#doomed to be in thor's shadow

[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.”

[rowinablx]

Sentry has one of the most twisted and convoluted origin stories in Marvel Comics, and it’s a big part of what makes him such a compelling character. His backstory is a mess of trauma, addiction, and cosmic power, all wrapped up in a fractured psyche that’s as dangerous as it is tragic. Here’s the breakdown:

Sentry’s origin starts with Robert as a junkie, a lowlife meth addict desperate for a fix. He breaks into a lab where he stumbles upon a secret super-soldier serum—a leftover from the Weapon X program, juiced up with some experimental cosmic sauce. He drinks it, and boom, he’s suddenly got “the power of a million exploding suns.” That’s not hyperbole; it’s how his power level is described. Instantly, he’s one of the most powerful beings in the Marvel Universe, on par with or exceeding heavyweights like Thor or Hulk. But here’s the kicker: the serum didn’t just give him power—it split his mind and birthed the Void, a dark, apocalyptic alter ego that’s basically his ID unleashed. The Void isn’t just a villain; it’s a part of him, a reflection of his guilt, self-loathing, and repressed rage.

What makes this so fucked up is the psychological toll. Robert’s not a hero by nature—he’s a broken man who accidentally becomes a god. He tries to do good as Sentry, but his mental instability and the Void’s constant presence mean he’s a walking disaster. Early on, he’s retconned into Marvel history as this Golden Age-style hero who’s been around forever, but his mind’s so shattered he can’t even trust his own memories. Turns out, he begged the world—including his best friend Reed Richards and Doctor Strange—to erase him from existence because he couldn’t control the Void. They mind-wipe everyone, including him, to forget he ever existed. That’s some dark shit: a guy so powerful he’s a threat to reality, yet so fragile he’d rather be unmade than live with himself.

Then there’s the reveal that the Void killed his wife, Lindy, in a fit of rage—or maybe he did it as Sentry and blamed the Void. It’s ambiguous, and that’s the point. His whole deal is unreliable narration. He’s schizophrenic, delusional, and his perception of reality is a mess. Every heroic act he does is shadowed by the fear that he’ll snap and end the world. In Siege, he loses it completely, and the Avengers have to take him down—Thor yeets his corpse into the sun. Even then, he comes back, because death doesn’t stick for a guy like him.

Why does this matter for Thunderbolts? The upcoming MCU movie is bringing Sentry in, played by Lewis Pullman, and it’s heavily implied if not outright shown he’ll be the major antagonist. If they water down his origin—make him just another strong guy with a generic villain arc—they’ll miss what makes him tick. Sentry’s not a straightforward hero or villain; he’s a cautionary tale about power without stability. The Thunderbolts are a team of antiheroes and misfits, and Sentry fits that vibe perfectly—a wildcard who could save them or doom them. His addiction, his mental illness, the Void—it’s all crucial to showing why he’s not just a Superman knockoff but a deeply human fuck-up with godlike power. Strip that away, and you’re left with a bland cape guy. Keep it, and you’ve got a story that could rival the best MCU character arcs, like Tony Stark’s or Loki’s. Messing it up would be a disservice to one of Marvel’s most unhinged and tragic creations.

*just found out that Sentry's creator has been involved from the beginning with Sentry's character in Thunderbolts and is basically contracted to write a Sentry project!!!

[orangedodge]

A year in, and what stands out most for me about the new Ultimate Universe is how the Maker has no grand ambitions behind stealing an entire Earth and rewriting its history. It's all about revenging slights, and striking back against everyone who wounded his ego.

In the old Ultimate Universe, the Maker's story--as created by Brian Bendis and developed by Jonathan Hickman and Al Ewing--was one that offered the question of what if Reed Richards was wrong? What if Victor von Doom had been right all along? From the beginning he was a character who overestimated his own competency, desperately needing to be the smartest man in every room, needing to believe that the hard working boy genius would easily overthrow the privileged elites surrounding him and make everything his.

He couldn't handle that his aristocratic classmate, Victor, had a better grasp of the fundamental math than he did, and out of jealousy and insecurity ignored his warnings. He spent years quietly resenting that his celebrated mentor's daughter, Sue's, accomplishments in the biosciences were spoken of in the same breath as his own. And most of all, he despised that Anthony Stark, the personification of everything he hated in the world, really was "just smarter than [him.]"

In the old Ultimate Universe, Tony Stark made Reed feel like a child. He was never able to exist out of Tony's shadow, and define himself as the unrivaled intellect he saw himself as. In the new Ultimate Universe, the Maker has altered the timeline so that Tony is the insecure young boy, and--had he not underestimated Howard Stark--he would have been the one to never step outside the overbearing father figure's shadow.

In the shared grand finale of Jonathan Hickman's run on Fantastic Four and New Avengers both, the Reed Richards of Earth-616 was indisputably the better Reed Richards than his Earth-1610 counterpart. He built the life for himself that the Maker believed should have been given to him by right, and though Mr Fantastic didn't always fully appreciate what he had, he got where he did without abandoning his empathy and compassion for the people around him.

Most of all, unlike the Maker, the Reed Richards of Earth-616 was Right, and his version of Victor was wrong. And so when the Maker built the new world, he not only obliterated the identity of the local Reed Richards, forcing him to live trapped forever within the iron mask of Dr. Doom, but he made sure that in this world, the space flight would be a failure. Just so that "Doom" would be wrong, and it would cost him everything.

In Ultimate Spider-Man, Peter Parker was the golden child of the Avengers community, warmly accepted in a way that the Maker never was, his potential for greatness constantly praised by Stark, Fury, Thor, the big men at the top whose recognition Reed always wanted. In the new Ultimate Spider-Man, more than removing a potential threat to himself in the form of Spider-Man, the Maker stole that life from him by subjecting him to a mundane existence that he (Reed) would think is worthless, while setting himself up at the very top of what was once their shared community.

