#is richard parker anyone

[13catastrophic-blues]

I sing a secret song to you each night we are apart Remember me Though I have to travel far Remember me Each time you hear a sad guitar

Know that I'm with you the only way that I can be Until you're in my arms again Remember me

[erinwantstowrite]

Erin is there any hints on where jason is in Peter's universe? Cuz I am dying to know

(and if there is a hint then looks like I am rereading lof for the 5th time in 2025)

hmmm not Jason, but I did give a hint about Cass and Damian in the Christmas one shot. Cass' is very hidden (it's one line) and only noticeable if you know about Cass being a dancer 🩰. Damian's is more overt because Peter actually got to see him in person. qe actually got to see and speak to Duke, but I haven't hinted at anyone else within LoF itself or the oneshot as far as I know. i can say that the oneshot gives hints as to possibilities for where the others are and where they ended up. right now, Duke is the firechief for Queens and Spider-Man has worked with him before. Peter doesn't remember him because he was so little :( and the community center that May ran got taken over by someone when she passed.

i don't want to spoil... but we will be finding out where everyone else is at. it'll be a minute, though

I will say that Peter's strong reaction to his parents' deaths is a big reason why no one would bring them up to his face for a while or go visit him, and then time and getting busy got the better if them. in this timeline they were close and saw each other, but they were mostly friends, not family, because things had changed. makes it a little tragic, in my eyes. they don't know what they were missing... this also goes for Dick's friends. some of our people are just regular, run of the mill citizens. others... 👀 both have their reasons which is why Peter ended up not being so close to them

[awhoreintheory]

okay so MCU canon Peter in DC is all funny and games but what about comic canon Peter? Peter who’s in his 30s, whose life is falling apart(again) and has clones to deal with(man I hate the fact that Ben became evil :(.)

extra points if Miles and/or Mayday is with him. This single dad is STRUGGLING. And the bats wanna help him/his kids cause man! Look at them :(

(extra extra points if Dick = Richard Parker. That’s a whole nother can of worms. Like the bats are thinking Peter = Family of Dick they didn’t know but NO! It’s actually Dick’s son! Dicks a granddad!)

I want to PSA to anyone sending asks/requests, I'm not ignoring you!! I'm just a slow writer!!! I hope you enjoy though <33

Peter B. Parker could, 100%, picture landing in (yet another) alternate universe. You know what? As a matter of fact, he expected it.

What he didn’t plan for, however, was being stranded in another universe with his baby girl strapped to his chest. 

But here he was, crouched in a narrow alley in the darkest corner of Gotham City, New Jersey. From the name alone, Peter knew he landed himself in a section of the Multiverse Miguel had expressly labeled as off limits. It wasn’t his fault he’d landed here, though!

One minute he’d been web-swinging through New York, enjoying a rare peaceful day with Mayday babbling happily, and the next he was crash-landing onto a grimy rooftop in the most dangerous city he’d ever seen. It was like New York turned up to eleven, all shadows and towering gargoyles, dripping with rain that seemed perpetual. The interdimensional bracelet he’d been given to travel the multiverse was sparking and smoking in his pocket— total toast. He was officially stranded. 

Ok, so it maybe, kinda sorta, been an eensy weensy, tiny bit Peter’s fault. 

Peter’s, very high-tech and likely expensive bracelet had been, uh, scratched in a fight the day before. Barely even a nick! He swears he could’ve reattached the wires and fixed the screen. 

He probably should’ve also taken the watch out of his robe pocket before he started swinging Mayday to daycare. 

MJ was going to be so mad. 

It became evident early on it’d take a little bit to find a way home, or for someone to find him. If it had just been Peter, he could’ve roughed it on some rooves and abandoned buildings. It wouldn’t be a big deal, he knew he would be getting home eventually. Being a little smelly was the least of his worries. 

But he had his baby girl with him. 

So, with the money in his wallet, he found an under-the-counter, rundown but otherwise warm, apartment in a place called Crime Alley. (What a seriously terrible name) Peter started pulling together whatever side gigs he could, fixing appliances, tuning up electronics, just enough to get by. Even for a guy who was used to scraping by, the situation felt bleak, especially with Mayday depending on him. 

His little red-headed whirlwind was still too young to understand what was happening, but she noticed the tension and started clinging to him more tightly. Peter knew he couldn’t keep this up forever, but he wasn’t sure how to trust anyone in a city that had both criminals and vigilantes lurking around every corner. When he spotted someone in a cape swinging overhead, he instinctively hid in the shadows, holding Mayday close, her tiny face tucked into his shoulder.

But the Bats noticed him. 

It was hard not to notice a single dad with no records, no job, and no explanation for why he was squatting in Gotham’s most dangerous neighborhood. Bruce, ever vigilant, put out word to the family to keep an eye on him. 

Jason, who patrolled Crime Alley, wasn’t thrilled about the idea. “A guy moved into my turf with a baby?” he grumbled to Tim. “Either he’s got a death wish, or he’s crazy.” 

Tim, on the other hand, was fascinated by the mystery. He dug through every database he had access to, and then some. But “Peter Parker” returned zero results— at least, none that matched this Peter Parker. no criminal record, no birth record, no online footprint. It was like he just spawned in! 

Dick didn’t have a whole lot of opinions. He thought the man was nice, though he had only met him once in a routine mugging. He evidently cared for his daughter, and matched Nightwing’s wit and humor pretty nicely, too. He looked annoyingly familiar too. Maybe it was Tired Dad Chic? He kind of reminded him of Bruce, in a way. 

Steph seconded the funny part. This Peter guy could be one of those dark-humor comedians. 

From what they observed, and conversations supplied by Jason (who was his neighbor in a series of fortunate events), Peter really did seem to just be an ordinary guy.  

Then one night, Peter was picking up groceries from a corner store when he felt a tap on his shoulder. He turned to find a man in a ski mask brandishing a knife, gesturing for his wallet. 

“Hand over the money, and I won’ hurt ya’ kid.” The man threatened, waving his knife around threateningly. Peter tensed, dropping his groceries in favor of cradling Mayday closer. 

Peter blinked at him tiredly. “The best I can offer is some lint and a can of beans.” 

The man tensed, stepping closer in an attempt at intimidation. Peter thought that his face turning red with anger was kind of funny.

“Don’t fuckin’— are you makin’ fun of me?” The man fumed. Peter might have let out a sleep-deprived chuckle, partially forgetting to respond. 

The mugger lunged, and before he could dodge, Peter felt a searing pain in his side as the blade plunged in, his vision blurring with the shock. Normally, Peter would’ve disarmed the guy without breaking a sweat, but tonight, with Mayday in his arms and his body worn from days of restless sleep, he kind of just… blinked and the knife was there. 

Peter blinked again, then looked back up at the man.

“Oh, wow,” he said, his voice dripping with deadpan sarcasm. “A knife in Crime Alley? Super original. Really, I’m honored to be a part of your creative process.”

The mugger blinked, clearly caught off guard. Peter rolled his eyes, adjusting Mayday to better apply pressure to his side. “Next time you stab a guy, maybe aim for someone with insurance.”

