setting them on the counter before kneeling beside you. Her calloused hands are gentle as they push stray hairs away from your damp face. “Let it out, babe,” she murmurs, her other hand rubbing slow, soothing circles on your back. “You’re okay. Just let it out.”

Your body heaves one last time before the sickness leaves. Gasping for air, you shakily reach for her hand. She’s already there, steady and solid, helping you stand. Without a word, she dampens the towel and gently wipes your face, her touch so careful.

“I think it was that burger we had earlier,” you croak, wincing as you rinse your mouth out at the sink.

Vi watches you closely, her brows furrowed with concern. “Yeah… probably. You’ve been off all day.” Her voice is quieter now, as though speaking too loud might overwhelm you.

You stare into the mirror, water dripping down your face. Tiny red dots bloom under your eyes, blood vessels burst from the force of throwing up, a grim reminder of how your body puts so much force in this thing you would avoid any day.

“I’m sorry you have to deal with this,” you whisper, voice shaky.

She shakes her head, stepping closer. “Don’t apologize. Drink some water.” Her hand cups your damp face as she raises the glass to your lips, her thumb brushing over the faint red freckles on your cheek. She watches you drink slowly, watches you wince as the bitter aftertaste of bile fades under the coolness of the water.

“I know you hate throwing up,” she says softly, her eyes never leaving yours.

You nod, managing a weak smile before your stomach churns again. “Too soon,” you mutter, and before you can stop yourself, you’re back at the toilet.

Vi is there in an instant, one arm wrapping around you to keep you steady as the other supports your weight. “it’s okay,” she whispers, even as your body shakes violently. “I got you.”

When it’s finally over, you slump against her, tears and snot streaking down your face. You’re a mess, and you know it. You hate when she sees you like this.

“I should’ve warned you…” you mumble through ragged breaths.

“Hey, stop that,” she cuts in, her voice firm but kind. She helps you to your feet again, guiding you back to the sink to rinse your mouth before coaxing more water down your throat. This time, she waits, watching you carefully to make sure you’re not about to hurl again.

When you finally make it back to bed, you collapse into the sheets, still trembling. “Stay with me,” you whisper, the words soft and desperate.

She grins, trying to lighten the mood. “Like I’d go anywhere.”

Before you can reply, she’s yanking the thick blanket from beneath you and tucking it snugly around your body, cocooning you in a makeshift burrito. Your head and feet poke out from the folds, and you pout up at her as she adjusts the edges.

“Don’t look at me like that,” she teases, pulling out a warm compress and placing it gently on your forehead. “You need to rest.”

“But I want to kiss you,” you whisper, your lips curling into a weak pout.

Vi smirks, leaning in close, her breath brushing against your cheek. “You’re cute, but also gross. I don’t need whatever you have.”

You groan, turning your head away, trapped in your blanket prison as she crawls into bed beside you. Her messy pink hair spills across the pillow, and the sight of her, so effortlessly beautiful even now, makes your chest ache.

“I’m sorry…” you murmur again, your voice soft as you glance at her.

She chuckles, leaning in to press a featherlight kiss to the tip of your nose. “No more burgers,” she whispers, settling in beside you and pulling the blanket tighter around you.

“No more burgers,” you agree, letting your eyes flutter shut as her warmth seeps into you.

a/n: i wrote this to help me cope that i have no one taking care of while i threw up my insides last night. yeah.

[luveline]

hi my lovely!! maybe bombshell!reader and spencer struggling to adjust to daily life after his prison stint? maybe he feels suffocated and an argument ensues?? i feel like it would be difficult to just get back to normal after everything that happened !! love you <33

love you!!! fem!reader

“You’ve always had terrible posture.” 

“What?” Spencer asks. 

You wrap your arms around him from behind. You’re more gentle than anyone he’s ever met, though you're teasing, whispering in his ear, “You sit forward so far you must get knots.” 

He’s immediately tense. You take little notice, your nose in his hair, your hand riding up toward his neck, which you spoil with soft touching. He tries to relax. It's all he wanted only a week ago, to have you holding him, to smell your perfume, the stick of your hand lotion or the traces of mint in your lip oil as you kiss the skin just behind his ear. But now it feels like too much. You’re never too much, not for him, and yet. 

“Ready?” you ask, bracing your hands against his chest. 

You pull him back until he hears a solid click emanating from the mid of his spine, and you laugh quite nicely in his ear. You’re his showful girl, but you’ve taken care since he came back to be careful. This is the cheekiest you’ve acted. His ears are ringing as your fingertips draw a path down his chest. This is a proper hug. His chest compresses tightly, he can’t draw breath. 

“Love you,” you say, kissing his cheek. You show no signs of detaching. “You smell really good. Maybe we can get some Indian takeout tonight and just stay all comfy and stuff…” 

He can’t answer. He wishes you’d stop touching him. It’s an unfair wish. 

“Does that sound okay?” you ask. 

He nods, hoping you’ll get off of him once you know the answer. When you stay, he shifts his shoulder and forces out a tight, “Yeah, that’s good.” 

“I love you.” 

He loves you so much it hurts to say. “I love you too.” 

“You’re not feeling okay?” you ask quietly. 

“I’m fine.” 

You climb off of him quickly. He knows he’s been too mean, worse when you say, “Okay,” in a tone like you’ve choked on something. “Uh, well, I’ll go find a menu.” 

You’re not one for filler words —it’s how he knows he’s thrown you for a loop. 

Spencer isn’t trying to be spiteful. He’s constantly overstimulated, he has been for three or months now, weeks and weeks of being in fight mode and now he’s home he doesn’t feel home, you’re here but he’s struggling to just accept that things are fine again. They don’t feel fine. 

He knows he’s lucky. He feels sick, is all. 

After a phone call he hears from the couch where you place an order for all his favourite mains and sides, you return to the living room of his apartment (of which you practically live in) and sit on the far side of the couch. Not too far to miss, but enough to betray how he’s made you feel. 

“Don’t sit so far away,” he says. 

“You’re being snippy, Spencer. Which is fine. But I don’t want to fight.” 

He holds out his hand. “Don’t sit so far away,” he repeats, preface to an apology. 

You shuffle across the couch on your knees. Spencer doesn’t want a hug, but he takes your hand and holds it to his chest where his heartbeat goes a tick too fast. Your frown softens as the bump of his pulse registers. 

“Sorry,” he says. “I don’t know what it is.” 

“That’s okay.” You’re lying at first, then not, “It’s okay, honey. I know you’re– I know this is still bad. I know I’m not being the most help I could be for you right now.” 

“It’s not like that,” he insists. 

“Well. Don’t be sorry. But please don’t say you love me if you don’t want to say it, Spence.” 

He could bite off his own tongue. “I feel like I can’t speak. I think I need to talk to Dr. Kelly tomorrow. I’m so anxious I feel like I can’t breathe.” 

He figures he owes you some honesty, but he’s wishing he kept it to himself when he sees the stricken look that lights your eyes. Your mouth turns to a line. 

Spencer grabs for your other hand. “I’m fine,” he says again. 

“Oh, sure.” You massage his fingers with your thumb on automatic. “You seem totally fine.” You lean in. “I don’t expect you to be fine, you know that? If you’re moody, that’s okay. You can be mad at me if you want, I think you deserve it. But I’m serious, don’t say you love me if you don’t mean it.” 

“I always mean it,” he says honestly. 

For a moment, you bite your lip, your eyes on his, and he worries he’s not as forgiven as he wants to be. 

“I’ll call Dr. Kelly,” you say finally, pulling your joined hands into your lap. “I want you to feel better, babe. That’s all I want.” 

He nods, lifting his chin for a kiss you give immediately. The suffocating feeling abates.

[aventurineswife]

Hi, can i request aven, blade, jing yuan and moze taking care of reader during their period?🥺

Taking care of you during your period

Tags: Aventurine x Reader, Blade x Reader, Jing Yuan x Reader, Moze x Reader, Fluff, Comfort, Period Comfort, Caretaking, Comfort, Soft Moments, Emotional Support, Gentle Love.

Warnings: Sensitive Content (related to menstruation), Mentions of physical discomfort.

