#and just as predicted. there was no spider

[comatosebunny09]

nightcap | sylus

sum: sorry for being horny on main. just needed an excuse to write something about his voice. cw: written with femme reader in mind but no gendered terms for genitalia, phone sex, guided masturbation, voice kink, praise, pet names, 1.9k wc, influenced by @threadbearsweater and their beautiful mind, only this went in the opposite direction, mdni tracklist: roar - the boyz

The phone rings once.

“Sweetheart,” he answers, voice warmed milk and honey in your earbuds. “Miss me already?”

You huff a quiet, subdued laugh. Roll your eyes, face turned towards the ceiling. “Maybe.”

Fabric shifts on the other end. Leather squeaks. He’s probably in his office. And then, he chuckles—that wretched, deep, rolling thing that threatens to drag you out to sea.

“You’re in bed, aren’t you? Couldn’t sleep?”

You suck your lip between your teeth. Instinctively shoot up on the bed, scanning for anything that would indicate he’s watching you. You relax when you find barren walls bathed in the amber creep of the setting sun.

Are you truly that predictable?

“So what if I can’t?”

A slow breath out. A smirk curling at the end of it. More rustling. He’s leaning back. Probably with the phone held in a cruelly massive hand to his ear, body in an easy slouch, features soft, almost boyish. Only with you.

“Well, since you went through all this trouble to contact me, you must be in need of a distraction.”

Your eyes flutter shut at the disarming pitch of his voice. The crackles of fire beneath. On an exhale, your muscles uncoil.

“Or maybe I do miss you.”

The declaration hangs in the air like a spider’s web subjected to a gale.

He’s quiet.

You stiffen, throat clicking as you swallow, wondering if you’ve said the wrong thing. But then—

“You shouldn’t say things like that when I can’t be there with you.”

It’s heavy with cruel intentions, coiling around your spine, barbs rooting themselves in your vertebrae. The feeling spiders through your extremities, making them tingle.

Laughing it off, you ask, “Why not?”

A constrained breath out follows. You picture his jaws rigid. Eyes shuttered. Brows knit. Fingers pinching the bridge of his nose.

“Because I’ve been struggling to remain focused all day without you at my side.”

Your breath hitches at that. Subtle, but he catches it. Nothing makes it past him.

Fragments of a few nights prior piece themselves together in your mind. You could never forget the texture of those hands—that voice—burned into your skin.

Your silk robe falls open, crisp air on your bared midriff. Purely coincidental. Certainly not a consequence of your hand roving down your body to settle on your fluttering stomach.

Shallow breaths unfurl towards the ceiling. “Tell me something, Sylus.” Your tone is raspy with something unmistakable.

“Hmm?” A smile there. Intrigue. “Like what, sweetheart?”

“Anything. Just…talk to me.”

The pressure around you shifts as if he’s physically manifested in your hotel room. As if he’s commanded the particles to bend and warp to accommodate him.

Tinny static prickles between you for a moment longer before another creak. The soft clank of something set down on a hard surface—maybe a drink he’d been nursing before you called.

“I can’t stop thinking about how you looked in my kitchen. In my shirt with your hips moving like that. You knew I’d come in and want to ravage you all over again, didn’t you?”

You squeeze your thighs together to ward off a pleasant pulse. You nod to the slowly settling dimness like he can see you, your breath tight.

“I should’ve bent you over that counter. Tasted you. Reminded you of who you were made for. I was too gentle with you that morning. You didn’t want gentle, did you, sweetling?”

“Sylus.” His name sprawls out like a litany. The room spins. You blink rapidly through the golden haze, trying to keep your mind afloat.

“Hmm? What’s wrong?” His voice eases into something condescending. Halfway indulgent. Doting. “Does it hurt, sweet thing?”

You release a shaky, barely-there sound, thighs squeezing and unclenching as you roll from side to side, stomach dipping beneath your palm with each labored breath out. With each flutter of sensation like a moth testing its wings for the first time.

He clicks his tongue, followed by a laugh as fine as sawdust. “I can hear you fidgeting, sweetheart. Those pretty thighs pressing together. Your fingers pulling at the sheets.”

You glance at the hand beside your head, fisting the comforter. Of course he knows. You’ve been squirming since the first syllable left his mouth. You wouldn’t put it past him to have bugged your room, either.

“I hate being away from you,” you admit around a groan, face shielded by your hand scrubbing down it.

“I know. I can’t say I care much for the distance, either. But you’re not alone. I’m right here with you. Just focus on me.”

His timbre tapers into something dangerous. Something familiar. Your stomach tightens with anticipation. You find your body taut with every flicker of sound, every breath, every rustle of clothing.

“Touch yourself for me. Just your thighs for now. Nice and slow.”

And there it is. That tender instruction. A provocation.

Face hot, you heed him as if his voice threads around your hand like his Evol, guiding it himself.

Your fingers drag along the inner span of your thighs, and your breath shudders with each scrawl of your nails. They’re not quite where you want them. Where you need them. And they’re not his. But it’s satisfactory for now. Good enough to make you tremble.

“There she is. My good girl. You’re so good when you listen.”

“Sylus���” Sharpness carried on a hiss, your hips rucking up off the mattress to hump nothing.

“Shh.” If at all possible, his voice steeps lower. Your belly swoops with it. “No need to rush, my love. Let me help you.”

You melt against the sheets once more, though the tension refuses to unthread itself. Your knees fall open, softened from the husk of his voice, fingers tip-toeing further south. Close, heat radiating from between your legs, but not close enough to smother the fire.

“Lower,” he whispers, soothes. “Move your hand lower. But not completely there. Not yet.”

You graze the inner cut of one thigh. Shiver, abdomen clenched tight.

“Tease yourself. Just like I would if I were there. I wouldn’t give you what you wanted right away. I’d make you beg. Show me how much you crave me.”

Your hips undulate slowly, chasing the friction of shadows, of the phantom press of his body between your legs, a whimper caught in your throat.

“Mm. You’re responsive tonight, kitten. So sweet when you want something. I can practically see the look on your face right now. You’re biting your lip, aren’t you? Trying not to beg. So needy for me. So perfect.”

Fuck it.

You quake when your fingers dip lower, grazing where you swell. Where you burn with the imagery of his digits in place of yours. It’s a relief when your hand cups your sex. When your fingers press to the seam of it, a saturated patch already staining your underwear. Your head lolls back, lips parting with sticky breath in.