The mugger stumbled back, looking increasingly confused by Peter’s lack of fear. Peter sighed, bouncing Mayday gently as she began to fuss. “Listen, I’m already running on no sleep and the caffeine fumes of yesterday’s coffee. And now you’re just making my night even worse.”

Peter winced, feeling the slow but consistent leak of blood. His healing factor was helping, but it was dulled due to lack of sleep and hunger. 

Between one long blink and the next, someone had jumped down and knocked out Peter’s would-be mugger. 

After another blink Peter realized he was on the ground, Mayday’s wails filled the air, her cries echoing down the alleyway, and Peter tried to smile through the pain. “It’s okay, baby,” he mumbled, clutching her tightly. “Daddy’s fine… just a little… scratch.” But his vision was going hazy as he pressed a hand to his bleeding side. The world began to spin.

One of the vigilantes that Peter recognized as Red Robin rushed over, talking hurriedly into a comm. Peter blinked up at him, his mouth curling into a weak smile. “Hey, nice costume,” he muttered. “Does the utility belt come in dad sizes?” 

Red Robin blinked in surprise, but otherwise keept his focus as he worked to stop the bleeding.

“It doesn’t, unfortunately.” Red Robin offered, popping open his emergency med kit. “I’ve got help on the way, ok? Stay awake for me.” But his attention was snagged when Mayday, overcome with distress, reached out to him, her tiny hands gripping his arm. She wasn’t just clutching it— she was sticking to him, her fingers locked like suction cups on his suit. Tim’s eyes widened as she scrambled up his arm, scaling it like a bug on a wall. 

Red Robin took it in stride, scooping Mayday up as he continued to work. Peter had been on the Meta radar for a bit— a few things here and there just a little off, and it was mostly based on Red Robin’s time spent with super-powered individuals. 

But as he patched up Peter, he discreetly swiped a sample of blood, stashing it in his belt just as the Batmobile pulled up. 

—

Later that night, he ran the sample through the Batcomputer, expecting some small lead. A Meta, possibly insect-based? What with how the kid had stuck to him. Instead, the results left Tim absolutely speechless. 

Peter Parker, the man who was in his early 40s and a single father, didn’t just match someone in the system— it matched Dick Grayson.

Not as a brother, or a cousin, but as a son. 

Tim must’ve ran the test at least 100 times. It came back the same every single time. 

Tim called Bruce and the rest of the family, each of them crowding around the screen with varying levels of shock and amusement as the analysis rolled in. Dick was dumbfounded, staring at the results in disbelief. 

“You’re telling me this guy is my… son?” he stammered, struggling to wrap his mind around it. 

Bruce, socially unaware in all his glory, tried to comfort Dick. “He’s likely from far into the future. Barry said there was a ripple in the timestream around the time Peter showed up.” 

“So what does that make Mayday?” Jason asked, snickering. 

“His granddaughter?” Steph said with a teasing grin. 

“Wow, Dick. You went from a dad to a grandpa in the same minute.” 

“That’s gotta be a world record.”

“You think we can submit this for a Guinness World Record?”

Dick groaned, rubbing his temples as Jason laughed and clapped him on the shoulder. 

“He’s from the future, right? Something must’ve gone wrong on his end," Tim said, folding his arms with a thoughtful look. "He’s definitely got the skills. Moves like you, Dick. It's obvious he's had training.”

Dick couldn't help but smirk, puffing up a little with pride. “Of course he does. He’s got Grayson blood in him, after all.”

Jason snorted. “Yeah, because the whole ‘falling on his face with a baby strapped to him’ bit? So graceful.”

Tim rolled his eyes, trying to stay on track. “Look, I don’t know why he didn’t come to us for help in the first place, but the point is, he’s family. We should get him back to his time, if that’s even possible.” He looked over to Bruce. “Are any speedsters available? Maybe the League could lend us Wally or Barry—"

“Hold on,” Dick interrupted, frowning. “I’m not sure we’re ready to ship him off just yet. The guy’s been trying to make it on his own. He’s got a baby to look after, and I think he’s afraid of dragging us into whatever’s going on with him. You know this family and their pride.”

Damian, who had been silent up to this point, finally piped up, his arms crossed. “I’ve seen him with the baby. She’s… persistent.” There was an almost begrudging respect in his tone. “But he clearly doesn’t have the resources to keep her safe here. If he did, he wouldn’t be living in Crime Alley.”

Dick nodded. “Exactly. The guy’s holding it together with duct tape and dad jokes. We can help him and get him back on his feet while we figure out a way home.”

Bruce, listening intently, finally spoke up. “He’s right. Until we find a way to get him home, Peter and his daughter stay here. We’ll pull together whatever resources we can to help them both.” 

Steph and Tim shared a look. He just wanted to meet his grandson and great-granddaughter. 

There was a beat of silence as everyone absorbed the decision, and then Tim looked at Dick, a small smirk playing on his lips. “So… you ready to be a dad, Dick?”

Dick flushed, looking a mix of horrified and pleased. “I’ll just stick to ‘Uncle Dick’ for now. Baby steps.”

EXTRA:

“Hey,” Jason drawled, barely suppressing a smirk as he looked over at Dick, “you think we can submit this for a Guinness World Record? Fastest unplanned parenthood, or maybe most confusing family reunion?”

Dick rolled his eyes but couldn’t quite hide his grin. “Very funny, Jay. Maybe we can submit you for most inappropriate comments per minute.”

Jason chuckled, clapping him on the shoulder. “Just saying, man, it’s impressive. One day you’re Nightwing, lone acrobat extraordinaire, and the next? Boom— you’re the proud father of a scruffy, interdimensional— what'd you say it was, Tim? Spider-dad? A Spider-dad.”

Tim snickered, glancing up from his laptop. “We’re all just living in a 'Strangest Family Reunion’ reality show at this point. Besides, if anyone’s submitting to Guinness, it should be Peter for most relentless optimism under terrible circumstances.”

Bruce cleared his throat, giving them all a look. “Enough. This isn’t a joke. We have a situation to handle here.”

Dick, still grinning, turned back to Bruce. “All right, fine, we’ll save the record-breaking for later. Right now, I say we start by finding this guy and getting him some real help.”

[lenle-g]

Jamie Anderson's video of us singing Happy Birthday to David Graham for his 99th in July <3

[urdreamydoodles]

MARVEL COMICS CHARACTERS x FEM!READER

Marvel Comics Characters Realizing They Are Jealous

Characters: Peter Parker, Tony Stark, Steve Rogers, Thor, Loki, Clint Barton, Natasha Romanoff, Bucky Barnes, Matthew Murdock, Frank Castle, Marc Spector, Johnny Storm, Reed Richards, Felicia Hardy, Stephen Strange, Namor, Johnny Blaze, Eddie Brock / Venom, T'Challa & Elektra Natchios

Peter Parker aka. Spider-Man

- Peter Parker has always told himself he’s not the jealous type. He knows better. He’s seen what obsession does to a person, how it corrodes and twists and turns something good into something dark. He swore he’d never be that guy, the one who grips too tight, who loses sight of what matters. And yet, as he watches some stranger lean in close, flashing a smile that’s just a little too confident, he feels it coil inside him—hot, sharp, unexpected.