Aventurine sauntered into your shared bedroom, his signature grin faltering the moment he saw you curled up on the bed, clutching a hot water bottle against your stomach. He raised a brow, the glint of concern flickering behind his eyes.

“Ah, the dreaded monthly gamble of misery,” he teased lightly, sitting beside you. “What are the odds you’ll let me help?”

You groaned softly, not in the mood for banter. Aventurine chuckled and adjusted his glasses. “Relax, darling. I’m on it.”

Moments later, he returned with a tray: your favorite snacks, herbal tea, and a heated blanket. He even placed a small roulette chip on the tray for dramatic effect.

“Self-care by Aventurine. High stakes, maximum comfort.”

As he tucked the blanket around you and settled beside you, he gently massaged your temples, his touch soothing. “Now, tell me—what else can I do to make you forget about the unfortunate gamble of biology?”

Blade noticed your discomfort before you even said a word. The faint tension in your movements and the way you curled into yourself didn’t escape his sharp gaze. He approached quietly, his usual brooding expression softening.

“Are you in pain?” His deep voice carried a hint of worry.

You nodded weakly, clutching your stomach. Without another word, Blade retrieved a warm compress and sat beside you. His large hands were surprisingly gentle as he placed the compress on your abdomen and wrapped an arm around you, pulling you against him.

“I’ll stay until you feel better.” he murmured, his tone protective.

Blade’s presence was calming, and the rhythmic rise and fall of his chest as he held you provided unexpected comfort. Though he wasn’t one for many words, his actions spoke volumes.

“If the pain gets worse, tell me. I’ll find something else to help.” he said quietly, his eyes meeting yours with unwavering resolve.

The usually composed and relaxed General Jing Yuan found you curled up in bed, wincing from cramps. Concern flashed in his eyes as he sat at the edge of the bed.

“Ah, no wonder you’ve been quiet today.” he said gently, brushing a strand of hair from your face.

You mumbled an apology, but Jing Yuan shook his head, his warm smile reassuring. “There’s no need to apologize. Stay here; I’ll take care of everything.”

He left briefly, returning with a tray of warm tea, a soothing balm for your cramps, and a small, fluffy blanket Mimi had been napping on. “I’ve enlisted Mimi’s assistance. Surely her warmth will help.”

Jing Yuan placed the tea on the nightstand and massaged your shoulders with care, his movements deliberate and soothing.

“Rest, my dear,” he said softly. “The Luofu can handle itself for a while. My priority is you.”

Moze wasn’t one for overt displays of affection, but the moment he noticed you grimacing in pain, he quietly took note of your needs. Without a word, he disappeared, returning moments later with a glass of water and pain relief tablets.

“Take these.” he said curtly, though his violet eyes betrayed his concern.

You thanked him, his stoic demeanor oddly comforting. Moze began tidying the room—a subtle way of distracting himself from the helplessness he felt seeing you in pain. When he finished, he surprised you by sitting at your side and placing a cold cloth on your forehead.

“Tell me if you need anything else.” he said, his voice quieter than usual.

As you rested, Moze stayed close, his presence steady and reassuring. He didn’t need to say much; his actions showed his care. Even in silence, you felt his dedication, the way he ensured everything was just right for your comfort.

[enimsiyobeht]

skz & sex BUTTTT when it comes to their s/o at work 🫣🫣

why is this lowkey reminding me of this one love in the air a03 fic ive been rereading ....

Bang Chan is THE husband when it comes to 'visiting' your home office. Chan's been clingy all day, still in sweats, hair messy, and pouty because you're holed up in your home office. At first, he just wants to sit in your lap while you type… but then he starts grinding slowly, mumbling how much he missed you all morning, and how he’s so sensitive from the dream he had about you. You try to stay focused on your report, but Chan's whimpering, nuzzling into your neck, and pulling your hand between his legs until you finally shut your laptop—and fuck him hard over the desk until he can’t sit still anymore.

Lee Know is THE boyfriend when it comes to 'visiting' your recording studio. Minho always says he doesn’t like distractions, but when he stops by your studio with “lunch” and sits on the couch watching you work, you can feel him staring. He starts texting you from across the room, sending pictures under his oversized hoodie—thighs spread, biting his lip, no underwear. “Come play with me,” he writes. You try to resist, but the moment you walk over, he’s on his knees, tugging your pants down. You end up bending him over the soundboard, fucking him raw while he holds in his moans because the studio isn’t soundproof.

Changbin is THE fiancé when it comes to 'visiting' your gym. Changbin knows not to bother you during work hours, especially at the gym where you train clients. But today he showed up early—flushed and sweaty from his own session, towel around his neck, and his compression shorts leaving nothing to the imagination. He follows you into the back room “to hydrate” and ends up on his knees between your legs. By the time you’re fucking him against the wall, his fingers clawing at your shoulders, you both forget about the timer you set before your next client walks in.

Hyunjin is THE fiancé when it comes to 'visiting' your fashion studio. Hyunjin has always loved your work—especially when it involves him. He comes in during a fitting day, already in one of your experimental pieces: tight, sheer mesh and low-cut pants, saying he wanted to “model something for you.” He keeps posing, slowly, drawing your gaze to the outline of his cock straining under the thin fabric. When you finally approach to adjust a seam, his arms wrap around your neck and he whispers, “Fuck me before anyone else sees me like this.” You end up fucking him over the dressing table, his legs spread wide in front of the mirror, watching himself fall apart in your hands like he was made for it.

Han is THE fiancé while you're on a zoom call in your own (shared) apartment. You’re stuck on back-to-back video meetings, and Jisung’s been pouting all morning in your hoodie with nothing underneath. He tiptoes in while you’re mid-call, crawling under the desk without saying a word. You shoot him a warning glance, but then feel his mouth wrap around you, humming softly as you try to stay professional. He ends up riding you in your office chair during your final call, camera pointed safely up—while he bites his own hand, desperate to keep quiet as he milks you dry.

Felix is THE husband when it comes to 'visiting' your coffee shop. It’s closing shift and Felix insists on waiting for you in the back, helping you clean up. He’s giggly and clingy, hands slipping under your apron when no one’s looking. The moment you lock the front door, he’s already bent over the counter, whispering, “You’ve been ignoring me all day.” You give in and fuck him with the register light still glowing, his face pressed to the cool marble, moaning how good it feels when you don’t hold back after a long shift.

Seungmin is THE boyfriend when it comes to 'visiting' your law office. Seungmin shows up dressed nice, claiming he's just "bringing you coffee"—but the way he slowly uncrosses his legs and fixes your tie says otherwise. He teases you through the whole lunch hour, legs draped across yours, whispering how tight his pants feel and how he accidentally forgot his underwear. You end up bending him over your desk, fucking him deep with your hand clamped over his mouth as he shudders from the thrill of being used in such a clean, controlled space.

Jeongin is THE boyfriend, 'visiting' your tech office late at night. You’ve been stuck in after-hours debugging for a launch, and Jeongin shows up with snacks and a hoodie over his pajamas. At first he’s curled up on the couch behind you—quiet, scrolling his phone—but then he’s suddenly leaning over your chair, arms slipping around your neck, asking softly, “How much longer do I have to wait before you fuck me?” He’s flushed and needy, clearly been holding back since he got there. You close your laptop mid-keystroke and bend him over the desk, fucking him deep and slow as he pants into your neck, moaning how much he missed you all day.

i actually could see myself expanding these hcs into longer thoughts/perhaps a fic .... would y'all like that??

[kakashisacademia]

pairing: alpha Kento Nanami x omega you | warnings: soft dominance, knotting, praise, aftercare

summary; your alpha is good at many things, tracking your heat cycle and being there whenever you need him the most

ೃ⁀➷ Devotion in Gold

The moment your scent shifted, barely noticeable like the softest ripple of heat in the air, Kento Nanami canceled his meetings. He didn’t ask or hesitate. He was already loosening his tie, already texting you one simple message;

“On my way. Don’t open the door for anyone, but me.”

By the time he arrived your scent had sweetened into something thick and needy. It clung to the walls of your apartment like honeyed steam. You were wrapped in one of his shirts, curled in bed and already trembling with the ache of it. The ache for him, your devoted Alpha.