“When I have you in my arms again,” he continues, tone equally ragged as if the thought of you getting off unwinds him like a spool of thread, “I plan to make you forget everything.”

Twitching, sputtering, you press the heel of your palm against the apex of your thighs, and pleasure explodes in a flurry of phosphenes behind your shuttered lids.

“Everything?” you echo.

“Everything. Your job, your name, your body. You’ll only know the sound of my voice. The feel of my hands. My mouth. My body against yours. How good you’ll feel when I’m nestled deep inside you.”

His chair squeaks once more. He’s adjusting. Slinking down, legs spread. More than likely palming the thick throb of his cock, head back.

Breathless, so deliciously feverish, you hang onto every jittering breath, humping into your hand. Only the taste of his name sits on your tongue, spilling out in broken hymnals.

“That’s it, sweetheart. Just like that.”

His voice works as an anchor. Cinder blocks dragging you further below the murky surface towards the sea floor. You don’t want to come up.

“You’re doing so good for me.”

A buckle clinking breaks through the static, followed by a zipper tugged down. A groan rolling like thunder. Relief.

“I can hear it. Your breath hitches every time you come close. So gorgeous when you fall apart for me,” he drawls as if to draw the attention away from his own torment.

You’re guided by instinct now. A burning need to be filled, sated, shepherded by the deep curl of his voice. By the memory of his mouth on you. Eyes shining like rubies uncovered in a cave as he sank to his knees between your legs, spreading them apart with gentle strokes before rewarding you for your patience.

“You want to come, don’t you?” It’s hardly a question. More of a statement, tucked beneath the amusement blended with pleasure. “You want to come with my voice in your ears and my name in your throat.”

Your attempt at a ‘yes’ comes out as a fractured plea.

His breath corks in his throat. He’s holding himself back. Abstaining from his pleasure in pursuit of yours. Always so considerate, even with miles and oceans between you.

“Then come, sweetheart. Let go. Give it to me. I’m here. I’ve got you.”

That sparkling rush spiders up your body as you press more into your sex. As you grind against your palm. The sensation spires in your stomach, stretching itself taut like a steel wire.

“That’s it,” he coaxes, panting in tandem with you. “Come for me. Nice and loud, sweet girl.”

Aided by his voice and the imagery of him feeding his cock into his palm, the line snaps. Frays, leaving sparks of electricity in its wake.

You’re quiet at first. Until the pleasure rolls over you like waves retreating towards the sea. Your pelvis surging off the bed, you shudder through it, Sylus’ name rolling around in your mouth, and your eyes burning with a hot wash of tears.

He lures you down from the sky with gentle praise. Binds you to your skin, voice syrupy as whiskey left to chill in the freezer.

“That’s my girl. My princess. Breathe through it. So proud of you. So good for me.”

Feeling slowly returns to your fingers. You’re staring up at the ceiling when the phosphenes recede, the kaleidoscope of colors draining away to reveal your room bathed in a film of grey.

The sun’s fully seated itself beneath the horizon.

You blink sluggishly, your body reminding you of its weight as you sink into the mattress. “Sylus,” you finally breathe, curling onto your side into yourself.

“I know, sweetheart,” he pacifies, the lust making way for affection. “I miss you, too.”

Grabbing a pillow from the headboard, you hug it tight as if your lover will appear in its place if you squeeze hard enough.

“Sleep,” he tenderly instructs. “Dream of me. I’ll stay on the line.”

As if tuned to his command, your eyes slip shut, a tired smile rounding your lips. You nestle into the pillow, curled around it like a baby koala, Sylus’ voice still a delightful echo in your ear.

[ashtreegt]

G/T July Day 8: Fake (?) Death

(read on AO3)

cw: blood/head injury

Milo did not immediately think to check on Jac after the ground-quaking crash had vibrated through him. The human had a nasty habit of dropping things, breaking things, and falling on his ass. Random sounds of chaos would frequently shake the apartment, though it was rarely so silent afterward. 

“Jac?” Milo calls as loudly as he can, knowing the human’s giant ears have trouble picking him up. Predictably, there is no response. Milo sighs and rises to his feet. He steps onto the remote, a squishy rubber button depresses under his boot, and the car chase on the wide TV screen freezes in place. 

“Jac!” Milo shouts again, louder, as he's walking exposed across the expansive plane of living room carpet. Jac bitches at him whenever he walks out in the open, like it's not the quickest possible way. None of the humans have to walk along the dusty, spider-y edges of the wall! And the shag carpet doesn't come up to their knees. 

“Hey Jac! What have you gone and knocked over you clumsy bitch!” Milo yells, just outside the bathroom door now, hands cupped around his mouth. There. Jac should be able to hear that. 

There is nothing. Milo frowns, jogging the final stretch to the bathroom door, left open a crack. He pushes it open with two hands, shoulders straining against the towering panel of wood and slips into the room, which is thick with steam. Through the vapor, walking forward, Milo sees tan, flushed skin, risen out of the tile like a mountain range. A human body lays with one arm pinned underneath him, lying twisted and naked, unmoving on the damp tile floor. The face is turned away from Milo, displaying the lake of brightest red that is spreading out under a massive blonde head. Milo takes a stumbling step back to keep the blood from lapping at the toe of his boots. 

He swallows, his mouth dry, blinking wide, slitted eyes at the sight before him. That’s more blood than there is in Milo’s entire body, is Jac even still alive? The thought strikes him like an electric shock. Of course he's alive. He must be. The borrower grits his teeth and steps through the puddle of blood to reach Jac’s head, cringing at the warmth he can feel seeping through his boots. The puddle grows thicker the closer he gets to Jac’s head, higher now, halfway to his ankles and drying quickly. How long has Jac been lying here bleeding? Since that thud, it must have been, he’s been here on the floor. Maybe dead. Milo looks up at the back of his head and the vague curve of his pale jaw towering over him in the foggy room. 

“Jac?” Milo asks, his voice far too quiet for the human to hear if he wasn't standing only inches from him. “You’re alive, aren't you?” 