- His fingers twitch, and he clenches his fists like he’s bracing for a fight, even though there’s no real battle here. Just words, just glances, just you laughing at something someone else said. And Peter—who has fought gods and monsters, who has lost more than he ever thought he could survive—finds himself standing frozen, drowning in something far more terrifying than any villain.

- He tries to be rational. Tries to remind himself that you’re not his, that he has no right to this feeling clawing at his ribs. But then your head tilts, your lips part in that familiar, effortless smile, and it hits him like a fist to the gut: he wants to be the reason you smile like that. He wants to be the only one.

- The moment passes, the stranger moves on, and Peter still can’t breathe right. He should let it go, should shake it off, but when you turn to him, bright-eyed and oblivious to the war raging in his chest, all he can do is force a grin and hope you don’t notice the way his voice strains when he speaks.

- Later, alone in his room, he presses his forehead against his hand and exhales shakily. He’s in trouble. So much trouble. Because Peter Parker? He’s never been good at letting things go. And now, he doesn’t think he can let you go, either.

Tony Stark aka. Iron Man

- Tony Stark doesn’t get jealous. That’s what he tells himself, anyway. He’s been around the block too many times, seen too many people come and go, to let something as petty as jealousy get under his skin. He’s Tony Stark. He’s seen it all. So when he spots some smooth-talking nobody leaning into your space, flashing that kind of grin he perfected years ago, he should laugh it off. Should.

- But he doesn’t. Instead, there’s a flicker of something sharp and ugly curling in his chest, something possessive and unfamiliar. It’s ridiculous, really. He could have anyone, could fill a room with people hanging onto his every word, but none of them matter. Not the way you do.

- He swirls the whiskey in his glass, eyes narrowing as he watches the way you tilt your head, the way your lips quirk in amusement. It’s harmless, he tells himself. You’re just being polite. But his jaw tightens all the same, and suddenly, the ice in his drink isn’t the only thing cold in the room.

- He doesn’t make a scene. No, Tony Stark never needs to. Instead, he waits until you’re alone, leans in with a smirk that’s just a little too sharp, and says, “Didn’t know you had a thing for guys who wear cheap cologne.” You roll your eyes, laughing, but there’s something in his voice that makes you pause. Something raw beneath the bravado.

- Later, when you’re gone, Tony leans back against his chair, rubbing a hand down his face. Damn it. He wasn’t supposed to feel this way. But now that he does, now that he’s seen what it would be like to lose your attention, he knows one thing for certain—he’s not going to let that happen again.

Steve Rogers aka. Captain America

- Steve Rogers likes to believe he’s patient. He’s fought wars, survived decades of loss, and carried burdens most men would crumble under. He’s not impulsive. Not reckless. He’s better than that. Or at least, he thought he was—until now.

- The sight of someone else standing too close to you, their voice too low, their gaze lingering just a second too long—it sparks something in him, something old and primal and dangerous. His fingers tighten around the coffee cup in his hands, his jaw locking as he forces himself to breathe.

- He knows he has no claim on you. No right to this feeling twisting inside him. But that doesn’t stop the way his chest tightens, the way his pulse kicks up in something too close to fight-or-flight. He’s fought wars, but this? This is different. This is personal.

- He doesn’t interrupt, doesn’t stake a claim—Steve isn’t the kind of man to do that. But when you finally turn away from the conversation, when your eyes meet his across the room, there’s something there—something in the way he looks at you, steady and unyielding, that makes your breath catch.

- And maybe, just maybe, you see it too. The truth of it. The confession that lingers in the space between you, unsaid but undeniable. Steve Rogers is a patient man. But even he has his limits. And when it comes to you? He won’t let someone else take what should have been his.

Thor Odinson aka. God of Thunder

- Thor Odinson does not know jealousy the way mortals do. He does not simmer in silence, does not let resentment fester like a slow-growing storm. No, when Thor feels, he feels. And right now, he feels the weight of something heavy, something possessive, something undeniable.

- He watches as another person captures your attention, as their voice fills the air where his should be. And though he does not doubt your loyalty, though he knows the strength of his own heart, something inside him rumbles. A warning. A storm brewing on the horizon.

- He does not shrink. He does not sulk. Instead, he acts. With slow, deliberate steps, he crosses the room, placing himself at your side with the ease of a warrior reclaiming his place on the battlefield. “Ah, my friend,” he says, voice rich with warmth, though his grip on his hammer is just a fraction too tight. “Are you enjoying my beloved’s company?”

- The title slips from his lips before he can stop it. Beloved. It is instinct, raw and unfiltered, and when you glance at him in surprise, he meets your gaze without hesitation. There is no retreat, no denial—only the thunderous certainty of a god who knows what is his.

- And in that moment, as realization dawns in your eyes, Thor Odinson understands—there is no turning back from this. And by the gods, he does not want to.

Loki Laufeyson aka. God of Mischief

- Loki is not a fool. He sees things others miss, reads between the lines of every conversation, every fleeting glance. He is a god of mischief, a master of deception. And yet, for all his cunning, he did not see this coming.

- He did not expect to feel the sharp sting of jealousy as someone else’s words make you smile. He did not expect the coil of irritation tightening in his chest as he watches you lean in, drawn into a conversation that is not with him. And above all, he did not expect the slow, creeping realization that follows: he cares.

- The thought unsettles him. Love, affection—these things are not meant for him. He has been cast aside too many times, burned by his own foolishness, by the cruelty of fate. And yet… here you are, undoing him with nothing but a laugh that isn’t even meant for him.

- He does not confront it, not directly. Instead, he sidles up beside you, his presence a whisper of silk and shadows, his voice a low murmur in your ear. “Surely, you do not find them that charming?” The words are laced with amusement, but his fingers twitch at his sides.

- And when you turn to him, curiosity flickering in your gaze, he holds it—holds you—longer than he should. He will not admit it. Not yet. But the seed has been planted, and gods help him, he does not know if he has the strength to pull it free.

Clint Barton aka. Hawkeye

- Clint Barton isn’t the type to take himself too seriously. Life’s too short, and his luck’s too bad for that. He rolls with the punches, cracks a joke when things get tough, keeps it light—because that’s what keeps him sane. But watching someone else flirt with you? Yeah, that’s not funny.

- He tells himself he doesn’t care. You’re not his, you don’t owe him anything, and really, it’s probably his own damn fault for never making a move. But still, there’s this tightness in his chest, a slow-burning irritation curling in his stomach, and suddenly, he’s gripping his drink a little too hard.

- He could walk away. Should walk away. But instead, he lingers at the edge of the room, watching, waiting, fingers tapping against his thigh like he’s counting down the seconds before he does something stupid. And when you laugh at something that guy says? Yeah, that’s when he snaps.

- He doesn’t make a scene. No, Clint Barton is too smooth for that. Instead, he saunters over, slides an arm around your shoulders like it’s the most natural thing in the world, and grins at the guy like he’s already won. “Hey, sweetheart. Who’s your friend?” His voice is light, teasing, but there’s a sharp edge beneath it. A warning.