We see this pattern in the supporting characters as well. The Nick Fury of Earth-1610 was always one step ahead of his Reed Richards, and held it over him. The Nick Fury of the Maker's new world is brainwashed and hypnotized, forced to live unknowingly through the same sequence of events, the same failed rebellions, all scripted by Reed himself, over and over again, allowed to realize the truth only briefly before each end.

In Ultimate Enemy, Reed Richards rebels against the world he believed was oppressing him. He was summarily rejected, exiled, and defeated, by his closest friends and family. He went on to create the City of the Children of Tomorrow, which warred with present day humanity only to be defeated again and again. At the same time, Ultimate Comics X-Men would depict Kitty Pryde leading an armed insurrection against the US government, supported by all of her friends, before going on to collectively found the mutant nation of Utopia, which endured until the end of the Ultimate Universe.

Given Jonathan Hickman's work with the X-Men, I think the image of the mutant communist-anarchist city arising spontaneously in a barren wasteland, standing opposite the Maker's carefully planned, meticulously engineered, city of post-human supermen that endlessly consume the land around them should be a resonant one. Only now in the new world, Reed's artificial civilization won out, and its the mutants who are destroyed in failed uprising. In Ultimate Wolverine, Kitty is living in exile in Russia, hunted by Logan, Piotr Rasputin, and Illyana Rasputina, the three characters she is most closely associated with among fans. It's like Reed gave his own self-inflicted downfall to someone he's met only twice (but who annoyed him profoundly enough that he couldn't help himself).

But its Bobby da Costa that suffers under the full brunt of the Maker's pettiness. Following the third Secret Wars, the Maker sets up shop on Earth-616 and tries to play at being the foe of Eternity and Galactus, only for Bobby to just dispense with him on the pages of Al Ewing's US Avengers. Like Nick, da Costa is someone who sees through Reed's schemes and plans around him with ease. Like Stark, he was simply smarter than Reed was, and didn't need to even try to get the better of him. He dismantled everything the Maker had built, and subjected him to the final indignity of throwing him in prison, never thinking about him again. Reed didn't even get to be nemesis to a new hero, he just got jumped and locked away without a care by someone that was playing on another level from him.

In the new Ultimate Universe, da Costa's father has a role in Reed's inner circle, thanks to the superhuman strength that he acquires from stealing Bobby's blood. The man that humiliated him, now depersoned and treated as a mere consumable commodity. He's forced to go everywhere with his father, never leaving his side, and Reed never has to look at him or worry about him at all.

I think its honestly great character work. Ultimate Reed really is one of the premiere villains of the shared setting in how he get to play the urbane villain--but an insecure one, and ultimately an incredibly small and petty one--in the same way that the comics used to use a Victor von Doom, or an Erik Lehnsherr, before giving them too much growth and development of character for it to work anymore.

[sunsets12]

Follow up to the other ask cause I really would like to know.

How long do you think Rick has been using a ghost writer for? What made you have this theory?

A friend of mine mentioned thinking Trials of Apollo was ghostwritten (I've only read the first book, not the whole series), and it made me pause and be like... wait a minute.

I think he used them for sections of the Heroes of Olympus, but not all of it. The Last Hero and the Son of Neptune do seem like his writing style, but after that it just seems to almost sound like an impersonator. Plus if I'm looking at it from a cynical view, his release schedule of books was crazy:

The Lost Hero: October 12, 2010. ~127,859 words The Red Pyramid: May 4, 2010 ~124,305 words The Son of Neptune: 2011 ~117,675 words The Throne of Fire: May 3, 2011 ~113,038 words The Mark of Athena: 2012 ~132,818 words The Serpent’s Shadow: 2012 ~116,000 (approximate) words The House of Hades: 2013 ~129,725 words The Blood of Olympus: October 7, 2014. ~111,748 words The Sword of Summer: October 6, 2015 ~118,701 words The Hidden Oracle: May 3, 2016 ~89,000 words The Hammer of Thor: October 4, 2016 ~111,544 words The Dark Prophecy: May 2, 2017 ~93,559 words The Ship of the Dead: October 3, 2017 ~101,274 words The Burning Maze: May 1, 2018 ~97,644 words The Tyrant's Tomb: September 24, 2019 ~101177 words The Tower of Nero: October 6, 2020 ~95272 words

Like, I know I've written a lot for TSIYW in less than a year, but I'm not editing it multiple times like RR had to do for his published books. It's honestly likely he had to get a ghostwritter to write some of it just to make his deadlines.

With that being said, from what I remember of The Hidden Oracle (it's been years since I read it) it didn't seem ghostwritten the way some of HoO did. And regarding Chalice of the Gods, it's 100% ghostwritten, and ghostwritten poorly at that (just look at the chapter titles for it vs. the lightening thief: "I Get Flushed" vs. "I Become Supreme Lord of the Bathroom", "I Take a Himbo for Smoothies" vs. "A God Buys Us Cheeseburgers", "I Meet the Man Bun of Doom" vs. "My Mother Teaches Me Bullfighting".) I haven't read wrath of the triple goddess and don't plan to.

[just-trying-to-fangirl-in-peace]

hi, it's @sansaorgana ! I just had a thought -- maybe that was being discussed already so I m sorry if it was -- but rewatching scenes from Season One, they explained the need to forge Three Rings for the Elves because "one will always corrupt, two will divide" and it made me wonder... because evil!Reader and Sauron want to have two rings that would rule over the rest. do you think there is a possibility of these two rings dividing them? perhaps not completely but to some extent? they are both very power hungry and I can imagine that being in charge of such huge amount of power could kinda turn them against each other. perhaps they would start competing. on the other hand... if the hunger for competition would not be too strong and treated as a foreplay??? the whole Middle-earth would be doomed even more as those two lovers in charge of them are competing in cruelty one against another just to end up hate-fucking in the end lmao

I imagine with the Two, at first it’s gonna be absolutely great. Like, their bond will grow even stronger and all the good emotions will be heightened and the sex is gonna get even better (if that’s even possible at this point). Those two will be fucking for days, high on the power of the Rings, and if anyone dares interrupt it’ll be the last thing they do.