The human does nothing more than continue to lay still. Milo reaches up to touch the soft, thick skin of Jac’s neck, warm. There are ways to tell if things are living or dead. But a downed bird or a sleeping insect is a far cry from a Big. Jac is twisted too strangely to make out if his chest is still moving up and down, his face is turned away and Milo cannot see if his eyes are open or shut. Seeing or not. There are ways to tell that humans use. Ones that Milo has seen, that push in the faded corners of his memory, from a TV show. He smooths his hand down the warm skin of Jac’s throat, feeling for whatever he is meant to feel. The touch tells him nothing. Jac's skin is warm, but he was just in the shower, his skin is still red from the heat. It tells him nothing. Milo takes his hand away, turning and walking out of the growing puddle of blood, leaving red tracks on white tile, towards Jac's outstretched hand. There is another method he remembers. He presses his hands into Jac’s wrist, over the thick blue lines that carry his blood. There should be movement. There should be some sign of life, something. Milo looks desperately back to Jac's head, still unmoving, face turned away. Has the lake of blood stopped spreading? How much blood does a human have in their body anyway? How much can they stand to lose? Is he already gone? 

The thought seems to rip through his brain. He presses harder into the wrist, only a little shorter than he, but he can't find it- whatever he's supposed to be looking for, and he doesn't know what that is. He shoves Jac's limp, curled hand. 

“Get up, you stupid creature!” Milo snarls, pushing with all his might. Jac stays still. Milo stares at his bleeding head, jaw trembling. “What is wrong with you?” 

Jac is still warm. How long would it take for a body his size to go cold? Milo swears, collapsing against the wrist, curling into himself. Nails bite into a weak palm. If he still had his power… if he was never Shorn, he would call upon the giving Spirit of nature, would knit the wound closed and mop up the blood with gifts from spiders and silkworms. His head would be clear. His heart would be steady. Now, nothing is right. He is unmoored, as unsteady as a ship in a storm, and if Jac is truly dead, then he is alone. 

Alone. 

If Jac is dead, then he would never cook another terrible meal. Would never gripe about work, never craft another intricate sculpture, would never finish telling Milo what happened to his parents. He would be gone. 

What a curse, what a curse. 

Milo cannot bear the unnameable weight upon him, he curls into himself, gasping for air, a bleeding hand covering his face. He leans into Jac’s hand, just at the joint of his wrist, desperate like an animal to be near him, and stays there. Eyes closed and trembling.

Pressing in on the side of his ribs is movement. Milo’s eyes fly open, pressing himself closer, feeling out the small sign of life with his entire being. Is this what he is meant to find? He leans in, presses the side of his head, the sensitive skin of his cheek, to the movement, the rhythmic pounding. 

He hears it then, pounding in his head, a heartbeat. The very same as the one hammering away in Milo's own chest. Still living. Still here. 

Milo draws himself up with a shaky pull of breath. The world had seemed to end, then stretch out infinitely in front of him again. Disoriented may he be, he wastes no time getting to his feet, and runs further out into the bathroom, unspooling his grappling hook and swinging it round his hand. With another anxious glance at Jac’s unmoving head, his blonde hair growing more red by the second. Milo hooks his line onto the edge of the sink and begins to haul himself up, digging his bloody boots into the panels of the cabinet. He scrambles onto the porcelain and over to Jac’s phone, careful not to slip over the sleek edge of the sink, and kneels down beside Jac’s phone. He presses a palm over a pattern of numbers 0-7-2-4 and pulls up Glory’s contact in moments. She does not pick up nearly fast enough. Milo cannot stand to wait, not when he can't help but stare down at Jac, who looks so much weaker from above. Milo can see his face now. It is pale and wan, his eyes are shut. Blood has spread under his face, tinting half his head red. 

“Hey Jac. What-” 

“Glory! Holy shit!” Milo rushes back to the phone, kneeling down beside it, leaving bloody streaks on the porcelain. “Glory! Jac is hurt!” 

“What?! Milo?? What happened?” 

“The blasted stupid human went and knocked a hole in his head! He's alive, I checked his wrist, but there's blood everywhere and he isn't moving.” 

“Shit. Oh my God.” Glory says, the phone’s audio muffled and scratching, as though she is moving very quickly on the other end. “Okay, okay. Shit. How long has he been out?” 

“Maybe five minutes?” 

“Fuck, okay. I'm getting in the car right now, I'll be ten minutes. I'm gonna call an ambulance.” Over the phone, Milo hears an engine start to rumble. “Milo, listen carefully. I have to call more humans to the apartment to help Jac. You need to get into the walls, find somewhere safe, and call me as soon as they leave.” 

“I understand.” Milo says, voice hard. If he has to hide from strange Bigs for Jac to live then so be it. “Call the other humans, I'll find somewhere safe.” 

“Thank you Milo.” 

He hangs up the call, swallowing around a strange weight in his throat, and grapples down to the floor. He lands in the puddle of blood, just beside Jac’s face, his eyes shut, unmoving. 

“You're going to live.” Milo tells his sleeping face. “So you'd better start acting like it.” 

Milo unhooks his grappling hook, presses his face against Jac's cheek in a moment of strange bliss he doesn't understand, and runs into the dark safety of his human’s walls. 

[mysterylover123]

Watching G1 Transformers "Prime Target"

Hands off, stupid human mechs. He's Megsy's to kill.

Oh shit it's the "Most Dangerous Game" themed episode. Oh dear. OP your life just seems to never stop getting worse.

"Cold War tensions heightened " sometimes you forget this was made in the 80s and the Cold War is still on.

Were the autobots watching a Soap opera? I need to know what they watch for fun. Also, is this the first British character? LOL what an entry for the UK.

Mostly this ep is showcasing bunch of autobots running around trying to save squishy humans. I'm just realizing, are there no deceptions in this episode? NOOOOOOOOOOOO

For once OP DOESN'T automatically assume the Cons are behind everything? Wow I guess that's progress?

I feel like other incarnations of this plot would have Megs end up saving him because Nobody Kills Prime But Me

OH THANK PRIMUS THERE'S THE CONS! Screamer immediately lays into Megs for how this guy has "done more in two days than you have in two years" Screamer really has a point there Megs.

Anyway Megs actually likes the guy and figures they'll work together. And I'm guessing that even if it isn't a "Only one Allowed to defeat you" thing, he's still probably gonna accidentally save OP by being stupid.

Anyway Most Dangerous Game OP vs hunter shenanigans ensue. I feel like OP sounds more pissed off at this guy than he's been at Megsy in two seasons.

Wow OP actually figures out the Damsel in Distress is a trap? And the one who followed them is BLITZWING? OMG I know that guy from TFA!