- And when you glance up at him, confused but not pulling away, Clint feels something settle inside him. Something warm, something right. Maybe he’s been an idiot. Maybe he’s been avoiding this for too long. But he knows one thing for damn sure—he’s not letting anyone else steal what should’ve been his all along.

Natasha Romanoff aka. Black Widow

- Natasha Romanoff is a master of control. Of reading a room, of keeping her emotions locked behind an unshakable mask. But this? This is unexpected. This burn in her chest, this sharp, cutting edge of irritation curling along her spine as she watches someone else pull you into a conversation that should be hers.

- She doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t let a single crack show. But her eyes follow every movement, her fingers tapping an idle rhythm against her thigh, the only outward sign of the storm brewing beneath the surface. It’s ridiculous, really. You’re not hers. You’re free to do whatever you want. And yet…

- Yet, when you tilt your head, smiling at something they say, something inside her snaps. It’s subtle, barely there, but she moves—slipping through the crowd with effortless grace, coming to stand beside you, close enough that her presence demands attention.

- “Interesting conversation?” she asks, voice smooth as silk, but there’s something dangerous in the way she tilts her head, in the slight smirk playing at her lips. The person flirting with you hesitates, suddenly unsure, suddenly feeling like prey in the presence of a predator. And Natasha? She enjoys it.

- Later, when you’re alone, she leans in, voice softer now, more real. “You should be more careful,” she murmurs, fingers brushing yours. “Some people don’t deserve your attention.” And though she doesn’t say it outright, you hear the truth behind the words. She wants you for herself. And Natasha Romanoff always gets what she wants.

Bucky Barnes aka. The Winter Soldier

- Bucky Barnes has been through hell. He’s lost more than most, suffered in ways he doesn’t talk about, and rebuilt himself from the ground up. He knows better than to let himself get attached. But when he sees someone else standing too close to you, when he watches them steal your attention, something inside him goes cold.

- It’s not anger. Not exactly. It’s something deeper, heavier, a pressure in his chest that won’t ease no matter how hard he tries to ignore it. He doesn’t like this—this feeling of being on the outside, of watching you smile at someone who isn’t him.

- He clenches his jaw, looks away, tries to focus on something else. But then, as if the universe is testing him, he hears it—your laugh. Soft, genuine, warm. And it wrecks him. Because that laugh? It’s his favorite sound. And he doesn’t want anyone else to have it.

- He doesn’t move right away. He’s still figuring this out, still sorting through the mess of emotions he doesn’t know what to do with. But when you finally turn to him, eyes bright and unknowing, he meets your gaze and holds it. And for the first time, maybe ever, he lets the truth slip through.

- “Didn’t think I was the jealous type,” he admits, voice rough, words meant just for you. And when your lips part, surprised, he only smirks, shaking his head. “Guess I was wrong.”

Matthew Murdock aka. Daredevil

- Matt Murdock is a patient man. He has to be. He’s spent his entire life walking the razor’s edge between control and chaos, between justice and vengeance. But this? This is different. This isn’t a courtroom battle or a rooftop fight—this is you, smiling at someone else, and it is unraveling him in ways he doesn’t expect.

- He can hear everything—the steady heartbeat of the person flirting with you, the subtle shift in your tone, the way your breath catches just slightly before you laugh. It’s innocent. Harmless. And yet, his grip on his cane tightens, his jaw locks, and he hates the way his pulse betrays him.

- He’s never been good at sharing. It’s not in his nature, not when it comes to things that matter. And you? You matter. More than he’s willing to admit. More than he should ever let himself believe.

- He doesn’t interrupt. Doesn’t step in. But when the conversation ends, when you finally come back to him, he tilts his head and murmurs, “They seemed… interesting.” There’s a sharp edge to his voice, something unreadable behind his glasses. And when you chuckle, brushing it off, he exhales slowly, forcing himself to let it go.

- But later, when it’s just the two of you, his fingers linger when they touch yours. His voice is softer, quieter when he says, “Just—don’t let someone else take what they don’t deserve, okay?” And though he doesn’t say it outright, you understand what he means. He wants to be the only one.

Frank Castle aka. The Punisher

- Frank Castle doesn’t get jealous. At least, that’s what he tells himself. Jealousy is for men who have something to lose, for men who still believe in the kind of love that doesn’t end in blood. And Frank? He doesn’t have that luxury.

- But then he sees you—sees them, standing too close, talking too smooth, and something inside him goes black. His blood turns to fire, his muscles coil tight, and suddenly, he has to remind himself not to break something.

- He watches. Silent. Dangerous. The kind of quiet that makes lesser men nervous, that turns a warm room cold. And when your laughter rings out, light and unknowing, Frank swears he feels something crack inside him.

- He doesn’t make a move. Doesn’t say a word. But when the conversation ends, when you finally turn and meet his eyes, there’s something dark and unreadable waiting there. Something that should scare you. But it doesn’t.

- Later, in the dead of night, he exhales smoke into the silence and mutters, “Should’ve killed ‘em.” And maybe he’s joking. Maybe he’s not. But either way, Frank Castle knows one thing for sure—he’s never letting anyone else think they have a chance with you. Not while he’s still breathing.

Marc Spector aka. Moon Knight

- Marc Spector has always been a man of war. His heart is battle-worn, his soul stitched together by vengeance and duty. Love? Love is dangerous. Love makes you weak. But when he sees someone else’s hand resting just a little too long on your arm, when he watches their eyes linger on you the way only he should be allowed to—Marc feels something snap.

- It’s not a rational thing. No, it’s visceral, instinctual, an old wound torn open and bleeding jealousy into his ribs. His fingers twitch, his vision narrows, and for a brief, fleeting second, the weight of Khonshu’s will presses against his skull. Hurt them. Make them regret it.

- But then, you laugh—soft, unknowing, untouched by the storm raging inside him. And that’s what stops him. That’s what saves him. Because you don’t need his darkness. You deserve something gentler than him.

- So he stays where he is, jaw tight, fists clenched, shadows curling around his thoughts like whispers in the night. He doesn’t interfere. Not yet. But when you finally turn to him, oblivious to the war he’s fighting inside, his voice is low, rough, edged with something he doesn’t dare name.

- “Let’s go.” It’s not a request. And when you blink up at him, confused but willing, Marc exhales. You’ll never know just how close he came to losing himself for you.

Johnny Storm aka. Human Torch

- Johnny Storm doesn’t do jealousy. Or at least, that’s what he tells himself. He’s too cool for that, too charming, too damn good-looking to ever feel threatened. But the second he sees someone else trying to steal your attention, the easy confidence he’s built around himself starts to flicker.

- He keeps it casual at first—leans against the bar, crosses his arms, smirks like he’s just so amused by whatever’s happening. But beneath that cocky grin, his fingers tighten against the glass in his hand, and the tips of his ears burn hot.

- He tries to laugh it off. Makes a joke at your expense, something playful, something light. But when you don’t immediately turn back to him, when you keep talking to them, the flames inside him rise, licking at the edges of his restraint.

- “Okay, that’s cute,” he finally mutters, before striding over and slinging an arm around your shoulders with deliberate ease. His smile is bright, a little too sharp, as he looks the other person up and down. “You make friends fast, huh?”