But then when the bad stuff comes, that’s heightened too, and we know how bad the bad stuff is for everyone involved. And their mental proximity was already aggravating things when they fought before, but now it’s gonna be at a level where it drives them insane. Like, imagine being stuck in the tiniest closet with someone you are furious with and you keep screaming in each other’s ears and there’s nowhere to go. That’s what it’s like in their heads.

And maybe they find some remedy for that but overall yeah, the Two are just gonna make everything messier. It’s a possibility in my mind that actually somehow that leads to reader’s (temporary) death at the end of the series.

I was rewatching the Galadriel/Sauron duel in the last hobbit movie and I was thinking, what if Galadriel is actually trying to stop Sauron from resurrecting evil!reader in that scene (Sauron who returned in Charlie Vickers form somehow cause I can’t bear to part with him😩). And reader emerges from the shadows Hela in Thor Ragnarok style, ready to fuck shit up again. She had to wait for him for centuries, so he should get his turn to be without her for a while and desperate to get her back at some point I think🤭

[tobiasdrake]

Not saying that it's doomed to fail or anything, but if Brave New World ends up being a bust box-office wise, do you fear Disney will blame DEI and start making moves to replace Sam as Captain America? Normally I wouldn't be nervous about stuff like this, but given the political climate right now it's a genuine worry to have...

No, I feel ya. I'm nervous too. The return of RDJ is already a clear indicator that they're becoming desperate to recapture past glory.

Unfortunately, Disney is a corporation. Their ideology is to follow culture to wherever the profits seem to be. For a time, LGBT representation was improving because of cultural shift. Art both reflects culture and reinforces culture.

This is why Disney's always flipflopped on exactly how much to support LGBT rights. Because the answer is, "The exact amount of support that will sell tickets to LGBT people but without alienating the customers who hate them." And everything Disney does is an exercise in negotiating where exactly that line is.

The main problem Marvel's having right now is that the Multiverse Saga just isn't any good. The multiverse can be interesting as a mechanism for telling individual stories. Everything Everywhere All At Once certainly proved that.

But as a substitute for the Infinity Gauntlet storyline? It sucks. There aren't any interesting moving parts to it. There's no sense of progression the way there were with each time a new Gem was established or we learned a bit more about them and Thanos. The only thing the multiverse can do is exist, so every time it comes up, it's just characters pointing at the multiverse and going "LOOK. An interesting movie's going to come out of that some day!"

Worse than that, they made the boneheaded decision to break up their universe into more isolated and disconnected stories in Phase Four, which completely destroyed the ongoing audience investment in their universe as a whole.

And then there is the box office poison that is the shadow of Disney Plus looming over their enterprise. A lot of people around the world subscribe to Disney Plus. But a lot of people don't. And they don't want to watch a movie that they think they need to have done homework in a separate medium for first.

I get that. I dropped Kingdom Hearts when they came out with two gacha games for mobile phones that are plot-critical to understanding future games. I did not get into this series to play gacha games on my phone. I could forgive the occasional genre shift on a handheld video game platform but that was a bridge too far.

If you told me that the next Captain America movie is going to be connected to the video game Captain America: Super Soldier for the Xbox 360, that would adversely affect my willingness to pay ticket prices. Marvel was insane to think that every filmgoer would be comfortable crisscrossing platforms between the theatrical films they're comfortable in and a paywalled set of television miniseries.

This is why Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. and the Netflix shows originally had an exclusively one-sided relationship with film canon. Where the movies are canon for them, but they aren't canon to the movies. Where Sif might show up for an episode of Agents, but you will not see Agents Fitzsimmons popping in to Thor: Ragnarok to pitch in and fight Hela.

It was to avoid exactly this.

There's a lot of things going wrong for Marvel these days.

But. When a minority led movie does badly, the minorities are the first on the chopping block. Even when other minority-led movies did spectacularly. So. Yeah. I do worry about what lessons Marvel's executive team will learn from the recent performance of their films.

[azazel-the-eldritch]

Sonic Movie 3 spoilers!!

I was clapping and screaming like a goddamn idiot during the whole 3rd act! Sonic and Shadow boxing in Super forms zipping across the planet was the most unsubtle Dragon Ball Z shit I've ever seen!! Also we got Live & Learn and the whole theater ERUPTED! As much as I have mixed feelings about the direction the movies are going, as well as how they altered Shadow's backstory, I'm keeping an open mind. I like that Shadow is put forth as what Sonic could've been if he wasn't allowed to heal or react to grief in a healthy way. As well, he isn't an artificial being like the games, he just came out of a meteorite? Which I guess is a more direct setup for Black Doom somewhere down the line. I also have more faith in Keanu Reeves as Shadow. He did great for what he was given. Though, I would've liked one good "Chaos Control". But oh well...

I also like that Shadow and Sonic have a heart to heart about their traumas, not unlike Sonic did with Knuckles. The two hedgehogs having such a conversation in any case is unheard of in the main series, since Sonic is so devil-may-care and Shadow is a hard-ass. So seeing it in this movie was honestly refreshing. Plus that shot of the sun rising over the Earth as Shadow remembers Maria's words is cinema. Sonic and Shadow working together and actually having some good banter and chemistry was good for how much we got.