"A booby trap that actually catches boobies" HAHA much like Enter the Nightbird there's a line that aged hilariously.

And yep just like I predicted Megs and co actually do manage to fuck this up. Nice work guys you'd have been rid of your mortal enemy real easily.

HAHA one of them lands right on top of OP in an accidentally suggestive way. I'm not sure which one, not Blitzwing.

One of the mechs OP fights is a giant spider. Feels like the entirety of Beast Wars had its origins in this episode.

And OMG the Cons actually turn on the human instead of OP haha I knew they'd accidentally save him. And wow that guy is really lucky OP is compassionate and shit he'd have been squashed by anyone else.

[the-void-has-questions]

I’m just sitting here trying to convince myself there is not a spider in my coffee. There is not a spider in my coffee.

[maroonmused]

spider-man/deadpool #8

[cryptike]

hey everyone, as a big fan of spiders and of weird and unsettling art i will be posting/reposting oraxia stuff (and spider related stuff in general) so i would highly suggest adding the tag "spider" to the filtered tags in your settings if you're arachnophobic. I will tag everything properly (even my reposts) but once I do it you're responsible for whether or not you come in contact with triggering content.

[daisymintt]

MCU Spider-Man 4 Thoughts/Theories/Predictions

I recently finished playing Insomniac Spider-Man Remastered and it got me thinking about MCU and where his story could go so I decided to make a list of some of my thoughts/theories/predictions for (hopefully) future movies for my favorite Spidey (I love all Spidey’s but this one holds a special place in my heart because he was the first Spidey I’ve ever watched)

Peter will frequent MJ’s work, he won’t talk to her much but he likes to check in on her and Ned as much as he can without coming across as a creep

From his newfound isolation also comes heavy bouts of depression so he buries himself with Spidey work

During one of these bouts he comes across some black ooze (the Sony Venom symbiote piece that got left behind) and it eagerly latches onto him feeding off all his insecurities and isolating him from others even more

MJ becomes suspicious of him, she can’t quite put her finger on it but something about him is familiar. She often finds her hand going to her broken lotus necklace when he comes by…

MJ has been having a lot of weird dreams lately, about a boy with a blurry face who makes her feel all warm and fuzzy inside

She and Ned get closer and are now BFF’s

MJ notices that Peter doesn’t come around any more, at this point she has already started putting together a red string clue board to try and piece all these weird puzzle pieces together. She’d probably talk to Ned about it at some point who’d go along with it since he too has had a weird feeling that something - or someone - is missing

MJ will also be involved with a investigative journalism program at MIT

At some point Miles is introduced, maybe as another cafe regular or something

By the end MJ pieces all the weird shards of her memories together and cues a memory montage (very Rapunzel remembering she’s the lost princess-esque)

Once MJ remembers she immediately tells Ned, Ned’s memories need a bit more jogging but soon he remembers as well and they both go searching for Symbiote Peter to try and stop him before he goes to far

Together they’re able to tear the symbiote from him

They have a tearful reunion together and destroy the symbiote (or so they thought)

This is all I have so far, if i think of anything else I’ll add it in a reblog

[milimeters-morales]

sword slash to the chest. and you’re on fire.

[berryblu-soda]

/ref to last rb, i need to know the exact amount of people who seem to be studying be like a bug agsfdbgfsgysjdag, it´s stacking up ToT!!!

...

in other news i ate mascara yesterday so you dont have to! wasnt very soluble, thicker than lipstick and with the slightest bitter aftertaste, so write that down in your notepads if you want *shrug* 6/10

[cellarspider]

looks like a pretty late lunch but I'd be down

[davinawritings]

Monster Boyfriend’s Favorite Place To Cum

Warnings: sex, knotting, oral, size kink, anal

🖤❤️💕💕❤️🖤

Ghost Boyfriend loves cumming on your tits; he especially loves seeing it drip off your nipples. He will literally spend an extra ten minutes playing with your tits once done, massaging his cum into your breasts.

Werewolf boyfriend’s favorite place to cum is pretty predictable. He loves cumming in your pussy and knotting you to keep it locked inside. His absolute favorite is when he gets you in the perfect position, the tip of his cock nudging your cervix as he knots you. Loves the feeling of cumming directly in your womb.

Demon boyfriend loves cumming down your throat, not in your mouth (although he loves that too), but entirely down your throat. He has your nose pressed up to his pelvis as his cock sits hot and heavy down your throat. You look up at him with tears in your eyes as he shoots rope after rope of hot cum straight down your throat.

Gnoll Boyfriend is completely feral every time he fucks you. He cums in your pussy every time. He will never pull out of your warm wet cunt, fucking into you deep and hard until you both cum over and over again. It only stops once you finally succumb to your exhaustion and pass out.

Dragon Boyfriend Option 1. Dragon boyfriend that is larger than you but not so large that it’s obscene. He enjoys cumming all over your ass, loving the way he can then continue fucking you and watch your glistening cheeks jiggle for him.

Dragon Boyfriend Option 2. Dragon boyfriend that is much larger than you. His cock won’t fit inside you, so he fucks you with his tongue over and over until you are fucked stupid. When it’s his turn, he holds you in his claw and rubs your body up and down his massive cock, using you to jerk himself off. He loves cumming all over your body, producing so much cum that you are practically covered from head to toe. The sight alone has him ready to go again, your wet and sticky body gliding effortlessly along his ribbed shaft, clit catching on the ridges on each stroke.

Spider Hybrid Boyfriend keeps you pinned down with his webs for hours as he works meticulously to fill each and every one of your holes. He fucks your mouth like a fleshlight, laughing as your try with all your might to squeeze your thighs together, trying to get any stimulation to your poor clit, but his webs keep your legs spread wide. He then moves to filling your pussy, making sure that hole is sufficiently dripping before moving to your tight ass. He works you open, teasing you as each thrust in your ass causes your pussy to squirt out his cum, meaning he’ll just need to fuck and fill you again.