- He plays it off well. Too well. But later, when you’re alone, he mutters, almost to himself, “Y’know, if I didn’t know any better, I’d think you were trying to kill me.” And when you laugh, shaking your head, he exhales. Yeah, he’s in trouble. Big trouble.

Reed Richards aka. Mister Fantastic

- Reed Richards has spent his life solving impossible equations, unraveling the mysteries of the universe, conquering the unknown with nothing but his mind. But this? This is a problem he doesn’t know how to fix.

- He sees you—sees them—standing too close, exchanging words he can’t quite hear over the noise of the room. Logic tells him he has no reason to react. You are not a variable in an equation he controls. And yet, the sharp sting of possessiveness coils in his chest, irrational and unrelenting.

- He tells himself to let it go. There is no scientific basis for jealousy. It is an emotional impulse, a flaw in human reasoning. And yet, his fingers tighten around the pen in his hand, his mind fracturing into a thousand calculations, each one ending in the same conclusion:

- He does not want to lose you.

- Later, when he finally speaks, it’s careful, measured, spoken in that calm, analytical tone that betrays nothing. “You seemed… engaged in that conversation.” It’s not an accusation, not quite, but when you tilt your head at him, curious, he wonders if maybe, just maybe, he’s already lost the upper hand.

Felicia Hardy aka. Black Cat

- Felicia Hardy doesn’t do jealousy. She’s far too confident, far too aware of her own power, to feel threatened by someone else’s presence in your orbit. And yet, when she sees them flirting with you—sees their hand brushing your arm, sees your lips curve at whatever they said—she feels something sharp and territorial curl inside her.

- She doesn’t react immediately. No, Felicia Hardy is far too strategic for that. Instead, she watches, waits, lets them think they have a chance. And then, just when they start to relax, she makes her move.

- “Mind if I cut in?” Her voice is silk, smooth and effortless, her fingers trailing along your arm as she steps between you and the intruder. She doesn’t even have to look at them to know they’ve already lost.

- She leans in, lips brushing the shell of your ear, her voice dropping to something only you can hear. “Careful, kitten. You don’t want to get tangled up with the wrong person.” And when you shiver—when you look at her the way she wants you to—she knows she’s won.

- Later, as you walk together, she smirks, tossing her hair over her shoulder. “You should be more careful who you flirt with.” And when you laugh, shaking your head, she only grins wider. You were always going to be hers.

Stephen Strange aka. Doctor Strange

- Stephen Strange has never been the kind of man to fear losing something. He has conquered the impossible, rewritten fate, bent the very fabric of reality to his will. And yet, when he sees you with them—sees you laugh, sees you lean in—he feels something disturbingly close to fear.

- He tells himself it’s illogical. That he has no claim to you, that what you do is none of his concern. But the words taste hollow in his mouth, and the air around him hums with restrained magic, with emotions he refuses to name.

- He doesn’t intervene—not at first. No, Stephen Strange is not a man of petty impulses. But when the conversation lingers too long, when he sees them touch your arm, he exhales sharply and moves.

- “I wasn’t aware we were entertaining guests.” His voice is even, his expression unreadable, but there is something unmistakably sharp in his gaze as he steps beside you. The other person stiffens. Good.

- Later, when you question him about it, he only lifts a brow. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” But the way his fingers graze your wrist, the way his magic lingers against your skin? It tells a different story. One he isn’t ready to say aloud. Not yet.

Namor aka. The Sub-Mariner

- Namor is a king. A warrior. A god among men. He has no reason to feel jealousy, no reason to regard anyone as his competition. And yet, when he sees another lingering too close, their gaze trailing over you with something unearned, his blood boils.

- He watches, expression composed but dangerous, as they speak to you, as they dare to bask in your presence. Do they think they are worthy? Do they believe, for even a moment, that they can take what Namor has already claimed in his heart?

- He does not interrupt—not immediately. No, Namor is patient, calculating. He waits for the perfect moment, stepping forward with regal, effortless confidence, his presence alone enough to command attention. His fingers brush your arm, a deliberate, possessive motion. “My dear, surely you do not waste your time with this one?”

- His voice is smooth, edged with something sharp. The poor fool who thought they had a chance swallows hard, sensing the shift in the air. Namor does not need to fight for you. He simply reclaims what is his.

- Later, when you tease him about it, his only response is a slow, knowing smirk. “You belong at my side, and my side alone.” And when you see the certainty in his gaze, you realize—he’s not asking. He’s declaring.

Johnny Blaze aka. Ghost Rider

- Johnny Blaze has never been a man of peace. His soul is battle-worn, haunted by fire and vengeance. But nothing—nothing—burns quite like the sight of someone else trying to steal your attention.

- His jaw tightens, his grip on the edge of the bar going white-knuckled as he watches. He tells himself to let it go. He’s not the type to get jealous, right? But the Rider in his chest—the monster wrapped in fire and bone—growls in warning.

- He doesn’t make a scene. He doesn’t say a word. Instead, he moves, slow and deliberate, stepping into the conversation like he was always meant to be there. His presence alone is enough to shift the atmosphere—dangerous, electric.

- He doesn’t glare, doesn’t threaten, but when his dark, firelit gaze locks onto the poor bastard who thought they had a chance, the message is clear. Back off. Now. And they do. Because everyone does, eventually.

- Later, when you ask if he was jealous, he scoffs, looking away. “Jealous? Nah. Just didn’t like their face.” But the way his hand lingers on your hip, the way his body hums with unspoken possession? Yeah, he’s a terrible liar.

Eddie Brock & Venom aka. Venom

- Eddie Brock knows jealousy. It’s been his constant companion—festering, clawing at his insides long before the symbiote ever took root in his veins. But this—seeing you smile at someone else, seeing their eyes linger on you—it’s a different kind of ache.

- “We do not like this.” The voice slithers through his mind, low and possessive, the symbiote pressing against his ribs like it wants out. Eddie grits his teeth, his fingers flexing as he tries to shove down the urge to tear something apart.

- He tells himself it’s fine. You’re not his. Not really. But when that idiot reaches out—when their hand dares to brush against you—Venom surges forward before he can stop it. A dark, twisted growl bubbles from his throat, something inhuman.

- The poor bastard nearly jumps out of their skin. “What the hell was that?” they mutter, backing away as a shadow flickers over Eddie’s eyes. And when you glance at him, brow furrowed, he exhales sharply, rolling his shoulders. “Dunno. Must be the wind.”

- Later, when Venom whispers, “We should eat them,” Eddie just mutters, “No, we shouldn’t.” But as you walk beside him, unaware of the war raging inside him, he wonders—what would it take for you to see that you’re already his?

T’Challa aka. Black Panther

- T’Challa is not a man ruled by petty emotions. He has been raised in the art of restraint, taught that a king must always remain in control. But when he sees another vying for your attention, when he watches their hand hover too close—his restraint is tested.

- He does not react immediately. No, he simply observes, his expression unreadable, his mind already three steps ahead. There is no need for outbursts, no need for crude displays of possession. T’Challa wins wars with patience and precision.