Kento let himself in with your spare key and locked the door behind him. When he stepped into the room and saw you all cheeks flushed and legs curled in tight. Your body reached for something only he could give and it made his chest ache with something deeper than desire.

“I’m here now,” he said gently, shedding his jacket. “You’re not alone.”

“You tracked my cycle again, didn’t you?” You whimpered, reaching for him before you could think.

In three large strides he crossed the room, kneeling on the bed, cradling your face in his hands like you were made of glass.

“Let’s take it slow,” he whispered, thumb stroking your cheek. “You don’t have to rush. I’m right here.”

He was, for every step.

He peeled his shirt off for you, unbuttoning your borrowed one with infinite patience. Let you press your nose to his throat, his chest, his wrists, anywhere you needed. The trembling slowed and the haze settled.

When he touched you finally it was like a prayer. His long fingers sliding gently between your thighs. Mouth brushing over your breast, your stomach and your heat-damp skin.

“That’s it, sweetheart,” he murmured. “You’re doing so well. Let me take care of you.”

By the time he eased himself inside you slowly. Not once he pushed too fast or too hard. He just sunk into your velvet warmth and growled softly.

He held your hips and letting you adjust and breathe. His forehead pressed to yours.

“You feel that?” he whispered. “How well your body takes me? Like you were made for this. Made for me.”

You moaned his name softly and he shuddered, arms tightening around you like he couldn’t bear to let go. The first thrust was deep and slow. It felt so intimate. And every one after that built into something quiet and all-consuming pleasure without urgency, passion without force. Just the two of you, moving together like a promise whispered through every breath.

His knot began to swell and you whimpered with your hips twitching, thighs trembling, but he only kissed your shoulder, steady and soft.

“You’re okay. Fall apart for your Alpha,” he breathed. “You’re mine.”

He finally pushed that knot deep, locking himself inside and claiming you fully. He held your gaze with so much tenderness it nearly undid you again and again.

“Such a good Omega,” he whispered, cradling you close. “I’m proud of you.”

You collapsed into his arms with a soft overwhelmed sob. “I feel so loved, Alpha. Thank you. Thank you.”

He never stopped touching you. Not for a second. He stroked your back. Wiped the sweat from your brow. Whispered soft things in your ear while your bodies stayed joined.

Eventually your breaths had evened and the world felt a little quieter. He pulled you closer to his chest and you used the chance to curl together.

“Let’s get some food into you. Then I’ll run a bath. We’ll stay right here until your heat passes.”

Kento moved so quietly, untying you from the sheets, tucking you into the pillows with a warm compress and disappearing into the bathroom for a few minutes. He had already fed you with warm soup and sweet fruits that made your nose wrinkle while you purred for him.

When he returned he was shirtless and his golden hair slightly mussed, a towel in one hand. You were still leaking from where he knotted you. Your skin felt still too warm and you felt too dazed.

“Come here,” he murmured, slipping his arms beneath you. “Let me hold you.”

You let out a soft noise when he stepped into the tub with you still in his grasp, cradling you to his chest like something precious. Warm water enveloped your skin, laced with gentle scent-neutral salts and calming omega-safe oils. You melted against him with a low whimper, pressing your face to the hollow of his throat.

His cock was still thick, still slick with the memory of your last peak but he didn’t try to rut yet. Instead he shifted, letting you straddle his lap in the water and he slid into you. You sighed and he exhaled quietly.

“This alright?” he asked, voice quiet, hands smoothing over your thighs.

You nodded against his skin. “Feels good. Just… stay like this.”

He pressed a kiss to the top of your head. “As long as you need.”

The water sloshed gently with every breath and his arms didn’t move except to cradle you closer. He drew circles into your lower back, rubbing gentle warmth into your hips. The silence was heavy, but never uncomfortable.

At some point he reached for the washcloth and slowly began rinsing your skin.

He never spoke just to fill the air, but when he did, it sank deep. “You’re incredible, you know that?” he murmured as he rubbed gentle circles over your shoulder blades. “Took me so well. Trusted me with every part of you.”

You shivered. His cock twitched inside you, not from lust, but from sheer instinct, the kind that said stay. His mouth brushed your temple.

“I meant it, earlier,” he whispered. “You make me proud.”

Your heart clenched at that. You shifted against him and whined softly from the overstimulation, but not wanting to let go. He hushed you gently.

“No more,” he promised. “Just warmth. Just love. Let me take care of you, sweetheart.”

You fell asleep like that, knotted and clean and held. When he carried you back to bed, wrapped in soft towels and wrapped even tighter in his arms, he whispered the words that melted you completely.

“You’re mine, Omega. And I’ll spend the rest of my life proving I deserve you.”

[strawberryblue-blog]

Period —FC BARCELONA.

summary: barca's boys reacting to your period when it is annoying or painful.

warnings: none. mention of the menstrual period, reaction, angst, pain, discomfort, cute/soft.

words count: +1.3k.

💌: Masterlist.

Pedri González.

When you tell him you got your period, the first thing he does is drop everything he was doing to become your special supplier. "Give me five minutes, I'm going to the store," he says as he quickly puts on his shoes.

You know it's over the top, but you can't help but smile. He returns with your favorite brand of pads or tampons, a couple of chocolates, chamomile tea, a hot water bottle and whatever else you've been craving.

"I know chocolate doesn't cure everything, but I thought it would help," he says as she arranges things on the table and hands them to you with a smile. "I got you, love."

Ferran Torres.

He knows that during your period you prefer to stay in bed or on the couch, so he takes the reins of the kitchen and the housework so you can rest.

"I know you don't feel like moving, so let me do you something tasty," he says as he puts on an apron. You hear him fiddling around in the kitchen, looking for ingredients and following a recipe that he clearly struggles with, but insists on finishing.

"It's made with love, even though it didn't come out so pretty," he says as he serves you a hot dish. The aroma and his effort comfort you more than you expected. Maybe later you help him clean up so you can finally snuggle in bed and receive a lot of his affection.

Pablo Gavi.

When he sees you squirming on the couch, he carefully approaches you and asks, "Do you want me to hold you?" Perhaps a bit fearfully so as not to disturb you or invade your space (or your sudden mood swings)

When you agree, Pablo will take you. You settle against him, and his arms wrap around you like a warm shelter. No matter how long it takes, he doesn't move or complain, even when you change positions several times.

He will walk you to and from the bathroom, comfort you, lift you up, help you. If you need to talk, he listens; if you remain silent, he simply gives you little kisses on your hair and makes sure you are comfortable.

Fermín López.

He finds you in bed complaining about colic and tiredness. He would be very sorry to see you go through something like this, so Fermín wouldn't leave you alone for a second.

He sits beside you, carefully, strokes your hair and says in a soft voice: "You can handle this, you're much stronger than you think. But let me do anything for you, I can cook, make your bed, bathe you, anything. I'm here for you."

He holds your hand, and his presence is enough to make you feel that you are not alone. Every once in a while, he says something funny or sweet to lift your spirits.

Alejandro Balde.

"Let's get distracted," he tells you as you look for something to watch together. He'll do anything to make you forget you're on your period.

He lets you choose absolutely everything: the movie, the series, even the snacks you're going to share or even if you just want to lie on his chest and rest. If you decide to play something on the console, it doesn't matter if you're terrible at the game; he makes sure you have fun. He'll even talk your ear off so you don't suffer.

"Today is your day, there are no rules. What else do you want to do?" he says, willing to go along with all your decisions.

Héctor Fort.

When he sees you doubled over in pain, he disappears for a moment and returns with a glass of water, a painkiller and a hot compress, what did he ever see you do to yourself.

"This should help you," he says as he helps you put the compress on your belly. He himself will pat your belly or hug your legs to help you. Then, he stays by your side to make sure the pain subsides.

If he sees you are uncomfortable, he adjusts the pillows or brings you more blankets without you having to ask. He would go to the store or make pastries (your favorite), all for you during this annoying period.

Lamine Yamal.

He sees you in a bad mood or on the verge of tears and decides to change your mood with a touch of humor. He takes everything with humor and of course he was going to do it for you when you need it the most.