🖤💕❤️❤️💕🖤 I hope you enjoyed 🖤❤️💕💕❤️🖤

[tojicide]

(check out the series here)

spiderman!caleb has been floating around in my mind for days… please humor me and picture it.

caleb had it all figured out. academically? he was at top of his class, the golden child of the honors program. socially? he was well known, well liked, and somehow not the total dirtbag that most college guys are.

life was simple. predictable. textbook. that was until three very inconvenient things happened.

number one: he was bit by a radioactive spider. great. suddenly, he has web-slinging powers, majorly heightened senses, and—thanks to a lingering case of static cling—his life has been turned upside down. (seriously, he’s somehow gotten stuck to his dorm room’s ceiling more times than he would like to admit.)

number two: he met you. the timing was impeccable, really. you were smart, competitive, and somehow—no matter what he did—always a step ahead. if he got a 97 in microbiology? you’d score a 98. if he grabbed a cookie from the dining hall? he’d see you with two on your plate. that was deliberate, he’s sure of it. and above all, you’re gunning for top spot in the class, just when he’s trying to juggle his new, freakish reality.

number three: the spider’s sense was created—an anonymous blog dedicated to every little thing spider-man does. caleb’s trying to lay low, but the blog is way too close for comfort.

his new mission? find out who’s behind the blog before they figure out he’s the one they’re writing about. but with you constantly one-upping him and him trying to keep up appearances, caleb might just be in way over his head.

a/n: so obviously i’ve thought about this way too much….. so hypothetically…….would anyone be interested in reading a spidercaleb fic series……. (edit: ok i’m going to post it, i can’t fight the urges.)

comment if you want to be tagged!!

also i got the concept of spidercaleb from paiya443 on x!

[emmyrosee]

shhhhHHHHHUTUPIDONTWANTTOTALKABOUTIT

-

The first time you sleep over Katsuki’s, it’s not long after he’s moved into his apartment with the rest of his friends.

Which is bold, the only one who doesn’t flirt with you any chance they get is Mina -mainly because she has her own place- but she’s always telling Katsuki that the minute you get bored with him, she’s there to swoop in.

But his friends waste no time in making sure to rile Katsuki up with cheesy pickup lines that mean nothing to you, but everything to him. He hates the idea of having his friends hit on you, but you’d be lying if riling him up wasn’t exhilarating.

You smile as you hear bare feet pad along the tiling of the kitchen, a massive presence looming behind you; it’s warm, loving, and you feel yourself relaxing at the closeness.

“Morning,” he rasps, arms wrapping around your waist. You smile and curl against him, tipping your head back to look at him.

“You hungry?”

“You didn’t have to make us breakfast,” he murmurs, pressing a loving kiss to the curve of your neck.

You mewl and bend your arm to wrap around him, “I know, I just wanted to do something nice for my man and his friends for being such good company last night.”

He grumbles, “don’t ever refer to my roommates as ‘good.’ Bunch of fucking menaces and creeps.”

“They can’t be too bad,” you hum, turning off the stove. God knows how long you’ll both be drooling with affection. “After all, you let me meet them,” you coo. “And you’d never let your little baby be put in danger.”

“Fucking hate when you call yourself that,” he snaps, spidering his fingers up your side. You squeal and shrink to the side, only to be met with pokes on the other. “Katsuki!”

“Don’t be a little shit and I won’t have to torment you,” he snickers. You’re quick to flick off the stove with what little movement your arms can give you while protecting you from tickles, and you duck as fast as you can under his caging limbs to escape.

He must like the challenge, because he lets you go, only to barrel after you into the living room. A small coffee table separates you both, and you’re at a standstill as you watch each other.

“Katsuki!” You giggle, making a sudden dart to try and throw him off your trail. It doesn’t deter him, like he’s able to predict what you’re going to do before you do. “Y-You’re gonna wake everyone up!”

“I’m not gonna do a fuckin’ thing,” he snorts. “You’re the one screaming and whining.”

“Am not!”

“Are too.”

“Am not!”

“Are too.”

“Are not-“

“I think it’s bold of you to argue with me instead of sprinting away.” He shrugs, making a dash for you and wasting no time in grabbing you into his big arms. You writhe and laugh in his grip, desperate to not shriek and wake his poor roommates. Giggles bubble wildly over your lips, and he hauls you back into the kitchen before plopping you onto the countertop, distant from the stove. You instinctively move your hands to card his blonde hair, and he leans in to steal the last of your giggles from your lips.

“How much time we got before breakfast burns?” He mumbles, hands smoothing up your thighs. Crimson eyes glimmer with mischief, and he bumps your nose with his.

You chuckle and shake your head, legs wrapping around his thick waist, “it was burning before you came in; I turned off the stove so it wouldn’t burst into flames.”

He snorts, “good.” One of the hands resting on the meat of your thighs comes up to grip your chin, “now I don’t have to rush.”

“Ew,” you giggle, but it dies as quickly as you said it when he connects your kiss, working his lips against yours in this own way, full of passion and love with just enough tease to have you whimper.

The hand on your cheek shifts down to rest on your delicate throat, dangling like a necklace. A subtle act of dominance to make you shiver.

“I love you,” you murmur against his lips.

“I love you more-“

“Ewwwww!!!”

“Who knew he had a weakness?”

“Lookin’ good, Dynamight!”

Immediately, Katsuki’s shoulders hike up as the shrill voices from his friends ring through the air. You let out a string of laughter while the other boys you were visiting peer around the wall of the apartment, Sero with a face of disgust, Kirishima with a playful understanding and Kaminari with a cheesy bite of his lip.

“I’m going to KILL YOU IDIOTS!” He barks, abandoning you to dash over to the trio, mainly targeting Kaminari and Sero, who sprint away as fast as they can. Kirishima chuckles and makes his way over to you, helping you off the counter with a sigh.

“How’s he ever going to keep being Number One if you keep doing this to him?”

You snort and elbow his ribs while somewhere in the house, Katsuki caught Denki, and the screams ring loudly in the walls.

“Shut up and help me remake breakfast, dickhead.”

[piplup335]

Griefer x reader! (post-Venomshank when he has all the plant stuffs)

*inhale* HELLO, F E L L A S wanted to try writing for block tales lmao, probably gonna open requests for them mb I wanna work on requests but I'm tryna write self-indulgent reqs rn aaaaaa I'm sorry ;-; but yeah uh first time writing for block tales, I'm trying :,D enjoy!

⋯⇋ ૮(•͈⌔•͈)ა ⇌⋯

You were tired of everything that had happened to you so far.

When you were torn out of your timeline so you could go back to the past to help Shedletsky get the SFOTH swords, you really didn't know what to expect. You expected an arduous journey, sure...after all, these swords were the stuff of legend. You knew that much...after all, the swords also existed in your timeline, and you learnt about them before.