- And so, when the moment is right, he moves—effortless, calculated, undeniable. His voice is smooth as he steps into your space, his hand settling gently at the small of your back. “Forgive my interruption,” he says, gaze flickering to the would-be suitor, voice full of quiet authority. “But I believe I was promised this dance.”

- The other person falters, unsure, outmatched in a game they did not even realize they were playing. T’Challa does not need to fight for you. He simply reminds the world who he is.

- Later, when you tease him about it, his lips curve into something soft, something secret. “You are… precious to me.” And though he does not say more, the look in his eyes is enough. You are not just a passing fancy. You are a queen, and he will not let anyone take you from him.

Elektra Natchios aka. Elektra

- Elektra is not jealous. Jealousy is for the weak, for the foolish, for those who lack the confidence to take what they want. But when she sees them—sees you—laughing at something someone else said, her knives feel heavier at her hips.

- She does not make a scene. No, Elektra is far too skilled in the art of subtlety for that. Instead, she watches, waiting for the perfect moment to strike. Not with violence—not yet.

- When she finally moves, it’s with all the grace of a predator circling its prey. She doesn’t touch you, not immediately, but she steps into your space like she belongs there. And when she finally speaks, it’s a soft, amused purr—“Surely you don’t find them interesting?”

- Her hand traces your wrist, feather-light, but the weight of it is undeniable. She doesn’t even look at the other person. They don’t matter. They never did.

- Later, when you tell her she was jealous, she only smiles, slow and dangerous. “Jealous? No. But if they touch you again, I’ll consider sharpening my blades.” And something about the way she says it makes you wonder—was she joking?

[skygemspeaks]

marvel universe dashboard simulator: spideytorch ship war edition

🤟 spideyparktorchtruther Follow

🕷️ spideyslut22468

god i'm so fucking tired of hearing about johnny fucking storm's love life. it's always spideytorch this, stormparker that, and now i have to deal with this new monstrosity of a ship? have we considered maybe leaving them alone? these are real ass people, why are you even shipping them anyways? go find some anime twinks to thirst over

4,235 notes

🧟 avgnwyrkr Follow

so anyways i still haven't stopped thinking about that one tiktok where the person saw spider-man chilling eating a hot dog one day and went up to him to ask him what he thought about peter parker and it was so obvious the person was trying to start some drama or whatever but instead spidey just apparently went on for like ten minutes about how awesome peter parker is and how good he is at photography and how smart he is and how they've been friends for like ten years

guys, what if we've been wrong all along? what if spidey really isn't in love with johnny? what if he's in love with peter instead?

😏 shutterbugsupremacy Follow

that's what i've been saying!! i mean guys? peter parker is LITERALLY the only photographer that spidey ever allows to get proper photos of him? he's been taking photos of spidey since he was in high school! he literally put out a photobook that was entirely pictures of spider-man.

🕷️ spideyslut22468

y'all are reaching so hard i'm surprised you haven't pulled a muscle. if parker was really in love with spidey would he have sold his pictures to a newspaper that does nothing but slander spider-man's good name? from what i've heard, jjj pays parker pretty well for his spider-man photos. he's not taking pictures of spidey out of love or anything, it's all just for money. same with the book. he's a sellout.

😏 shutterbugsupremacy Follow

hey man, we all gotta eat somehow, and spidey has said in the past that he doesn't care about parker working for the bugle. also, see above about the video where spidey talks about how awesome parker is. maybe you need to cool your jets, yeah?

🕷️ spideyslut22468

spider-man has been friends with johnny storm literally since the fantastic four came onto the superhero scene, obviously he's gonna play nice when asked about his best friend's long-term boyfriend regardless of how he actually feels about parker. y'all are just looking for signs where there aren't any.

345 notes

🥰 stormparkerownsmysoul

look, i know that we've all had our differences in the past, but let us not think about what sets us apart, but rather what brings us all together.

16,345 notes

❎ superheroshipbrackets

310 notes

❤️‍🔥 spideytorchendgame Follow

me talking to anyone that will listen about my theory that peter parker is just a beard for johnny storm to help keep his actual relationship with spider-man a secret

❤️‍🔥 spideytorchendgame Follow

like guys just hear me out okay? spider-man obviously wouldn't want his real identity to be well known to the public, and publicly dating johnny would put him at constant risk of being found out. so that's why they have johnny fake date peter parker! he's the perfect candidate! i mean, we all know he has ties to, like, a ridiculous number of superheroes. he's worked for both reed richards and tony stark, and people have snapped pics of him hanging out with captain america and deadpool. he's even been spotted with daredevil and daredevil hates everyone! so him dating johnny wouldn't really put him at any more danger of being targeted by villains than he was already in. and what's in it for peter? i mean, he gets to live in the baxter building (he probably has his own secret apartment and doesn't actually live with johnny) and probably gets a bunch of expensive gifts and stuff to compensate for all the shit he has to put up with for being johnny's partner.

2,463 notes

[zephyr-ro-emenki]

I did a little looking into parental genetics, and guess what?

A set of parents with Black hair and Blue eyes, and Red hair and Green eyes, CAN HAVE A BROWN HAIRED AND BROWN EYED CHILD!!!

You heard me right.

Dick and Babs or Dick and Kor'i can both be canonical pairings for Peter's Parents in the DC universe.

I personally like Dick and Kor'i for Peter's parents better, not for a lack of a love for Babs, Babs and Dick are my favorite DC Pairing. But more for the fact that Mary and Kor'i sound similar enough phonetically that anyone slipping up and accidentally calling her Kor'i in her civilian identity could easily pass it off as just slurring the name Mary a bit. And the fact that Richard and Mary Parker both worked for S.H.I.E.L.D. in the Comics, and their Plane crash death always sounding like a Government made cover story for an agent dying on a secret mission, well...

Richard Parker and Mary Parker were Government funded Heroes in the Marvel Universe, under the codenames of Nightwing and Starfire, and were killed on a mission, orphaning their son Peter with his Aunt and Uncle, May Parker, and Jason "Ben" Parker. For MCU Continuity, they could have been members of the First Avengers Initiative Team, one that existed in the early 90's, who was shut down in the late 90's after members of the team died in a tragic mission, and that would be why the Initiative was Shut down before The start of the MCU with Nick Fury trying to revive it. And that's why Nick (and Talos) knew who Peter Parker was and trusted him with Mysterio First. Not just because he's Spider-Man or was in the Area, but because Both of his parents were founders of the FIRST Avengers team.

That's my personal Headcanon at least.

But I also love Babs being being Mary, because that totally recontextualizes all of the starts to Peter in Gotham Fics as a Mother seeing her Teenage Son (who looks so much like his father it hurts, with the Lazarus Pit-ification of his eyes to green really showing how much his eyes are shaped after his mother's) for the first time, usually looking Homeless, injured, starving, and traumatized, all wrapped up in whatever random clothes he could snatch up from his surroundings to pass off as normal looking. And she just has to have a silent crying breakdown as she knows that's her son, even if she hadn't birthed him yet (or maybe she thinks the memory of her being pregnant was erased from her memory? She doesn't know what to think anymore!) but a mother can always recognize her baby. And he just looks so Hurt and all she can do is cry and try to get concrete proof that he's her son in the short time he's in her library, while ALSO calling over Dick to ask if he knew they had a kid together.