"If your uterus could talk, I bet it would tell me to shut up but you are an angel" , he says with a smile. Then he starts making up stories or making jokes that make you laugh in spite of everything, he would pretend to fall down, snore, etc.

"See, you're the only person who laughs at my bad jokes. I'm sure that means you love me more than your hot tea." I'd say when you unexpectedly laugh together with him and almost forget about your period. Your goal in life, fulfilled.

Pau Cubarsí.

There are days when you don't need words or grandiose actions, and he knows it. He sits next to you in silence, watching you carefully. If you need something, he does it without you having to ask.

If he sees you are uncomfortable, he adjusts your pillow, brings you a blanket, or simply puts his hand in yours to let you know he is there. His caresses are soft and gentle, he cares for you as if you were fragile and delicate and maybe that's because you are. But Pau is even more so.

You would spend it in bed, him hugging your belly while your favorite series is on in the background. You can laugh or cry, you can moan, sweat, get dizzy, ache or anything but Pau is there. Hugging you like a slug.

[mockerycrow]

ghost x gn!reader — “sharper teeth” pt. 2 (pt 1) this has been in my drafts for a year. oops

Ghost didn’t realize how far your problem would go, honestly. You already caught his eye with your sudden change in behavior, how rash you had become since Las Almas. How.. reckless you had become. You were doing better than ever before, breaking duty station records.. But of course like everything else, there was a clear cost.

Ghost had caught wind of whispers about you—that you have recently developed the habit of refusing to tap out whilst sparring. He’s heard how your hits are harder, you’re relentless when previously you always had a hint of hesitation floating around you when trying to take one of the others down to the ground. You haven’t thrown down with him on the mat in a while, and he wanted to see this first hand.

“Do it.” Ghost’s voice is strained as his arms are wrapped around your neck, applying pressure on your throat, his knee on your lower back, applying almost all of his body weight to your spine, pressing your stomach to the mat slick with sweat. You choke and wheeze, trying to push yourself off of the floor with one arm but failing miserably due to Ghost’s weight against your back. Your other hand is grabbing at his thick forearm, pathetically trying to pull it away. You’re losing this battle that you were never going to win.

Ghost listens to you, watching your movements and body language the best he can whilst forcing you into this impossible predicament. He isn’t even using all of his strength. Ghost utters your name in your ear, tightening his grip a little, adjusting so he’s squeezing the sides of your throat inside of compressing your windpipe. “Tap out.”

You don’t. You fight and struggle, not once slapping his arm nor the mat. It infuriates Ghost. This is where you’re supposed to tap out and he can give you pointers.

Ghost lets go, standing up and taking the pressure of his body off of you. He watches you crawl across the map, gasping for air and drooling as you stand up a bit too fast.

He catches a glimpse of your eyes—you look wild and feral, like you’re actually in real danger. Ghost is gonna find out why.

[mariespen]

➸ Sick Days

Sherrif!Rafe x Teacher!Reader

➸ Masterlist!

Requests open!

When your youngest son gets a midnight fever, Rafe is happy to take the burden from your shoulders.

A quiet creak in the floorboards made you stir, blinking blearily as you adjusted to the dim glow of the nightlight. Rafe’s arms were still tangled around your waist, his steady breathing warm against your shoulder.

“M-mama?”

The small, trembling voice shattered the sleepy silence.

“Luke? Honey?” You murmured, groggily rubbing your eyes.

Standing near your bedside, your youngest, Lucas, sniffled, his lower lip trembling.

“Mama, I don’t feel good.” His voice wavered, tears already welling in his eyes.

Your body jolted awake. "Is it your tummy?" you asked, sitting up and reaching for him.

He gave a weak nod, small hands gripping yours as you guided him closer. Pressing your palm gently against his forehead, you felt the unmistakable heat radiating from his skin.

Your stomach twisted. Fever.

"Rafe..." you whispered, nudging his shoulder.

He groaned softly, rubbing his eyes, but the moment he saw Lucas’s pale, miserable face, he was instantly alert.

"Luke, what’s going on, buddy?" he asked, voice thick with sleep but steady with concern.

"My tummy," Lucas whimpered, his face turning greener by the second.

Rafe shot you a panicked look before throwing back the covers and scooping Lucas into his arms. You followed close behind as he rushed into the en-suite bathroom.

"Lucas, sweetheart, do you need—" But before you could finish, his little body lurched forward.

"No!" Rafe said quickly, steering him toward the toilet just in time. He held Lucas up, one strong arm wrapped securely around his small frame, while you brushed his damp curls back from his forehead.

"Honey, it’s okay," you whispered as Lucas collapsed against Rafe’s chest, his tiny body wracked with exhausted sobs.

“Daddy…” he whimpered, his voice barely above a whisper.

Rafe’s grip tightened protectively. You could see the exact moment his heart broke.

"It’s okay, buddy," Rafe murmured, rubbing slow, steady circles on his back. "Let’s take your temperature, alright?"

The night stretched on in a blur of fever checks, cold compresses, and restless sleep. Rafe barely left Lucas’s side, his exhaustion showing in the way he sank against the headboard, one arm draped protectively over his son’s sleeping body.

“Rafe,” you scolded when you caught him pressing another kiss to Lucas’s overheated forehead.

He sighed, looking up at you with tired blue eyes. “Sweetheart, he’s so sick.”

“I know,” you whispered, squeezing his hand. “But you’ll get sick too.”

Rafe just shrugged. “Worth it.”

You exhaled, pressing a kiss to his temple before sinking into his embrace.

“I don’t know how I’m going to take work off tomorrow,” you admitted, tension creeping into your voice at the thought of rearranging your lesson plans.

“I’ll do it.”

You pulled back slightly. “Are you sure? I can—”

“It’s okay," Rafe interrupted, his voice firm yet gentle. "I promise.”

The next morning, you found them curled up on the couch—Rafe still in his pajamas, Lucas tucked against his chest beneath a blanket, a cold towel pressed gently to his forehead.

"Okay, guys, say bye to Daddy and Lucas," you told Samantha and Oliver, ushering them toward the door. "But don’t get too close."

Work dragged. You checked your phone constantly, desperate for an update, but the house remained silent.

Rafe, however, wasn’t resting. Logged into his laptop, he scoured the internet, searching for answers:

"How long does food poisoning last in kids?""102 fever when to worry?""How to hydrate a sick child?"

Every hour, he made Lucas open his mouth for the thermometer, meticulously tracking the fluctuations in his fever. He ran purely on logistics and data when it came to emergencies—because if he stopped to think about how small and pale Lucas looked, he’d break.

By the time you got home, the wave of relief was immediate. Rafe stood in the kitchen, pressing an ice pack to Lucas’s flushed face, his movements careful, gentle.

"Oh, honey…" you whispered, guiding Samantha and Oliver to their rooms before joining them.

“He’s been getting better,” Rafe said, his voice soft from a full day of whispering. “But his temperature’s still at 102.”

You cradled Lucas’s warm face in your palm. “I think it’s food poisoning…”

Rafe exhaled sharply. “God… I’d do so much for this kid.”

You watched as he kissed Lucas’s temple, then effortlessly picked him up, carrying him back to the couch. Lucas curled against him without hesitation, small fingers fisting into his t-shirt as they settled in to watch his favorite LEGO show.

You leaned against the doorway, watching them—knowing you needed to make dinner, help Samantha with her homework, clean up.

But just this once, you let yourself soak in the moment.

You were so lucky.

[itwillbethescarletwitch]

What The Fire Withheld p2

Bob Reynolds x Fem!Witch!Reader, Thunderbolts* x Fem!Reader

p1

Recovery isn’t cinematic.

It’s quiet. It’s the beep of monitors and the soft swish of antiseptic. It’s bruises that don’t bloom right away and nightmares that don’t let go.

I stay in the med bay for ten days. No missions. No suits. No magic.

Just me, stitched up and motionless.

But I’m never alone.

-Recovery Days

Bucky’s the one who checks my vitals before the nurses even get a chance. Always early. Always silent.

“Pain level?” he asks one morning, folding a blanket at the edge of the bed.

“Somewhere between getting hit by a bus and falling off the Empire State Building,” I rasp.