I have to say, as much as I love Jim Carrey, I didn't much like JUST how much screen time the Robotniks have. They definitely steal the show for better or worse... Shadow is more or less background dressing or Gerald's attack dog half the time up until the Sonic's 3rd act crashout. In SA2, Gerald was long dead, but his presence was still felt throughout. He was the true antagonist all along. Here it feels very self-indulgent, which I guess is the point, but still... Eggman's redemption and apology video did get me to tear up though. Jim Carrey was intending to retire but came back for this movie, and it felt like he was saying goodbye to all of us, not just Agent Stone.

Tails and Knuckles were honestly perfect. Tails is almost 1 to 1 with his video game self, and I like that he's still very much the excitable little brother who also just wants everyone to stop fighting. Knuckles felt like a good middle ground between game and movie. He's definitely adapted to Sonic's sense of humor while still struggling with his literal-mindedness. But he also surprisingly was a bit of a moral center. Especially for Sonic when he was (justifiably) angry demanding the Master Emerald to get back in blood. Knuckles was genuinely trying to talk him down but remain firm. He does decide to have faith that Sonic would come to his senses, which ends up paying off. Knuckles actually respects Sonic as a leader and friend.

As for the post-credit scenes. Rather predictably, we got our girl Amy Rose who is... basically Thor with the flying hammer. We also got Metal Sonic, but also many Metal Sonics. I suspect that maybe the next movie will be some conflation of Sonic CD and Sonic Heroes (and hopefully reference the OVA), since those are Metal's highest points. Mixing together alternate timelines and Metal gaining independence and becoming his own warlord. Which prompts Amy to seek out Sonic and co. I do have to wonder how they'll handle Sonic and Amy. Cuz having mad feelings for Sonic is what she's mainly known for, despite there being more to her than that.

Also Shadow survived... surprisingly absolutely no one haha. I know there was talk of a Shadow series at some point, so we'll likely get more of Movie Shadow's backstory down the line. Hopefully get a proper introduction to Chaos Control.

I have more thoughts, but eh. And despite my nitpicks, I can't say there was anything I found to be bad about the movie. The highs more than make up for any misgivings. I'm overjoyed with how this series has come along thus far. There's a lot of good faith with Jeff Fowler and crew now, and I would never have guessed an animator from Shadow 05 would go on to direct the Sonic movie-verse, much less make a movie with Shadow in it.

It's a good time to be a Sonic fan :)

[scienceninjaturtle]

ULTIMATES #1

Written by DENIZ CAMP

Art by JUAN FRIGERI

Cover by DIKE RUAN

Following blockbuster series launches with Ultimate Spider-Man, Ultimate Black Panther, and Ultimate X-Men, the highly anticipated next title in Marvel’s new Ultimate Universe arrives this June—the ULTIMATES!

Directly spinning out of the very foundation for the new Ultimate line—Jonathan Hickman and Stefano Caselli’s Ultimate Universe #1—ULTIMATES will be written by Deniz Camp, known for his thought-provoking and socially relevant work on titles like Children of the Vault and 20th Century Men, and drawn by rising superstar Juan Frigeri, known for his acclaimed work on Invincible Iron Man. The series will introduce the all-new super hero team that will usher in the next chapter of bold storytelling within the new Ultimate Universe.

Months ago, Tony Stark sent Peter Parker a radioactive spider to set him back on the course to become Spider-Man. Since then, Iron Lad (Stark), Captain America, Doom, Thor and Sif have begun to do the same for other lost heroes, building a network of super-powered heroes hungry for change… Now they must band together to destroy the Maker’s Council and restore freedom and free will to a world ruled from the shadows!

[papagabu]

I said in a post earlier today that I had to fight the urge to reveal a moment in my AU involving Shadow that I thought was really cool. I’m too lazy today to draw anything, but I have failed in keeping it in, but I’m only revealing a small portion of it in text form as like a little tease.

Shadow winces in pain after crashing into the moon, his quills pulsing black, a sign that his time in his super form is waning. He opens his eyes and sees the bright green light of the Eclipse Cannon in the distance charging while aimed right at him.

???: “Face it fake hedgehog, you stand before the TRUE ULTIMATE LIFEFORM!”

Shadow slowly stands back up.

???: “Your doomed friends flee from my excellence; even that detestable mutant who slew me runs with his tails between his legs; only you remain, faker, yet your pitiful attempts at rebellion have done little more than delay the inevitable; I was always bound to outlast you.”

Shadow looks towards Earth and thinks about Maria, Gerald, and all the friends he’s made since he was released from Prison Island. He then begins to remove the rest of his inhibitor rings.

???: “Now, bow your head low, and die for your GOD EMPEROR!”

The Eclipse Cannon fires.

It’s important for me to say this now that most of my motivation to make the Metal Breakers AU was just for the fun of it, so there are a lot of instances of me just adding stuff because my autistic mind thinks it’s cool. Like, for example, I was thinking of later down the road doing an adaptation of the storybook games but not the same stories from Secret Rings and Black Knight, and one idea I had was Tails going to Norse mythology and essentially becoming Thor because make the guy who’s scared of lightning become the god of thunder. (Even though Tails isn’t scared of lightning in this AU he got over that fear)

Also the moon thing is not inspired by the movie I started having the idea for this AU before Sonic 3 released. I just wanted to have a moon pissing moment and decided having the Eclipse Cannon fired at Shadow while he’s on the moon was cool.

[bronzemettle]

Thunderer Hammers

Mjolnir:

The original hammer, created by Sindri for Odin, given to Thor, then claimed by Jane Foster.

You know what this one looks like.

Enchantment Engraving: - "Whosoever holds this hammer, if they be worthy, shall possess the power of Thor."

You know what this one can do.

Worthiness is based on humility (without delusion or self-villification), compassion for all things (even your enemies), the Will to do good, and a passionate, revelrous warrior spirit driven by a burning sense of justice.