You didn't expect...everything else.

When you were first sent to get the Ice Dagger after having a short, grumpy penguin guide you through the ropes of the new world, the journey you went on was predictable, to say the least. Having some old, regal king as the guardian of the sword wasn't unexpected to you, especially because of all the video games you played in your old world. What you didn't expect was how delirious he seemed to be.

Based on what you heard from the villagers living in the kingdom, he was a reasonable and just ruler. No one had any complaints about him, and all respected him for his decisions.

That wasn't reflected in your fight, though.

When you fought him, he seemed to be detached. Paranoid. Cruel King thought you were going to tear down his kingdom, and no amount of talking deterred his insatiable need to cut you down. You had to physically wrestle the Dagger away from him- not the sensible and just king you expected, but a complete and utter lunatic.

You thought it was the end of it, but it wasn't.

Shedletsky then sent you out to Turitopulis to retrieve the Venomshank from Mayor Thanyiel. On the plane ride there, you decided to go prepared and read up on Turitopulis' culture, nature and residents...just so you knew what you were going to be up against. You didn't want to get blindsided by a seemingly normal ruler again.

Upon reaching there, you realised you were probably a bit too late. You saw Mayor Thanyiel...held hostage by a gorilla, commanded by some dude who looked like some edgy teen. He even spoke just like an edgy teen, too- some of his words seemed a bit distorted, but you could somehow understand his speech as leetspeak.

Maybe the Ice Dagger gave you some of the old King's knowledge.

Regardless, you still had a job to do.

You spoke to people in the town, simply wanting to get your job over and done with so you could return to your timeline as soon as possible. But the more you spoke to the people there the more intrigued you were about the place. Gone was your annoyance pertaining to your job

You traversed through the dense forest, careful to prevent any unwanted encounters. The fauna was quite hostile there, after all.

By the time you finally navigated to Griefer's crib, or whatever that place was called, it was already too late for you. You wanted to resolve the situation peacefully, but by then Griefer had already tied his father to the Venomshank and used him to pull the sword from the stone.

Cue a long fight where you had to battle the Venomshank-wielding male...and even after losing, he stabbed himself with the very sword he tried to kill you with.

It didn't end well for either of you.

While you were severely injured, Griefer's fate was much worse. He got transformed into some plant...spider...hybrid monster thing.

Even after purifying your soul to retrieve the Ghostwalker and defeating some ancient god for the Firebrand, when you went back to Turitopulis, he was still in his plant-like form, if not in an even worse state.

When you checked in with Mayor Thaniyel, he mentioned that not only had Griefer not returned to his usual self, but he was also less responsive as the days passed. Barely reacting to his dad's voice. Barely getting up to eat. It was as if his life was withering away day by day like the plants covering his body were consuming him from the inside...so you knew what you had to do.

After a bit of sailing and a trip to the late Kitchen Wizard, you returned to Turitopulis, some onion ring tart in your hands.

Allegedly, based on the cookbook you found at the heart of the jungle, it was supposed to be some cure for Griefer's condition. It worked, thankfully...but only to some extent.

He still had plant-like features around him, but you thought it made him look cooler.

That was when finally...he opened up to you and agreed to join you on your journey to find the rest of the swords.

He told you everything about himself. He mentioned how he was always curious about the Venomshank, how he heard the voices from it just like Blackrock's king...how it controlled his mind and made him do things he never should've done. He told you about how he'd get yelled at by his father every time he tried to bring up the topic of the Venomshank...and everything in between.

For once, he felt safe. He felt like you were someone he could truly trust, and therefore agreed to aid you in your adventure.

Fortunately for you, Shedletsky had no information to give you regarding the other sword guardians, so in the meantime, you could take a break and explore the new world. Despite all that, though, you enjoyed staying in Turitopulis by Griefer's side, getting to know the community better with each passing day. However, you still wanted to return to the Temple of the Red Sun to train and loot the place...which was how you ended up falling for him.

You let out a choked cough. Blood was starting to flood your throat, and you were just a few hitpoints away from dying. With whatever Special Points you had left, you pulled out one last card from your deck.

"Griefer...? If you're there...somewhere...please, help..."

The being...The Ancients, it called itself, stared down at you, its soulless, unmoving eyes never once leaving your wounded form. Calypso lay before you, crumpled up into a heap. She had passed out trying to protect you, just as how Captain Trotter wanted.

She was loyal to him until the very end.

And even then, her loyalty to him was her downfall.

As The Ancients wound up its arms, preparing for one final strike, you squeezed your eyes shut.

You were already in too much pain to move. You just wanted to die quickly so you could respawn and be freed from whatever agonising pain you were in.

Just as The Ancients lunged forward, ready to take away whatever life you had left, you heard some faint rustling as a familiar figure dropped down in front of you. Two pained grunts could be heard from him as he was struck by the two blows that were meant for you.

"...N0T 0N MY W4TCH, PUNK."

The crowbar-wielding male stood in front of you, protecting you from The Ancients.

You glanced up at him, confusion and shock on your face. You had no idea how he got into the temple and found you in such a short amount of time, but you weren't complaining.

"G...Griefer...? You...actually came to help..."

A weak cough escaped your body as you tried to stand up. Getting bashed in multiple times had done quite a number on you, and you almost fell flat on your face.

"...D0N'T PU5H Y0URS3LF."

He knelt down and held out a hand for you to grab. You gratefully accepted his help and pulled yourself back on your feet. Due to your weakened state, however...you stumbled into him.

Griefer, upon seeing your weakened state, instinctively caught you as your legs gave way, not wanting you to fall. What you didn't expect was for him to do so by pulling you against him so you could put your weight on him instead of on your own legs...which resulted in him tightly hugging you to himself.

"I G0T Y0UR B4CK. L3T'5 PWN TH15 5UCK3R T0G3TH3R."

One thing slowly turned into another, though...and on one moonlit night, Griefer ended up asking you out during a leisurely nighttime stroll. By that point, you were completely smitten by him, so you agreed.

Ever since that day, Griefer treated you like a delicate porcelain doll. He offered to take care of you as you recovered from your injuries, offered to do little things for you and always protected you from whatever was out to get you. Once, he even followed you to The Guru so you could get more training by refighting your own embodiment of hatred. Despite you telling him multiple times that you'd be fine since you'd fought it before and could even respawn, he was determined to follow you so you'd come back safe and sound.