He nods. “So… Tuesday.”

His lips twitch. The closest thing I’ve seen to a smile on him yet.

Yelena brings me TikTok videos at night.

“They’re stupid,” she says, handing over her phone. “But they make your face less grumpy.”

She doesn’t say the word sister again, but every time she makes me laugh, she sits a little closer.

John installs a mini fridge beside my bed.

“For your snacks,” he mutters, almost embarrassed. “Figured you’d want your little kombucha or whatever.”

He stocked it with six bottles of root beer and a tray of lasagna. I say nothing. He changes the subject immediately.

Ava comes and goes.

She doesn’t say much. But she always leaves something behind — a book, a playlist, an old hoodie with the sleeves cut off. She lingers in doorways like she’s scared I’ll vanish if she walks away too fast.

And Bob?

Bob stays.

Every day. Every night.

He brings me herbal tea he somehow doesn’t burn. He adjusts the pillows without being asked. He sits beside my bed with a sketchbook in his lap, never drawing anything, just… being near.

Sometimes, he talks. Sometimes, he doesn’t. But his presence hums against my skin like quiet thunder.

The silence with him doesn’t hurt. It heals.

———

I’m cleared to walk after two weeks.

Bob walks with me.

We go to the rooftop garden Yelena built out of old S.H.I.E.L.D. scrap — vines wrapped around rusted trellises, tomato plants in ammo crates, lavender growing from an old helmet.

I lean heavily on the railing. My ribs still ache. I still can’t take a full breath.

Bob stands beside me, close but careful.

“It’s peaceful here,” he murmurs.

“Don’t get used to it. I’ll start lighting things on fire again soon.”

His mouth curves, slow and shy. “I missed your fire.”

We don’t talk about what happened. Not yet. But when his fingers brush mine, we don’t pull away.

———

Thunderbolts Tower – 03:11 AM

The med bay is empty. The halls are dark. Everyone’s asleep.

Except me.

I’m in the training bay, standing in front of the reinforced wall. It looms like a challenge. I’m wrapped in tight compression bandages under my tank top. My left side still aches if I breathe too deep.

But I can move.

I need to move.

My powers haven’t fully returned. My muscles scream after ten minutes. But I have to try.

I blast the wall.

The light flickers. Pain slices through my chest. I fall to one knee. My hands tremble.

Not enough.

I try again.

⸻

I don’t hear them until it’s too late.

“What the hell are you doing?”

Bob’s voice. Sharp. Panicked.

The lights slam on.

He’s not alone. Bucky’s with him. Ava steps into the room a second later, already fuming. Yelena looks like she just woke up — and is ready to kill me.

“I was training,” I snap. “I’m fine.”

“You’re bleeding,” Bob says, voice low and shaking. “You’re not fine.”

I look down. Red stains my side. The bandages split.

“I needed to see if I still had it,” I breathe. “If I can still fight.”

“And what, kill yourself doing it?” John walks in last, arms crossed, eyes narrowed. “You should be resting. Healing.”

“I am healed!”

“No,” Bucky says. “You’re not. Not enough. And you damn well know it.”

Ava steps forward. “You think we went through all that just to lose you now?” Ava snaps. “You think he—” she points at Bob, voice rising, “hasn’t been blaming himself every second for not protecting you?”

Everyone’s talking at once.

I can’t hear my own thoughts.

It’s pressing against my ribs — this heat, this panic, this swelling, hopeless thing inside me that I’ve been pushing down since the explosion—

“STOP!”

My voice cracks the air like a whip.

Everyone freezes.

I’m breathing hard, dizzy, chest burning.

“You don’t get it,” I hiss. “None of you do.”

They stay silent.

“You keep saying I need rest. You keep telling me I’m not ready.” I take a step forward. My knees almost buckle. “But what if I never am?”

No one moves.

My fingers twitch. No glow. No warmth. Just trembling flesh.

“I can’t conjure a spark. I can’t fly. I can barely walk down the hall without someone holding my arm like I’m made of glass!”

“Y/N…” Bob’s voice is soft, broken.

I keep going.

“Do you know how that feels?” My voice breaks. “To be the weapon — the one who’s supposed to save everyone — and then suddenly you’re just a broken girl bleeding on the floor while everyone else has to pick up the pieces?”

They don’t speak.

“I’m useless,” I spit. “A liability. A goddamn burden.”

“You’re not—” Yelena starts.

“I am. Every time I breathe wrong someone’s there with a wheelchair or a painkiller or a look like I’m going to drop dead. And maybe I will. Because maybe this is it. Maybe this is all I get now.”

The silence crushes.

And then I break.

“I don’t know who I am without my powers,” I whisper. “And I don’t think I want to find out.”

I drop to the floor — not all at once, but slow, like my body just gives up. My knees hit the mat. My hands tremble against the floor.

I’m crying.

Hot, quiet, unstoppable tears.

I haven’t cried like this since the first time my magic spiraled out of control as a kid. When I burned a hole through a stone wall just to stop feeling so small.

Now I just feel… empty.

Footsteps.

Bob kneels beside me first. Doesn’t say a word. Just lowers himself slowly until he’s level with me.

He doesn’t try to fix it.

He doesn’t tell me I’m wrong.

He just reaches out and holds my hand in both of his — gently, reverently — like it’s the only thing keeping him from flying apart.

His voice is a whisper, a prayer:

“You’re not a burden. You’re you. That’s what matters.”

Yelena drops down next. She leans against my shoulder. Quiet. Close.

Ava walks over and sinks to her knees too, rubbing her thumb over my back like she’s grounding me.

Even John just stands there, jaw tight, arms crossed — like he wants to say something but knows better than to ruin this moment.

Bucky watches. And then, after a long beat, nods once and steps out. Not to leave — just to give space. To let me breathe.

Bob’s hand squeezes mine.

“I’ll wait,” he says softly. “For your magic. For your strength. For you. I’ll wait as long as it takes.”

-6:00AM 

The sunlight barely filters through the heavy curtains.

It’s the soft kind of morning — muffled, golden, too still to be real. My chest hurts when I breathe, but not from pain this time.

From the weight of last night.

The breakdown. The blood. The way I collapsed in front of all of them — in front of him.

My room smells like lavender and old pages. Someone must’ve put a tea cup on my nightstand. It’s cold now. There’s a folded blanket at the edge of the bed. My boots have been moved from the door.

I’m not sure if I feel safe, or exposed.

Then I hear it.

A chair creaking. Quiet movement.

I sit up slowly — and there he is.

Bob Reynolds, seated in the armchair across from me. Same clothes from last night. Hair a mess. Hands folded together so tightly I wonder if his knuckles might crack.

He’s been there a while.

Watching. Waiting.

“…Hey,” I say, voice hoarse.

“Hey.”

His tone is rough. Low. Not cold — but not light, either.

He stands.

“I need to talk to you,” he says. “Now. No running. No excuses. Please.”

I blink. “Okay.”

He walks toward the bed but stops a few feet away, like he’s afraid getting too close might break something.

“I meant what I said,” he begins. “Last night. Every word.”

I try to keep still, but my fingers twitch against the sheets.

“You’re not a burden,” he says. “Not to me. Not to anyone. You don’t need your powers to be worth something.”

I look away. My throat burns.

He keeps going.

“You think you’re broken because you can’t do magic. But you know what I saw?”

He takes another step closer.

“I saw someone crawl out of fire and keep going. I saw someone care more about the rest of us than her own body. I saw someone brave enough to tell the truth — even when it hurt.”

Another step.

“You’re not broken. You’re human. And I—”

His voice breaks.

He stops. Breathes in. Breathes out.

“—I care about you more than I’ve ever had the guts to say.”

Silence.

Not awkward. Not heavy.

Just full. Like the seconds themselves are holding their breath.

I look at him.

Really look.

And it hits me — how long he’s been holding this in. How hard it is for someone like him to admit something like this. How terrified he looks.

He laughs under his breath, soft and self-conscious.

“You don’t have to say anything. I just… I had to tell you. Because if I didn’t…”

He trails off. Shrugs helplessly.

I whisper, “I don’t want you to stop.”

He freezes.