Stormbreaker:

Created by Eitri at the request of Thor for Beta Ray Bill so that he could continue to protect his people when Thor took Mjolnir back from him.

A round, flat, blunt striking surface on one side, a wedge-like sharp edge on the other, and a short spike at the top.

Enchantment Engraving: - "Any who act according to the will of their people, a protector in time of need, may wield the power of Thor."

Nearly identical powers to Mjolnir, with an additional translation enchantment that allows the wielder to speak and understand nearly any language fluently.

Worthiness is based on the cause that someone holds in their Heart as they wield it, and whether the people (cannot be the wielder) that the intent is meant to benefit would also see the honor and wisdom, or undeniable neccesity, in it being done.

Thunderstrike:

Created by Eitri at the request of Odin for Eric Masterson, then wielded temporarily by Steve Rogers until the Secret Empire incident, after which it was locked away and then stolen by Kevin Masterson.

A solid, blunt, rounded, irregular pentagonal prism shape, with a slightly longer handle that has a chain attached to the pommel.

Enchantment Engraving: - "The worlds still need heroes. Overcome vice and glory and you shall strike with the might of Thor."

Temporarily modified engraving during Secret Empire: - "The worlds still need rulers. Overcome all who oppose you and strike with the might of America."

Grants very little divine or magical power, no control over the weather, only small shocks of lightning. Primarily grants the godlike physical strength and durability to the wielder.

Worthiness is based on humility, freedom from personal shame or acts that Odin would consider shameful, and selfless motivation to protect or help others. (Temporarily modified to be based on being a goddamn fascist, but it's back to normal now.)

Stormcaster:

Created by Sindri at the request of Loki for Storm. She gave it to Thor after he became worthy of Mjolnir again so that Jane could keep Mjolnir. When Ragnarok comes, will be passed down to Thor's daughter Thrúd.

Similar to Mjolnir, except with a pointed wedge on one end instead of a flat striking surface.

Enchantment Engraving: - "For those who prove worthy of the trust and worship others bestow, wield the divine magic of Thor."

The opposite of Thunderstrike. Grants primarily divine and magic power, perhaps even moreso than Mjolnir itself, but only enough physical might to comfortably wield it (still superhuman).

Worthiness requires being worshipped, idolized, or otherwise upheld as a role model, unquestioned leader, or figure of faith by others, and is based on how well you live up to that vision people hold of you.

Lightbringer:

An alternate universe Thor's hammer who was killed by Doctor Doom during Battleworld. It was secretly found after the restoration of the multiverse by Storm and Dazzler, and has been locked away since.

Almost identical to Mjolnir except in a lighter color, and with more intricate decorative engravings which glow with lightning when it's used.

Enchantment Engraving: - "Whosoever is worthy, shine unyielding with the sound and fury of the god of thunder."

Only somewhat less physical might than Mjolnir, similar magic, but grants some sound manipulation, illusion, and light/shadow manipulation powers which the main universe's god of thunder has never had.

Worthiness is based on overwhelming, bottomless perseverence ("Never give up, never surrender"), even in the face of deeds that by all reason should be impossible, because what's Right is Right to fight for, forever, whether it's achievable or not.

Warcrusher:

Created by Sindri at the request of Heimdall and given to Red Norvell to remain in Asgard and attend to the local duties of a god of thunder so that Thor would be free to spend more time on earth.

A much longer-handled square warhammer.

Enchantment Engraving: - "For the good of Asgard, until the day it burns, a loyal god of thunder you shall become in service."

Nearly identical powers to Mjolnir, plus an additional connection to the branches of Yggdrasil that allows the creation of interdimensional portals independent of the Bifrost.

Worthiness is irrelevant. Upon volunteering to become the wielder of Warcrusher, Red Norvell was mystically bound to the lifelong service of the good of Asgard whether he likes it or not.

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Good Night

Epilogue for Sweet Treats AU: by character | chronological | epilogues

Warnings: these drabbles will include dark elements such as noncon, control, intimidation, violence, death, suicide, and other stuff that may not be specified. Take this as you chance to scroll by.

Please let me know what you think <3

🍯🍯🍯

You open your eyes. It's grim and grey. The world is just as heavy as your body. You try to move but it hurts too much. You drop your hand back to the bed and stare at the green canopy.

You don't remember how this happened. You were in the kitchen, now you're here. You groan, your mouth is dry and sticky.

There's movement in the shadows. You flinch and tense as you squint into the dark. The lamp flicks on and illuminates a familiar face. She smiles, her eyes swollen from her tears, and squeezes your hand.

"I'm sorry, I fell asleep."

You don't say anything. You couldn't if you tried. You give a strained look as she pets your knuckles.

"He's gone. Thor. For now. I told him... I'd be good if he let me stay."

You stare at Muffin. That makes you sad but you don't know why you would care if he's gone. He's not done anything to you.

"I didn't mean for him to hurt you."

Your eyes round and you cough. You squeak as it thrums in your bones. Why would he hurt you? What did you do?

"I decided that if it means I get to see you, then I'll talk all he wants me to."

You nod and squeeze her hand back. You don't have strength to do more than that. You wish she wasn't stuck with him. You wish you didn't know exactly the dread that edges her tone.

"He killed my father," she utters, "Just like... just your mom. But I didn't know."

You give a sympathetic grimace and tilt your head. She never speaks so much, she must be really upset.

"Sorry," you croak and nearly on your arid tongue.

"No, I'm sorry. I was stupid. Just like those other girls."

You furrow your brows and blow out. You shake your head slowly, "not stupid--"

"Yes, very. They're not going to get away. Not forever. They can't."

"Muffin," you murmur.

"I'm done with hope, aren't you?"

You seal your lips and your eyes sting. You don't know what to say. Muffin was always the happy one, she always made you feel better. She is the light in the tunnel and now it's all caving in.