On this day, however, you really didn't feel like training. Your body was sore from the excessive practice you did the previous day, and all you wanted to do was take a break for one day.

So what did Griefer do? He decided to pop over to the Turitopulis' Town Inn you were staying at to pay you a visit and spend some quality time with you.

As you lay in bed, your muscles sore from all the combat you did the previous day, you heard a soft click as the door opened. Griefer stood in the doorway, a small bowl in hand.

"H3Y. (Y/N). I M4D3 Y0U S0M3 S0UP. Y0U 5H0ULD H4V3 S0M3, IT'5 G00D F0R Y0U."

Griefer set the container down on your bedside table and opened it. The smell that wafted out and filled the room was heavenly- it smelt delectable, just like the soup your parents always made for you in the past.

Griefer went to the inn's pantry and grabbed a spoon. He picked up the bowl of soup, scooped up some soup and held it to your mouth.

"D0 H4V3 S0M3, D34R35T...Y0U N33D 1T."

You opened your mouth and let Griefer spoon-feed you the soup. It tasted just as good as it smelled, if not even better. The soup was rich and savoury, and it tasted absolutely heavenly.

You instinctively opened your mouth every time he brought the spoon to your lips, gratefully consuming every bit of soup he fed you.

It tasted like familiarity. It tasted like home. It tasted of the good old times when you were safe and secure in the arms of people you cared for.

Now, you were in a new universe. There were so many new things to see. So many things to appreciate. Someone by your side to truly love.

As Griefer continued feeding you the soup, you had a sudden thought.

"...Griefer...? Could we...cuddle, by any chance?"

He paused, a faint hint of pink spreading across his face. Eventually, he relented, setting the bowl back on the bedside table and crawling under the blanket with you.

"...F1N3. C'M3R3..."

Griefer wrapped his arms around you, pulling you to his chest. The leaves covering his face and arms tickled a bit, so you squirmed in his grasp to get comfortable.

He buried his face in your shoulder, the leaves on his face brushing against your neck as he lay there, the only sound in the room being the faint hum of the air conditioner and the soft breathing from both of you.

"I'V3 W4NT3D T0 D0 TH15 F0R 4 WH1L3...JU5T L13 D0WN H3R3 W1TH Y0U L1K3 TH15. 1'M GL4D 5H3DL3T5KY H45N'T SENT Y0U 0UT T0 F1ND 4N0TH3R 5TUP1D 5W0RD..."

You lay there in bed, too tired to say a word and too comfortable to move. You never knew how nice it was to get spooned by someone you loved until then. As you let out a soft yawn, Griefer chuckled.

"T1R3D? Y0U 5H0ULD SL33P. Y0U'V3 B33N TR41N1NG 4 L0T R3C3NTLY."

You subconsciously caressed some of the vines that snaked down Griefer's arm, silently adoring his new look. You knew that deep down, Griefer was insecure about the new additions...but you liked them anyway.

As you drifted off to sleep, you felt his hold on you tighten slightly.

"5L33P W3LL, MY L0V3...1'LL 4LW4Y5 PR0T3CT Y0U FR0M WH4T3V3R PUNK TH4T TR135 T0 HURT Y0U."

⋯⇋ ૮(•͈⌔•͈)ა ⇌⋯

and that’s all, fellas! I hope you enjoyed, and I’ll see you guys soon! :D

[cressidagrey]

Garage Time

Pairing: Oscar Piastri x Felicity Leong-Piastri (Original Character)

Summary: Felicity and Bee Piastri: Two Peas in a Pod

(divider thanks to @saradika-graphics )

Oscar had always known he wasn’t the smartest person in the house.

It wasn’t a competition. It wasn’t even close.

He could read tire degradation like a second language. He could predict weather shifts by the way wind moved across a track. He could tell you the weight of pressure on his back wheel just by how the steering wheel twitched in his hands.

But true brilliance—the intricate, layered, quietly relentless kind? That belonged to Felicity.

And now, it seemed, to Bee too.

He stood now in the open doorway of what used to be an old stable—transformed by Felicity into a workshop, a garage, and more recently, a sanctuary. It smelled like grease, dust, and something warm—like a life that had been lived in deeply. And it echoed, faintly, with the laughter of his four-year-old daughter and the murmur of her mother’s steady voice.

Bee was sitting on a stacked milk crate in her favorite overalls—dark blue with patches on the knees, one of which she’d sewn on herself with needle-sharp concentration. She was holding a mini flashlight and a torque wrench like they were holy relics. Her goggles were too big and kept sliding down her nose, but she pushed them up without pausing her inspection.

“Mama,” she said, very seriously, “the rust’s gotten worse again. The wire brush isn’t enough. We need the Dremel with the diamond bit.”

Without looking up, Felicity reached over and passed the exact attachment. “Already out. Be careful of the edges.”

Oscar just stood there, quietly floored.

They moved like clockwork—precise, in sync, saying more with glances than most people could manage in full conversations. There was a kind of sacredness to it. A ritual born from repetition, trust, and shared obsession.

The car in front of them—a fire-red ‘67 Alfa Romeo Spider— was half-dead. But he knew that it would run again. Because Felicity always took broken things and fixed them. Piece by piece, bolt by bolt. 

Their shared language wasn’t just tools and tasks. It was detail. Precision. Respect for the process.

Bee had preferences the same way her mother did—strong, specific ones. She didn’t like when the wrenches were out of order. She couldn’t focus if her socks didn’t match. She insisted on a clipboard instead of a notebook and wanted her snacks in “even-numbered bites.” Her world made sense when things were in place. When they followed the rules she understood.

Oscar leaned on the doorframe, watching as Felicity wiped grease off her hands and adjusted her ponytail with the calm confidence of someone who knew how to make something run again.

“Should I take out the bolts on the intake next?” Bee asked, peering over the engine like a surgeon.

“Not yet,” Felicity said, crouching beside her. “We check the seals first. Otherwise we’re redoing work we didn’t have to.”

Bee nodded solemnly. “That’s inefficient.”

Oscar could barely process it. His three-year-old was talking about mechanical inefficiency.

He scratched the back of his neck, a grin tugging at his lips. “I feel like I should be helping.”

Felicity looked up at him, eyes gleaming. “You are helping.”

“By standing here and trying not to mess anything up?”

“Exactly.”