“You said you’d wait,” I say, eyes meeting his. “For me. For my powers. For… everything.”

“I will.”

“I don’t want you to wait anymore.”

The room stills.

He steps closer.

Close enough that I can feel his warmth — not Sentry heat, not celestial glow — just him. Just Bob.

“Can I kiss you?” he asks.

The question lands between us like thunder in a quiet field.

And I whisper: “Yes.”

⸻

He leans in — slow, reverent — like this is the part he was never sure he deserved. Like he’s asking with every inch of his soul.

And when our lips meet—

—magic sparks.

Tiny threads of violet energy flicker from my fingertips — weightless, harmless, like lightning catching the morning sun. They crackle gently across his jaw, dance in his hair, kiss his cheek.

He doesn’t pull away.

He smiles against my mouth, lips brushing mine.

“I think you’re getting your fire back,” he murmurs.

I let out a breathless laugh, barely holding it together.

“Not all of it,” I whisper.

He kisses me again.

“No,” he says softly. “Just the parts that matter.”

“You won’t tell anyone, right?”

Bob is sitting at the edge of the bed, still flushed from the kiss. One arm slung over his knee. His hand, warm and callused, rests over mine.

His eyes soften. “Not if you don’t want me to.”

I nod once. “I just… I need to be sure. That it’s real. Not a glitch.”

He watches me for a moment. Then nods too. “Okay. Just us.”

– 6:42 AM

The others are suiting up for a quick mission in Belgium — artifact containment or something. I’m still benched, technically. Bucky gave me the look this morning. John grunted “rest up” with his usual stubborn gruffness. Ava gave me an awkward fist bump that might’ve been affection.

Yelena just smirked and threatened to bring me back a cursed snow globe.

I’m still in a hoodie. My limp is almost gone.

Bob is the last to leave.

He leans in at the doorframe, face shadowed by the gray morning light. “We’ll be back in a few hours. Stay off your feet.”

I grin. “No promises.”

He tilts his head. “Y/N—”

Then he steps forward, leans down, and kisses me. Not like before — not hesitant. Confident. Warm. Real.

It lasts only a moment, but the taste of him lingers.

When he pulls back, his forehead rests against mine.

“You’ll be okay,” he murmurs.

“Go before the others get suspicious.”

He smiles. “I don’t care if they know.”

“But I do,” I whisper. “For now.”

Bob nods. Squeezes my hand once. And then he’s gone.

LATER – THUNDERBOLTS TOWER – 11:17 AM

The moment the tower goes quiet, I go to the training bay.

The place where it all fell apart.

I roll my sleeves up. Sit on the padded floor. My hand hovers in front of me, palm open, fingers curled. Waiting.

Come on, I think. Just a spark.

Nothing.

I clench my jaw, try again.

Still nothing.

I slam my palm down against the mat. “Dammit—”

It wasn’t real. That kiss. That spark. Just another glitch. A last gasp of a dying power.

I feel the heat rise behind my eyes, throat burning. My chest aches. My ribs — still bruised, maybe cracked — creak with the pressure of my own anger.

Then I hear Bob’s voice in my head.

“You’re not broken. You’re human.”

I suck in a breath.

Okay.

One more try.

But this time — I let it all go. The fear. The pressure. The rage.

I close my eyes.

No expectations.

No pain.

Just… breath.

One beat.

Two.

Three—

Then, warmth.

A tiny flicker behind my sternum. Like someone lighting a match in my chest. My fingers tingle. My eyes snap open — and there it is.

A violet wisp.

Dancing like smoke over my palm.

I gasp.

It vanishes.

But it was real.

My lips part. My chest swells.

I try again.

More focused this time. Slow. Deliberate.

And the light returns.

Flickering. Glowing.

Alive.

LATER – 5:44 PM

I’ve been in the med bay for hours.

No one’s here to stop me.

I’m careful. Focused. I direct my magic — the little I can call — toward my ribs. The worst of the damage. The spell is slow. The pain is unreal. I nearly scream twice.

My nose bleeds by hour two.

But when I check the monitor… my ribs have realigned. The fractures are sealing.

By hour five — I can stand without pain.

My wrists, still weak, begin to flex again.

I cry once. Quietly. It’s not the pain.

It’s the relief.

⸻

THAT NIGHT – 6:51 PM

I’m in the kitchen when the jet door hisses open upstairs.

I’m covered in flour and bits of chopped garlic. Bob’s hoodie hangs off one shoulder. There’s a pan sizzling on the stove.

Yelena’s voice echoes down the hall: “Is that butter?!”

“Dinner?” John’s gruff voice follows. “Wait, who—”

Then footsteps thunder down the stairs.

Yelena rounds the corner first, goggles still on, bruised but alive. She skids to a stop, sees me, and her mouth falls open.

Ava’s right behind her, and she drops her duffel bag mid-step.

Bucky trails in next. Freezes.

“Hi,” I say, casually flipping the pan. “You guys like lemon butter chicken, right?”

Yelena is the first to speak.

“You’re standing,” she says again, breath catching. Her sharp voice is softer now, edged with disbelief.

“Yeah,” I reply, turning from the stove to face them all. “I healed. A little. Enough.”

My hand lifts, fingers trailing upward — and with it, the air shimmers violet. Light curls upward in a faint spiral, delicate and alive.

Ava stares at it like it’s some rare animal, silent but fascinated. Bob hasn’t moved from the doorway, his eyes glued to me like he doesn’t trust what he’s seeing. His lips part, but he doesn’t say a word.

John’s already halfway to the island counter. “Wait, you said lemon butter chicken?” he asks.

He says it like a man returning from war.

He grabs a plate and starts loading food before anyone responds.

And then the shouting begins.

“Are you out of your mind?” Bucky’s voice slices through the room. Sharp. Low. Terrified.

He’s standing behind a chair, fingers gripping the top like he’s trying not to punch something. Or someone.

“You were supposed to be resting,” he growls. “That’s what the medics said. What I said.”

I stare at him, stunned. “I’m fine, Bucky—”

“No, you’re not!” His voice cracks. “You pushed yourself. Again. And for what? To make dinner? To prove you’re still strong?”

I blink at him. “That’s not fair.”

He laughs—dry and bitter. “Yeah? Well, neither is almost losing you.”

“Bucky,” Bob warns quietly, but Bucky ignores him.

“You could’ve torn something open again. You could’ve made it worse. You think you’re hiding it, but your hands are shaking.”

They are.

And I hate that he’s right.

“I just—” I start, but Ava cuts in.

“I think it’s amazing,” she says suddenly. All heads turn. She’s leaning against the counter, arms folded, expression unreadable but firm. “You came back from the brink. You did something impossible. You should be proud.”

“Pride gets you killed,” Bucky snaps.

“I didn’t do it for pride,” I say, louder this time. “I did it because I had to.Because I couldn’t just lie there and rot while you were all out risking your lives again.”

Yelena steps closer, eyes narrowed. “And what if you hadn’t been ready?”

“I was.”

“No, you were lucky,” Bucky bites.

Yelena’s jaw tightens, but she doesn’t say anything else. Bob shifts his weight behind them all, still silent. Watching.

John, still chewing, finally looks up. “Okay, okay,” he says with a fork in his mouth. “So she nearly blew a lung out healing herself. But this is reallygood chicken. Just sayin’.”

Everyone pauses.

I blink.

Bob exhales a stunned laugh. Ava snorts.

John points at me with his fork. “You do the food. You do the magic. You’re like the team’s Swiss Army knife. And if you’re standing, breathing, and cooking lemon chicken, I say that’s a win.”

“John,” Bucky says sharply, but Bob finally speaks.

“She could’ve died, man.”

John nods. “Yeah. And if she hadn’t tried, she might’ve stayed broken.”

The table falls quiet.

I take a slow breath, pressing my hand to the counter to keep myself grounded. The magic inside me hums like a tuning fork — subtle but steady.

Ava moves to my side and quietly hands me a glass of water. Her hand lingers on my shoulder for a moment. “You don’t have to defend yourself. Let them feel how they feel.”

I nod.

Then I turn to Bucky. “You’re scared.”

He looks like I slapped him.

“Don’t,” he mutters.