"That went... a long... time... ago," you eke out, little by little.

She laughs into a sob and covers her face. She cries, her shoulders heaving as her despair consumes her. Your own tears trickle out. Your head pulses from the base.

"There's..." You raise your hand and point to the green chest nestled against the wall, "in there. Bottom, pouch..." the words are hard to piece together, "brown with golden string."

She looks at you in confusion. She sniffles and gulps. Slowly, she stands as your arm falls limp. That was your plan, the one you never could bring yourself to follow through on. That makes your chest pit and questions if it's all so bad.

She goes to the chest and lifts the lid carefully. She bends and stirs through the depths. You hid it there with the spare blankets because Loki never deals with all that. You make the bed, you cook the meals, he merely walks upon your freshly mopped floors. Still just a god with his head in the clouds.

She finds the pouch, the little bag once storing one of many necklaces gifted from your avaricious husband. In which you hid the tablets secreted from Tony's cabinet during that chaotic party. You could always get some wiggle room if you gave Loki what he wanted.

"There's not enough.... for both..." Your head lolls and you give and acidic smile, "didn't think..."

She comes back to you and looks inside the sachet. Her eyes flick up and she gives you a dire look. You let the doom numb you.

"You can... have them," you turn your head. "I could.... couldn't."

She doesn't say anything. She stands there, unmoving. Maybe she won't do it. Maybe she'll put it back and stay with you.

"I'm a coward," you confess, "but... you're not."

She sits on the bed again. You look at her through a wall of grief. She won't look at you.

"Can I lay with you?" She asks at last.

"Please," you reach for her hand and grip it firmly around the pouch, "you'll just... go to sleep. I will too."

Again, she hesitates. "What about you?"

"What about me?" You sigh, "I'll find another way... maybe."

You let her go and she dumps the pills into her hand. She stares at them, her throat constricting, and then she pours them into her mouth. She holds her palm against her lips and gulps loudly. She chokes a little and coughs it out. She gives a blech at the taste.

She tosses the sachet and stretches out next to you. You drape your arm over her shoulders as she puts her head on your chest. She slings her arm over your middle and you turn your gaze to the ceiling. Misery loves friends but your only friend does not deserve this misery.

"I love you," she says with a yawn.

You move your hand in front of her face and sign back to her; "Love you forever."

---

This is goodbye to Darling and Muffin. Thank you all for sticking around.

[sunnydaleherald]

The Sunnydale Herald Newsletter, Saturday, September 14

XANDER: The center of Sunnydale's Hellmouth was- BUFFY: Under the library. XANDER: Right. Now, exactly where the library was, we have- BUFFY: Principal's office. DAWN: So he's evil? BUFFY: Or in a boatload of danger. XANDER: The last two principals were eaten. Who'd even apply for the job?

~~BtVS 7x01 “Lessons”~~

[Drabbles & Short Fiction]

The Leather Jacket (Spike/Reader, not rated) by sapphistically

The mysterious time traveler had disappeared after one more night [...] (Buffy/Spike, not rated) by hiddenbysuccubi

Frosty Hearts (Buffy/Spike, M) by loverswalk89

The Ten Second Rule (Buffy/Spike, PG-13) by Girlytek

[Chaptered Fiction]

a long way from sunnydale, Chapter 1/? (Ensemble, Charmed xover, T) by s6ullys

Shadowed Suspicion Volume XI, Chapter 6/? (Ensemble, Jojo's Bizarre Adventure xover, T) by arcanedreamer

Aegis, Chapter 17/? (Xander, DCU xover, T) by dogbertcarroll, Narsil

In the Company of Witches and Slayers:, Chapter 157/200 (Willow/Tara, E) by VladimirHarkonnen (TheLightdancer)

There's A Crack In Every Wall, Chapter 5/7 (Buffy/Spike, E) by bunniesarebad

A-Z of Sex, Chapter 2/26 (Buffy/Giles, E) by KatyAmberAuthor

After Life, Chapter 6/? (Buffy/Faith, E) by Alwaysandforevermylove

Supporting Loki (And Thor), Chapter 9/18 (Buffy, Willow, Marvel xover, M) by SomeMeaninglessName

Breaking the Code, Chapter 8/? (Star Wars xover, Dawn, Buffy, Illyria, G) by Buffyworldbuilder

Situation Normal - All Faithed Up, Chapter 7/? (Buffy/Faith, M) by QuillBard

Out of Ashes, We Rise Anew, Chapter 8 (Buffy/Spike/Angel, T) by anneikenskywalker

Forces of Good, Chapter 20 (Buffy/Faith, M) by Faith-rulz

All Roads Lead Back, Chapter 6 (Buffy/Spike, M) by loverswalk89

Forty-eight days in L.A., Chapter 4 (Buffy/Spike, NC-17) by Blissymbolics

Stupid Thing, Chapter 5 (Buffy/Spike, R) by Misti

Little Light, Chapter 8 (Buffy/Spike, NC-17) by Melme1325

Incarnate, Chapter 15 (Buffy/Spike, NC-17) by Sigyn

Aegis, Chapter 17 (Xander, DCU xover, T) by dogbertcarroll

Enchanted Dawn, Chapter 2 (Buffy/Spike, PG-13) by VeroNyxK84

Viral, Chapter 3 (Buffy/Spike, R) by Harlow Turner

A Taste of Buffy, Chapter 4 (Buffy/Spike, NC-17) by Maxine Eden

[Images, Audio & Video]

Artwork: [Misc AtS AU doodles] (ensemble, worksafe) by artsying-ifer

Gifset: Every Tara look: S4E17 Superstar (worksafe) by lovebvffys

Moodboard: [Moodboard with red and white tones] (Buffy, Giles, worksafe) by buffyannegiles