Bee giggled. “Papa, your hands are too big for the screws. And you said last time the engine ‘judged you.’”

“It did!” Oscar protested. “It made a weird noise. I don’t trust it.”

Felicity rolled her eyes fondly. “It was the starter clicking. Because you wired it backward.”

“Okay,” he muttered. “We don’t all come with a degree in car resurrection.”

But he didn’t mind.

 Not even a little.

Because as he watched Felicity patiently show Bee how to handle the dremel, the way she knelt beside her daughter without condescension, the way Bee looked at her like she was a superhero in greasy overalls—it hit him again.

These two?

 They were brilliant.

Felicity, with her steady mind and quieter kind of sharpness. The woman who once redesigned their kitchen shelving because she couldn’t stand inefficient spatial flow.

And Bee, who had probably invented three new tools in her head before snack time.

He was raising a genius. And he’d married one too.

And somehow—by some miracle—they both loved him. 

He stepped closer. Bee didn’t look up. “If you mess up the socket order again, Mama said you’ll be benched.”

Felicity snorted softly. “Fair warning. Last week you rearranged them by size instead of frequency of use.”

“Because that makes sense!”

“Not to us,” Bee said without looking up. “We sort by practicality, not aesthetics.”

Oscar put both hands in the air. “Understood. I’m on thin ice.”

He sat on the edge of the workbench, watching as Felicity guided Bee’s hand on the Dremel with practiced calm. Bee's brows were furrowed in concentration, tongue poking out slightly, the same way Felicity looked when she was threading electrical wire.

They even leaned the same way when they worked—weight over their left hip, elbow tucked in, steady, focused.

God, they were so alike.

Same quiet brilliance. Same way of existing in a world that didn’t always understand how particularity could be a comfort.

Oscar loved them for it.

Even if he sometimes felt like a different species.

Still, he didn’t mind. He’d take the role of “fuel technician” or “guy who messes up the wrench order” any day if it meant getting to watch this.

“Do you want me to get snacks?” he asked eventually.

Bee perked up immediately. “Apple juice, please. Cold. In the bee cup. The one with the yellow straw.”

Felicity added, “And banana bread. No crust. Don’t forget the butter this time.”

Oscar grinned. “See? I have a purpose.”

“You’re our supply chain,” Bee said, solemn and sweet.

He headed for the kitchen, but his thoughts lingered behind.

Because here, in the garage, Bee shone.

But outside of it—at kindergarten, in playgroups, at birthday parties—she dimmed. Just a little. Enough for him to notice. Enough that it ached.

She preferred machines to playgrounds. She corrected her teachers, and she’d rather spend the day with chickens and torque specs than kids her age. She reached for her mama’s hand instinctively at parties, only relaxed when Felicity was near, and she quietly dimmed herself when other children didn’t understand her.

He worried about what the world would do with a girl like her.

With a girl who didn’t shrink for anyone. Who asked questions teachers couldn’t answer. 

Who didn’t just think outside the box—she would take the box apart with a ratchet set, draw schematics for a new one, and filed a request to optimize the corners.

Bee didn’t fit neatly anywhere.

Except here.

Here, in the workshop with her mother—who got it. Who was it. Who had been that same sharp-edged, too-bright child once. The one who asked too many questions and took apart toasters to understand thermodynamics.

And Oscar… didn’t know what to do with that. Not really.

He loved that Bee was uniquely herself. He wouldn’t change her for the world. But part of him worried, about how hard the world could be on girls who didn’t make themselves easier to understand.

So he made snacks.

He carved out spaces for her to be seen. To be known. He bought her every kind of notebook and wrench and Lego motor he could find, and he kept the world soft when it felt too loud for her.

In the kitchen, he poured apple juice for Bee and mango for Felicity. He cut thick slices of banana bread and added three forks—just in case Bee was in one of her “tools for everything” moods.

As he plated everything, he caught his reflection in the darkened microwave door—messy hair, oil smudge on his hoodie from leaning too close to Bee earlier, and a smile he couldn’t quite wipe away.

The kind of smile that came from a life that didn’t need spotlight to shine.

When he returned to the garage, it was quieter now, but only in the way a good story quiets down before the twist.

Bee was kneeling on a foam mat with a serious expression, focused on drawing something on a clipboard— Oscar could see crude sketches: rectangles, labels, what looked like airflow arrows.

Felicity was beside her, wiping down a set of socket wrenches, her ponytail starting to fall loose. There was grease on her jawline and a streak of dirt across her sleeve. She looked radiant.

Oscar set the snacks down on the workbench gently. “Refueling, as requested.”

Bee looked up from her clipboard. “Thank you, Papa.”

Oscar smiled. “You’re welcome, Bumblebee.”

She handed him her sketch. “I redesigned the air filter casing.”

It was crude and hand-drawn, but shockingly insightful.

“She got the concept from my old Haynes manual,” Felicity said, already chewing her bite of bread. “I left it on the shelf by accident. She read the airflow diagrams before bed.”

Oscar blinked. “She’s three.”

Bee held up four fingers. “Almost four.”

He laughed and pressed a kiss to the top of her head. “Almost four and already smarter than me.”

Felicity smirked. “She gets it from me.”

“You both terrify me,” he muttered, but there was no real fear in his voice—only awe.

The three of them sat quietly for a while, Bee content to sketch while Felicity wiped her tools with a meticulous rhythm.

Oscar didn’t speak. Didn’t interrupt.

He just watched—content, in love, and quietly aware that he’d somehow been chosen by the two most remarkable people he’d ever met.

He might not always understand their blueprints, or why grease made them both so happy, or why the wrench order mattered so much—

But he didn’t need to.

They were his. He was theirs.

And that was more than enough.

He couldn’t predict how far Bee’s mind would go. Maybe she’d design cars instead of drive them. Maybe she’d run wind tunnel simulations in her sleep. Maybe she’d abandon it all for marine biology because she liked dolphins more than spark plugs.

He didn’t know.

What he did know was this:

He got to watch it happen. He got to be here. Even if he didn’t understand every detail, every gear, every tiny plan scribbled on scrap paper.

He got to be the one who brought the juice boxes. Who wiped grease off her cheek. Who kissed Felicity on the forehead while she calibrated torque like it was second nature.

He got to build a life alongside them.

He wasn’t the smartest in the house. Not by a long shot.

But he was the one who got to call it home.

And that? That was the best kind of win.

[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.”