“You are. And I get it. But I’m scared too. I didn’t do this to spite you.”

“No, you did it to protect us,” he snaps. “Which is exactly the kind of thing Nat used to do.”

The room goes quiet.

Yelena’s head jerks up. Her breath hitches.

“Don’t bring her into this,” she says, voice thin and sharp.

“I didn’t mean—” Bucky starts.

“She’s not your ghost to invoke.”

“I wasn’t—”

“I said don’t.”

Yelena turns away, arms tight across her chest.

“I’m hopeless,” I yell suddenly, and it slams the room into silence.

Everyone turns.

“I’m supposed to be the most powerful witch in the multiverse. That’s what they say, right? ‘Unstoppable.’ ‘Legendary.’ But for weeks, I’ve barely been able to breathe without help. I can’t conjure fire. I can’t shield. I can’t even float a damn spoon without thinking I’m going to black out.”

My voice is shaking.

“I sit in the med bay like a ghost of who I used to be. And every time someone walks past me, I see it in their face — pity. Fear. Grief. Like I’m already gone.”

I look at Bucky.

“At least when I tried, I felt like me again. For a second. I wasn’t the broken girl in bed. I was someone with purpose.”

Tears sting my eyes.

“Do you have any idea what that’s like?”

Bucky looks like he’s been sucker punched.

Bob takes a step toward me, but I hold up a hand — violet sparks trailing.

“I’m not done.”

I turn to the others.

“I’m not asking you to cheer. Or forgive me. I’m just asking you to let me try. Because if I can’t be who I was… then I need to find out who I am now.”

No one says anything for a long moment.

Then Bob finally speaks.

“She’s right.”

He walks toward me, slow and steady.

“She fought for something that mattered. Even if it hurt. And yeah, I hated it. I still do. But I also watched her burn through pain to come back to us.”

He stands beside me now.

“And if that’s not strength, I don’t know what is.”

John raises a fork again. “Preach. Also, this is probably your best lemon butter yet.”

Everyone groans at once.

Even Bucky lets out a huff of disbelief and sits down, rubbing his face.

Yelena steps toward me. Her eyes are glassy but sharp.

“Next time you want to almost die, warn me first.”

I nod. “Deal.”

Next Morning, 8:03 AM — Kitchen, Thunderbolts Tower

The sun cuts long, golden lines across the worn tile of the kitchen floor. Ava’s already in the corner with a protein bar in one hand and her phone in the other, watching something on TikTok with her earbuds in. Bucky leans against the counter, arms crossed, unreadable as always. John is halfway through a tub of leftover lemon butter chicken, fork dangling from his mouth.

Yelena throws a slice of burnt toast at him. “You’re disgusting.”

He shrugs. “It’s protein. And delicious.”

I shuffle in, stiff from sleep and stiff from pain. My ribs ache — not as much as before, but enough. My hands twitch as I pour coffee into a chipped mug. I keep one hand slightly curled, feeling the faintest crackle of something when my fingers brush the ceramic handle.

Bob’s already sitting at the far end of the table. Quiet. Watching me when he thinks I’m not looking. His hair’s a little messy. His hoodie looks soft. When our eyes meet, he doesn’t look away — not fast enough.

“Morning,” he says, softly. The word barely travels.

“Morning,” I reply, more breath than voice.

Bucky’s still watching me, eyes narrowing. Yelena says nothing, but her smile is tight.

Val stomps in moments later in full tactical gear and heels. “Good news, degenerates. You’re all going back to school.”

“What?” John grunts through a mouthful of chicken.

“You’ve all been reassigned to a field readiness evaluation. Mandatory. Today.”

She tosses a stack of folders on the table. Each one has our names.

“Even me?” I ask.

She doesn’t blink. “Especially you.”

⸻

11:14 AM — Government Training Grounds, Upstate

The air smells like metal and dust. Pine needles crack under boots. Above us, clouds threaten but don’t deliver. The facility is sprawling — an obstacle course designed for fear, for speed, for survival. Cameras are already stationed at every angle.

The DOD liaison steps out of a control tower. He’s all pressed uniform, emotionless delivery.

“This is not a punishment,” he lies. “We just need to ensure every one of you is fully operational before redeployment.”

Ava stretches her neck and pulls her hood up. Yelena rolls her shoulders. Bucky mutters something about how this is a waste of time.

I stay quiet. My fingers twitch again.

Bob walks past me and gently touches my arm. Just for a second. “You okay?”

I nod.

“You sure?”

No. “Yeah.”

⸻

12:37 PM — Phase One Begins

Each of us is sent into different sections of the course, then rotated. Stealth, endurance, combat, containment, extraction.

Ava clears her section without a word, phasing through a collapsing wall with a bored look on her face. Bucky punches a drone so hard it short-circuits in midair. John flirts with the field medic while pretending not to try.

Bob is… steady. Focused. Strong but gentle.

Yelena’s a shadow. Her blades flash in the light once. Twice. She doesn’t miss a step.

Me? I hesitate.

I can move. Fight. Think. But my magic—it’s there and not there. Sparks in my fingertips. Then vanishes. I make it through two sections on muscle memory and pain tolerance alone. But it’s not enough. I know it. They know it.

The official writes something down on a clipboard.

⸻

3:19 PM — Phase Four: Simulated Hostage Crisis

We’re back in formation when it happens.

There’s a fake structure. Looks like a warehouse. The DOD rep orders Bob to take the lead with John and Bucky. Ava’s already phased inside. Yelena hangs back with me. I’m not assigned this part.

“You sure you’re okay?” she asks, quietly.

“I’m fine.”

She doesn’t believe me. That makes two of us.

Then the building explodes.

⸻

3:26 PM — Impact

It’s not real.

It’s a simulation.

We all know that.

But Bob was in there. And when the smoke clears, his comm is silent.

I feel it before I understand it. Like a thunderclap in my chest. Like the first scream I had no breath for when I thought I was dying. My ears ring. My body goes cold.

He’s not answering.

No one’s moving fast enough.

I scream his name — “BOB!”

And everything inside me breaks.

The world slows.

I feel my ribcage tighten, my lungs expand, every cell in my body flooding with magic. Real magic. Not the flickers I’ve been hiding.

I raise my arms and it tears out of me.

A shockwave of pure violet light explodes from my chest — fire without flame, electricity without heat. The ground splits. The sky bends. Static crackles up my arms, lifting me into the air by a few inches. My hair whips around my face. My eyes sting.

And then I throw both hands toward the wreckage.

Steel bends. Beams twist. Concrete crumbles in reverse — until I carve a path through it.

I see him.

Bob.

Unconscious. Covered in smoke and dust. But alive.

I drop to my knees beside him, shaking.

“Bob—” My voice cracks. “Bob, wake up—please.”

His eyes flutter. He coughs. And when he looks at me, the first thing he says is:

“You’re glowing.”

⸻

 5:04 PM — Debriefing Tent

The air is tense. Silent. Everyone saw what happened.

The DOD official adjusts his clipboard and looks at me like I’m a bomb he didn’t authorize.

“She’s not cleared,” he says flatly. “Not yet. But… she will be.”

Yelena lets out a long, low whistle. “You think?”

Ava gives me a look. Proud. But worried.

John shrugs, digging into a new tray of lemon chicken. “That was sick,” he mutters. “Just sayin’.”

Bucky stands across the tent, arms folded.

“You ever do that again,” he says, voice quiet but firm, “and don’t tell someone you’re not okay, I’m dragging you off the field myself.”

I can’t respond. I’m still vibrating from the power.

Bob sits beside me, his hand ghosting near mine but not touching. He doesn’t have to. I feel him there — solid, safe, and looking at me like I’m something he can’t believe came back to him.

[celestial-sphere-press]

what kind/style of endbands do you usually do? they look so good 👀

hi!! sorry for taking a while to answer, I wanted to make sure I could give you my best answer.