Moodboard: [Moodboard with pink tones] (Buffy, Giles, worksafe) by buffyannegiles

Gifset: Well, I gotta look on the bright side. Maybe I can still get kicked out of school! (ensemble, worksafe) by orion-lake

Artwork: I hate you - Episodic art for BtVS 2x22 “Becoming, Part 2 (Buffy, Spike, worksafe) by revello-drive-1630

Video: Buffy The Vampire Slayer | Full Q&A | For The Love Of Fantasy (London) 2024 by Monopoly Events

Fanvid: Tara + Willow - Fight for it by Faith Victoria

Fanart, FNTM II: I think I was in Heaven (Buffy, worksafe) by christytrekkie

[Reviews & Recaps]

Interview with The Date - Never Kill a Boy on the First Date by Slayin It with Juliet Landau

First time watcher: Few thoughts about Buffy and Spike's abusive relationship. by psychenock

PODCAST: It's Got The Spike (S4E20) by It Stakes Two

PODCAST: Buffy 2.16 Bewitched, Bothered, and Bewildered by Once More Podcast

PODCAST: Episode 73: Doomed (w/ Ally!) by Gym Was Cancelled

[In Search Of]

Does anyone ever say "I'm looking for Spike" in the show? requested by SoFLShelfLove

Help finding an episode !! requested by Fair-Ad-9396

[Community Announcements]

Obsessed With You 2024 by otherworldly_chemistry

[Prompt with no fills] Buffy and Giles - magic made them do it/sex pollen/f*ck or die by buffyversekinkmeme

[Fandom Discussions]

[ask by anniemurphy] Just curious are you more Fred x Wesley or Fred x Gunn or are you like you like them at different times answered by destiel-wings

ATS in their recap of Spike’s final moments on btvs in 5x2 very very intentionally [...] omitting Buffy telling Spike she loves him is actually so embarrassing of them by raisedbythetv89, messedupdoilies

Spike fit the trend of her ex’s leaving town but he came back by aphony-cree

Does anyone else feel like Buffy lowkey neglected Dawn? by coachscottsleg

[Headcanon with commentary in tags] still thinking about how pike is a way better love interest than angel (and spike) and should have followed buffy to sunnydale by froggods

Does anyone else skip season 1 and half of season 2 during their re-watch. by denn_r

Is there anything you wish the show had done differently? by HinduHillbilly

Becoming part demon: Buffy vs Cordelia by Dry-Dragonfruit5216

What's something the Buffyverse writers did that made you feel like they were "out of touch" with the audience to a certain degree? by PristineSituation498

Music fans, which episode has the best instrumental score (without lyrics)? What's your favorite track? by rfresa

Can you spoil angel for me? by Lemonstarklion

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[you-cant-fuck-megaman]

something that keeps coming up if you look at the games’ stories is wily’s accomplishments. or, rather, the lack thereof. the truth is, Wily's actually kind of a shitty roboticist!

he's not very good at making robots, he's much better at modifying robots. i know the series (and a good chunk of fanwork) likes to hype him up as a mad genius of robotics, but he's actually kind of a complete phony. a tremendous hack. a huge fucking fraud. he's the brutal doom of the megaman-'verse, only famous because he used other people's work as a stepping stone. just like angry birds, he’s all about seeing someone else’s successful work and putting his own reskin on it so everyone else associates it with him. he’s not a developer, he’s a modder with delusions of grandeur.

the idea that his work all culminated in Zero and Zero’s the coolest bestest most awesomest robot ever is, frankly, completely laughable when you look at the track record of how many robots he’s actually made and how they’ve fared. his strongest work that’s come the closest to seriously threatening Megaman has never really been his own work. with Bass, Shadow Man, Ra Thor, and the Stardroids, he’s always had something else as a base and modified it to be stronger. even popular fanon is that Roboenza is based off MM8′s Evil Energy, which makes sense.

ironically enough, he does his best modding with weird alien shit. my personal theory is that Zero’s a modified Terra+Sunstar hybrid, utilizing his knowledge of making Ra Thor as a basis, powered by Super-Bassnium. the canon is that he’s based on Protoman, of all fucking people, but that’s completely nonsensical on so goddamn many fronts.

however, he is a fantastic designer. he's much better at making areas that adhere to an aesthetic! he has designed a lot of mini-bots specifically for the sake of complimenting an area, and he's revamped areas multiple times before to have a theme that compliments the Robot Master. even his own castles themselves, he has a clear skull motif that applies to everything and he will be fucking DAMNED if he doesn't see it through. even in megaman 11, we see him complete with a fucking set of skull jammies in a skull bed. the man fucking WILL NOT LIVE without his skulls. he probably wears skull underwear, the fucking nerd.

he’s not a roboticist. he's not even a good programmer, he's an artist. he's a mad artist angry over how his stuff never got views as opposed to that fucking Dr. Light's work, and he spent a lifetime trying to game the algorithm only for this fucking upstart to take it all away from him and get quadruple the subscriber counts in half the time. and now he's making it everyone else's problem.