I think I just made myself cry, brb...

[rivalswrites]

Valentine's Day special 3/4

Before you read, please be warned that I'm writing based on my impressions of them not only in the game (though it's the biggest inspiration), but some of them with the movies/shows in mind too.

Summery: giving everyone on the Marvel Rivals roster a kiss (with plot!!)

Valentine's Masterlist

Underage characters and animal characters will be platonic (there will be a reminder for each one)

Characters involved: Mister Fantastic, MoonKnight, Namor, Peni Parker (platonic), Psylock, Rocket Raccoon (platonic), Scarlet Witch, Spider-Man, Squirrel Girl

Reed sighed and leaned back into his chair, resting his head on his hand that in turn sat on his brow- he looked hot like that, but that feeling lessened knowing that he was so stressed. New York's infestation of vampires had Reed pushing himself to his limit to find solutions to help not only that, but every other problem as well. Too much for one man to take on all alone.

“You look so tired, Reed, take a break?” You asked, though you both knew it was going to end up as an order if he didn't listen on his own terms. “In a moment, dearest, I just need a bit more time.” more time- he's said that a thousand times, you scoff.

“Reed Nathaniel Richards if you don't swivel that chair away from work right now I swear to whatever God may listen-” “alright!” He cuts you off before you could finish your threat. He knew from experience you'd never give up, and at times like these he didn't want or need something like that. “Alright” he repeated, swirling his chair around to look at you.

His eyes were tired, you could tell- anyone could've. Reed’s arms reached out to you, stretching inhumanly to grab onto your shirt “don't get mad at me.” he whispered, his hands gripping onto you tightly.

“I'm not, sweetheart, I just want you to take care of yourself.” your hands rested on his own that were on your shirt as you walked over to him, watching as his arms slowly retracted back to a more natural form. He let you move as you pleased, him in tow, let you sit down on his lap and pressed a kiss on his forehead. “Doing so much.”

The lab was quiet as you both sat on the chair, his head just barely staying up as your hands played with his hair- and practically held his head up; his hands still gripping your shirt. “So tired” you comment, watching as his eyes slowly blink, like he was high, you giggle as you think.

Reed whispered something, but it was so unintelligible that no one could hear- even with super hearing.

Leaning down you pressed a kiss to his lips, holding it for a little before pulling back- his face pushed against your hands to follow when you did. “Let's get you to bed, yeah?” feeling him nod in your hands you stood up, bending to kiss him again before helping him up.

It was a rough night, no one felt like being inside and so there they were- standing on a balcony with an iron grip on the railings. God only knew which one they were right now, they were all active. It was so loud, and the moonlight wasn't able to help, not this time.

“Marc?” was called out behind them, from the door of the building, but they didn't move. “Steven?” was called out again, and again there was silence in return. “C'mon, don't make me guess them all…” the door shut as you stepped onto the balcony.

“I'm not anyone” he finally replied, turning his face away to avoid looking at yours. He flinched when your hand rested on top of his. “Someone's gotta be there,” you replied, grabbing onto his arm to snuggle into “it's alright. I don't have to know, I love you all either way.”

Your reply shouldn't have been surprising, they all knew you did, always so sweet to them. With a sigh he turned his head back to being straight, looking down at the pavement from what was like fifty stories, no one ever counted. A guttural sound left him as he attempted to talk back, but he just couldn't even when he tried to force himself. He continues to try until you start shushing him, patting his back and leaning him into you.

“Don't force yourself, it's alright” the reassurance was something he needed, that they needed. It was so small and yet there it was, a butterfly feeling deep in his stomach.

His suit was still on, including the mask, but that didn't stop him from doing whatever he wanted. Quickly he turned and grabbed your shoulders, looking at your wide eyes that looked at him in return. It was an intense staring competition for awhile, unfair as well because you couldn't see his eyes so who knew if he was blinking the whole time and cheating.

Before you could voice your complaints he pulled you close to him, leaning his head down. His mask pressed against your face, all over it. He'd pull back and then press the jagged face mask over a different part of your face. “Butterflies” he said quietly before pressing his mask against your lips in an uncomfortable final kiss.

“My dear, how are you feeling?” He asked, peaking around the door of the bedroom to get a glance in. It was late in the evening, and you had stayed in bed almost all day.

The simple reply of a groan and turning around in the bed was what he got back, which did concern him more. Throughout the day worry had built up, and seeing your reaction to being asked how you felt only raised the concern.

He walked into the room fully, closing the door behind him, and went to go sit on the bed. The look he gave you was full of some sort of guilt- probably for not coming to check up on you later. “Is something ailing you my dear? Please talk to me.” He murmured, reaching over to grab onto your hand with a soft grip.

“I'm fine” you whispered back, scooching around the bed before turning back to him. “Just so tired today.”

“Ah, I understand” he sat and thought, unconsciously bringing your hand up and pressing it against his lips; not putting it down or letting it go, just keeping it on his lips. “You could have called me, I could have helped earlier.” The moonlight highlighted on his face, showing the worry etched into it.

“Sorry.” Your reply only made his face give off a small scowl, slightly reprimanding you, “do not apologize, I know it's hard.”

“How can I help?” Finally, Namor lowered your hand from his face, giving your forearm a rest. He still kept your hand in his and even intertwined your fingers with his. “I'll do anything to help get you better, even just for a moment.” He practically proclaimed his love, tightening his grip on your hand.

You didn't respond, at least not verbally, motioning him down with your free hand to which he obeyed. Namor laid down next to you, resting his hand along with yours down in between you two, “anything” he whispers while staring at your eyes with all the admiration in the world.

Before he could get the chance to ask once more, you practically jumped him, using your free hand to wrap around his shoulder as you leaned on his upper body, surprising him with a passionate kiss. He could feel the sorrow you carried, and when he said anything- he meant it.

“If you wanted my affections, darling…” Namor took a deep breath when you just barely pulled away, continuing his sentence between slow kisses, “you could have asked. I'd never-” he paused to kiss you deeper for a moment “-I’d never refuse you.”

(platonic)

The laboratory was practically empty, which made sense due to just how late it was, but that didn't stop you from working away. SP//DR hung in front of you, being held up gently by chains to help with easier access to the full body.

Peni sat on the floor, leaning under one of the desks with blankets and pillows around her. She had made her own makeshift bed there after insisting on her watching you to fix any damages done to her beloved robot- which you didn't fight, figuring her connection to said robot was too deep to be able to.

“How does it look? Will SP//DR be okay?” She pipes up, breaking the silence with her worried questions. “Of course, SP//DR is very strong. Just some scratches and maybe a wire or two exposed, nothing I can't fix.” You swivel your chair around to offer her a reassuring smile, knocking gently against the robot's torso as an example.

She nodded, keeping hold of her pillow as she climbed out from underneath her desk spot and standing closer to watch you work. You moved your chair back around and continued to work, smoldering the metal plates to clean up any of the scratches and indents. Her stare was prominent, practically all over your shoulder to watch as her dear robot was fixed brand new.

“You should go back to resting” you said, setting down the tools in your hands and turning your head to look at her. “It's late, a kid like you needs sleep.”