I usually do what's called a "double core" endband. I use double core endbands over the "bead on front" method because bead on front style is not great for uneven distributions of color, irregular patterns, or using more than three colors. Functionally it works by having your extra threads wrapped up inside the thread that is showing, forming the smaller secondary core. Ultimately you are doing figure 8s around the main core & then your secondary core of thread. This keeps things pretty neat & tidy. The tutorial I first used was this one by DAS Bookbinding, though I don't think his endband tutorials are his best ones. Another binder I've spoken with endbands about a lot is maleeka, who recently did an endband tutorial herself.

maybe I should do one... but it takes a lot for me to get enough motivation to make videos. I'll take this opportunity to write up some tips I've shared when people ask instead:

1. Endband core material is the MOST IMPORTANT component. You need a core that is stiff but flexible - it should NOT be floppy because it wiggles everywhere under the tension of the thread, but still needs to flex with the opening & closing of the book. You want something that doesn't compress, to reduce tension shifts in thread creating a lumpy endband. Have a smooth core is less critical but helps to avoid snagging threads & allows you some leeway on sliding threads around for adjustments. My personal choice is smooth leather jewelers cord (link is just an example, I get mine from a local craft store).

2. Thread size. All your threads need to be the same size; it will be visible if you are using two different sizes, and mess with your front core. Additionally, I know lots of people will use larger twists of multiple strands of embroidery thread, which can work, but is more likely to compress & alter its size in unexpected ways. A single strand is preferable. If you want something thicker you can find some thread weights that are heavier twists intended to be used in a single strand, not pulled apart. I prefer smaller sizes because it works better for the gradient designs I like.

3. Silk thread is your friend (if you can spend the money on it). It reduces fuzz (no fuzz like you get with cotton/DMC embroidery thread), it's usually easier to manage, has a more compact twist, and a higher shine. I use Japanese silk hand sewing thread in size #9 (9号). There's multiple brands (Tire, Daruma, KNK/kanagawa, etc). Here's a wholesale listing (minimum 20,000¥ for international). A non-Japanese brand is Guterman silk (German brand). Both the Japanese & German threads come in a heavier weight (Japanese is #16, Guterman is buttonhole).

4. Thread tension is the most important part of the actual technique. You need to ensure the threads currently wrapped in the secondary core keep tension when you are working the thread around them.

5. Working on a curve. This is only really relevant if you're doing an endband on a rounded book, but the circumference of the curve means there's more real estate on the outside vs inside of the curve. Sometimes this can cause bunching on the secondary core. My own solution to this is that sometimes I wrap the primary core but drop a wrap here or there around the secondary core (only between two wraps of the same color I'm dropping). I uh... don't know of anyone currently recommending this besides myself so I can't point to any pro endorsement for this method, it's just what works for me. Forgive my terrible writing:

6. Pattern management. I... don't really plan much how my patterns sit on the spine, which is not very helpful. HOWEVER you can do some pattern management on the fly, if you really want your pattern to end at a certain place. Thread can be packed more or less densely on the core, resulting in some pattern compression; you could also strategically drop wraps in less noticeable locations. An unintended example: I was replicating the pattern on this endband (left) when I realize I wasn't packing the thread as densely as I had the first time around (right), which resulted in the overall pattern taking up more space. You can do this on purpose, if you need to.

this was way more than you asked but it gave me a chance to put all this in one spot. Best of luck in vanquishing the dreaded EndWyrms.

[ghoulphile]

in the middle of the night | c.h./the ghoul

➥ pairing | cooper howard/the ghoul x f!reader ➥ word count | 852 ➥ warning(s) | 🔞 smut; mildly dubious consent, man-handling, drabble, masturbation (m), free use (ig??), handjob, somnophilia ➥ summary | "Cooper watching you sleep. Its a quiet night. nothing but bugs passing by. Cooper keeps watching, and his mind wanders. cut to him "borrowing" your soft and smooth hand, pulling it from under your makeshift blanket and wrapping it on his dick, jacking himself with your hand bc he's bored/trying to pass the time/stay awake" ➥ notes | forgive me this was written in a sleep deprived haze im gonna go die in bed now masterlist | feel free to send in thots, questions, requests! | feedback is always appreciated ❤️

"Hh-mm?"

A sleep soft murmur escapes, your mind a hazy flood of sensation as your senses struggle to adjust. Night stretches out before you, the sky a deep velvet - the fine stardust glitter of faraway celestial bodies peeking through wispy clouds. It’s midsummer in the desert; a balmy breeze shifting through the sands and tugging at the coyote hide wrapped tight around you.

Beside you, the low crackle and glow of a banked campfire warms your face, its shadows playing with your blurry eyes. Something feels… off. What, you’re not entirely sure as nothing seems to be out of place.

The threadbare padding of your sleeping mat shields you from the sand - albeit only slightly - and there’s a sharp twinge in your side from a piece of rubble lodging itself against your ribs. One of your feet’s gone numb and prickly from the awkward position you’ve curled up in.

Dogmeat’s snoozing a little ways away with her face tucked into her tail. 

Same as usual.

And the Ghoul’s…

What.

Strong leather wrapped fingers shackle around your limp wrist, grip firm and unyielding. A buzzing electricity dances along your palm, bottled lightning, as you’re made to grip something long and hard.

The heavy weight of flesh; rugged edges and whorls of texture biting into the softness of your skin. Slick friction as it glides through the loose circle of your fingers.

Is that his -- ohmygod, what the fuck.

Shock sizzles, melts like dripping candle wax into a bloom of warmth that punches the air from your lungs. Oozes down to curl between your thighs in a sticky rush as static warmth ripples from the crown of your head to the tips of your toes.

The Ghoul grunts out a low curse, a quiet hiss of breath escaping through his teeth.

Your thighs clench, the plush fat compressing as you shift.

Oh, that’s… Mm.

Pre-cum trickles down your knuckles as his cock throbs once, twice, his hips bucking forward to sheath himself to the hilt in your tender grip.

“Ah, fuck,” he mutters from somewhere above your head, his shoulders bowing in. “Always feels s’good.”

Always --

Your head snaps back, wide eyes darting up.

Immediately, you meet his gaze.

Dark, foreboding; the hooded eyes of a predator staring back at you from beneath a heavy brow like a hand to the nape of the neck. Corralling, claiming. His lips crack open and he smirks - a gash of teeth that threaten to snap.

“Well, hello there, darlin’ - was wonderin’ when you’d wake up.”

“W-What the hell!”

He snorts, the flash of his tongue taunting as he flicks it out across his lower lip

 “As if you don’t know. C’mon, now. I know you’re smarter than that.”

To punctuate his words, he inches forward in a grind, dragging your palm along the length of his cock nice and slow. A low groan punches itself out of his chest.

“Tch. Me doth think the lady protests too much. Acting like I can’t smell how wet you are.”

“I-I’m not…”

“Bullshit. You can’t lie ta me, darlin’. I know just how wet that pretty pussy of yours is getting. If you ask real nice like, I might be inclined ta show you what you’re missing.”

Your clit throbs, humiliation burning bright as you duck your head. Avert your eyes to the stray thread of your shirt fluttering in the breeze. It rankles how correct he is, how well he can read you with that vulture sharp gaze.

You wish you could prove him wrong if only for the principle of the matter.

As it is, there’s nothing you can do - especially when your fingers tighten up around his cock to hear him grunt and your cunt throbs in time with your heartbeat.

Slick wets the seat of your panties and clings to your inner thighs as everything in you cries out for some friction, some stimulation.

To get this man inside of you as quick as possible, stretch you wide and fuck you full.

He chuckles. “That’s more like it,” he says. “Now, are you gonna help me out or not? If so, grip a lil harder otherwise I ain’t gonna feel shit.”

So with a gulp, you do as he says: pop up onto your knees and tighten your fist.

Elongate the strokes so they work up the ragged shaft at a sedate pace, feel every pit and curve. Like you’ve got all the time in the world as you roll your wrist and use your thumb to gather the pre-cum from his weeping slit, smearing it around the thick crown of his cockhead.

All the while his head tips back, the long line of his throat catching your attention as he swallows.

“Phew, that’s just what the doctor ordered.” His eyes glitter cruelly when he looks down at you. “Should’a started doing this when you was awake a long time ago.”

How long he’s been using you like this, you don’t know.

And you’re not sure you care if the needy clench of your pussy is any indication.

“S’all right. Now you can make up for all that I’ve been missin’.”