[paragonrobits]

Freya after the events of God of War Ragnarok probably: There is a question that has been haunting me ever since I started thinking about how closely I came to letting everything go wrong. Mimir: Oh, aye? Freya: I started considering it after Atreus came to me and revealed to me that, so far as he knew, he was the last of the giants. That they were all dead, and that his true name was Loki, destined to carry doom to the enemies of the Jotnar. Freya: And after I almost killed Kratos, and Loki went mad with rage and became a bear, I realize how little I truly understood of the situation. And of Loki himself, and what he might became. Freya: If he could have been more dangerous than his father, in the wrong circumstances. Mimir: You see certain... trends, you might call him. Echoes in the world. Hints of how things might go, or WILL go, in other situations. The kind of destiny he might have became no matter what, if things were different. Mimir: So you want to know if, you'd killed Kratos, if Loki would be as bad as him? Freya: Yes. If Kratos had died there, what would have happened? Mimir: I love the lad, I do. I care about him, and I know he cares about me. But I can't say that I don't look at him and think I know WHY Odin was so interested in him; the lad could be so much like him. Mimir: I've seen the prophecies. I see the fate curling around that lad. I've seen what he might became, what he's ALREADY made. Mimir: Jormungandr, the serpent who was Thor's only equal. Garm reborn as Fenrir. They're his creations; the giants thought Jormagundr would be born from his hate and rage when his father was killed, y'see. In a sense, they are his children. Mimir: Monsters, I suppose you'd call 'em, if you had a mind to be unkind. And they're made in his image. Mimir: You want to know if Loki would be as bad as Kratos? Mimir: Oh, Freya. I love the lad, I do. But I promise you, if it came to it, he would be WORSE. Mimir: I can see it in him. He's a father of monsters, and he could be so much worse if he weren't determined to be better than that. Kratos told me once, about a terrible beast meant to usurp Zeus in the cycle of the gods of his homeland, a thing named Typhon. A living natural disaster and father of the most fearsome monsters in the land, and when he spoke about him, I saw a shadow of Loki in those stories. Mimir: Generational stories. Monsters driven to be worse by pain and loss. 'Spose we dodged a very, VERY lucky bullet, yes? Freya: ...I suppose so.

[takadasaiko]

Loki vs Doom for the WIP game?

This is one that I maaaaay revisit. I really like the idea and I have a little written on it.

The premise is that Doom attacks Loki directly within the Yggdrasil tree holding the timelines together. Loki ends up losing, but in the final moments of the battle his magic teleports him away and subconsciously creates an illusion of a world to hide both himself and the timelines in. So he’s dropped into a life he hasn’t known in many years at this point that, in its own ways, should be ideal. Or would be if it weren’t all a lie hiding them from a very formidable foe.

Here’s a bit of what I have:

He came to with a start, his ears ringing and adrenaline raging through him. Every muscle was painfully taught and all he wanted was to take a breath that didn’t have to be dragged into his aching lungs, but there wasn’t time to stop and think. Instinctively he knew there wasn’t. If he didn’t push himself to his feet the next blow wouldn’t just flatten him, it would —

Loki didn’t make it to his feet, but it wasn’t the fault of the foe whose face he couldn’t quite recall. Instead it was the silk sheets tangled around his thin frame. They didn’t give as he jolted up and he found himself pitching off to one side so that he hung awkwardly off of the bed, staring up towards an ornate and familiar ceiling. He blinked against the shadows, willing the fog of what must have been a dream to clear his mind. He was home on Asgard in the room he’d grown up in. Despite the difficult angle he found himself struggling to break free from, it felt solid. Real. He thought the dream had too, and it left him with unease creeping its way through his chest.

There was only the briefest knock of warning as the door to his bedroom swung open just as he managed to untangle himself from the sheets with far less grace than he would have preferred. As Loki picked himself up off the cool marble floor he looked up to find Thor standing there. His brother’s small smirk and quirked eyebrow was lit only by the earliest rays of the sun creeping up towards the horizon. The older Odinson was desperately trying to keep his amusement in check. Trying, and failing.

Loki pushed a breath out through his nose sharply before waving a hand in his brother’s general direction. “Let yourself in, why don’t you?”

The smirk finally broke into a smile that was working quickly into a grin. “You were the one that said we should leave before dawn.”

“I was the one that said I’d prefer not to go at all,” he answered automatically, his mind still trying to shake off the last dregs of the dream-induced haze to recall exactly what they were discussing. Clearly they were going somewhere. Where was still in question. Some sort of… hunt. That was it. A celebration.

Thor’s cheerful smile lost a bit of its brightness. “Come now, Loki. Don’t be like that. I’ll only be married once and it wouldn’t be the same without my brother along for the merriment.” His blue gaze shifted to where the tangled sheets were the only sign left of the state he’d found the younger prince in upon entry. “Unless you feel you really must continue your battle with the floor.”

[readingtoinfinity]

DNF: Thunderbolts: Doomstrike #1

There's a lot of new titles going around, a lot tying into the One World Under Doom event. Some of them are just crossing over into the stories I'm already reading, but some, like Thunderbolts, are continuations/reinventions of some events that were already happening and are trying in more directly.

It's... fine. After reading Immortal Thor and its insanely-tight speech bubbles and dialogue, I am jarred to come to this story which is wordy and exposition-y. There's a lot going on with the recent Thunderbolts run by the same authors I'm not aware of, but I think this issue brings you up to speed pretty well for this event.

I will also say this: this issue does a good job of setting up Doctor Doom as a fearsome and clever enemy. Bucky is outmaneuvered early on and has to strike again from the shadows, carefully prying at Doom's defenses. Doom is also a merciless opponent, and what he manages to do in this issue is nothing short of devastating, and feels like it shouldn't have been allowed to happen. The fact it went through at all almost made me reconsider reading it.

Ah, but for that almost.

There's a heavy focus on exposition, and certain events that were in Thunderbolts are not well explained here, and even if they were this issue shakes up the status quo so I'm not going to read it to find out what that status quo was. Nothing feels like it has weight or stakes; Bucky is doing this because he thinks it's the right thing to do, and that leaves us with little to latch onto. And while Doom manages to retain the upper hand at the end of this issue, he only does so because Bucky acted thoughtlessly (twice!) and paid the price.

Not sure if the writers are going to delve into that. These are also the same writers who wrote the recent Outsiders that I found disappointing, so I think for that reason I will tap out here. If you don't mind exposition and like Bucky Barnes, you'll probably be okay with this series. It won't hold back any punches, and mistakes compound into fractures. There's a good chance it could all come falling down.