“I just can't help but worry, SP//DR is all I have left of my dad…” she replied, giving herself permission to start leaning on your shoulders with all her weight. “And you won't lose it, not today.” Your statement brought comfort to her, a warmth she hasn't felt in a while spreading through her- a warmth that felt like a home.

The feeling only doubled when you pressed a kiss onto her cheek, smiling at her before going back to work. She couldn't help but smile, wrapping her arms around your neck into a tight hug before letting go and taking your advice- resting under the desk in her little makeshift bed, listening to the soft sounds of you working away as white noise.

“I'm not sure how you plan on meditating like that” she observed, watching as you threw pillows off the couch and onto the floor. “Easy! You said I have to be comfortable, right?” You smiled at her as you worked vigorously to make the floor a giant nest of blankets and pillows, “I'm doing just that.”

Your explanation was about what she should've expected from you, and by no means was she mad- it was just something she's never seen before, usually meditation made people want a clear space. She sat down on the couch and watched as you worked silently.

Not even five minutes later you were tugging at her hand, trying to get her to stand up. “What are you doing?” She looked up at you as you tugged on her arm. “I need the finishing touch.” You replied, tugging on her arm. Believing she was sitting on whatever you needed she graciously stood up and looked down at the couch to see what it was, but there was nothing here.

Before she could even question what the ‘finishing touch’ was, you tugged on her arm again, this time taking her with you as you sat down on the nest you had made. “Perfect” you muttered while pulling her into your arms, making her rest on your side.

The two of you sat in silence, her head resting on your lap while you played with her hair. You had pulled her down to lay on you soon after the two of you sat down, and she's just been laying there since- processing what was going on. When she did eventually get it through her head she turned to look up at you.

“This is not at all about meditation” she said, narrowing her eyes up at you. “You caught me” you smiled down at her, resting your hand on her cheeks and squishing them to make duck lips. “I do not enjoy being tricked” she murmured out through her plump lips, the words mushing together by the artificial lisp she was given.

Instead of replying, you lean down and press your lips against hers, letting go over her face so it could be normal again- instead resting your hand on her bicep and rubbing gently. Only when you pull away do you speak up, “am I forgiven?” Psylocke takes a moment of silence to stare at you, and for a moment you think she's genuinely pissed, but quickly those thoughts are dispersed when she speaks up, “it is a satisfactory apology.”

(Platonic)

Rocket sat on the porch steps of your dingy home and looked out, watching as the rain poured down from the sky. The wind was cold as it blew into his face, but he paid no mind as he continued to just sit there.

“Penny for your thoughts?” The question snapped him out of his thoughts, making him look up to you as you sat down next to him. “Unless you've actually got a coin, flark off” he spouts out, leaning away from you. He sighs almost dramatically when you pull out a penny from your pocket and offer it to him- “flarkin’ hell, did you actually just have that on you?”

“I knew you'd say that,” you reply, putting the penny into his lap “you've become predictable, Rocketeer.” Leaning back on your hands you cross your legs and watch the rain fall with him. “Me? Predictable? Oh please” Rocket scoffed, waving his hand before picking up the penny and examining it. Silence set in between the two of you, the rain being filler for anything that could possibly be said.

Rocket tossed the coin back to you, raising an eyebrow when you quickly caught it instead of having it hit you in the head and make you fumble like he thought. “So why'd you come out here? Couldn't resist my charm or somethin’?” He teased, nudging your arm with his. “Oh, right. Dinner’s almost ready.”

“That's it?” He questioned, looking up at you with an oddly confused face, “you came out here just to tell me you've made food?” there's a pause, “well, yeah, I wanted to make sure you got some first- you know how much Quill eats, best to get some before him” you chuckle at your own statement about Peter, Rocket joining in with a breathy laugh.

“Yeah, that's true.” He agrees, standing up and moving to stand on the top step of the porch. “What'd you make anyways?”

You turned and grabbed his face, pulling it down to place a big fat kiss on the very top of his head, letting go soon after to stand up yourself and turn to go back inside the house. “What the flark! Dude, not cool” Rocket complained, standing on the porch for a moment before chasing you inside, “and what'd you make!”

Wanda stared down at you, watching as you laid on the floor almost lifelessly if it wasn't for your head moving from side to side and complaining about your job.

“You should've heard him, Wanda! He told me to get it all done by Thursday!” You cried out, your arms raising to cover your face, “Thursday! Even Friday would've been nice.” With a dramatic sigh, your arms fall back to the floor with a thud.

Crouching down and moving to sit on her knees, she brushed hair away from your face and watched it fall. “Sounds very rough, dear” she says, and while she sounds pretty monotone you know she's being sympathetic over your painful boss. Her words bring you comfort, the understanding she offers makes you feel warm in the chest as you let out a deep breath you were definitely holding in. “Yeah”, you mutter back.

Your hand comes up and reaches out, palm to her awaiting. It's obvious what you want, and she obliges, putting her hand on top of yours to hold as she shifts to sit next to you. Her legs are on one side, she's half resting on one of her calves. Ever so gently, her free hand lifts your head and maneuvers you to have your head resting on her lap- her hand staying on your head and brushing your hair back into her.

“Anything I can help with?” She whispers, looking down at you as you bring her hand holding yours to her chest, to simply lie there. The rise and fall caused by your breath was a steady rhythm, which she liked.

“Just this.” You replied, looking up at her with a smile, turning your head gently to lean in her arms. A hum of approval was all she gave you.

The two of you sat like this for a while- even though both knew how uncomfortable the position was for the other, neither said a word, too scared to break the peace.

It was a surprise when she leaned down and pressed a kiss to your chin- a miscalculation on her part- before pulling back and going in for another kiss, actually planting it on your lips this time as intended.

“I love you,” she said, cutting you off before you could respond with more “my back hurts, mayhaps we could move to a more comfortable place?” she asks, though it was more of a suggestion - one that you could get behind. “Perhaps the couch, or maybe our bed, hm?” Her hum at the end only sweetened the deal- This was something you could get behind.

The rain pitter pattered against the windows, New York rain wasn't uncommon- just untalked about. You stood in the kitchen and watched the raindrops run down the window next to the fridge, taking a swig from your mug every few moments. It was a comfortable silence.

That was until the thud of footsteps interrupted, his bare feet stepping on the hardwood floors of your apartment- the yawn he let out was a knife cutting through the silence. He scratched at himself under the shirt he wore, groggily looking at you from across the room. “Morning” he let out another yawn halfway through.

You smile over at him, setting down your cup and leaning against the counter. “It's almost noon.” You corrected him, watching as he blinked slowly and just stood halfway in your living room.

“No,” he said before elaborating “I just woke up. That means it's morning.” The way he said it was so matter of fact-ly, walking over around the kitchen counter and coming up behind you. He wrapped his arms around you and rested his head on the back of your neck- snuggling in like a cat would.

Nodding slowly, you rested a hand on his. “So that's how it works” you feigned understandment in a teasing way, rubbing your thumb over the back of his hand. “Yep, little do you know, I also have the power to control time.” He said, laughing at his own dumb statement.

“Really?” You turn your head to look at him, though you only see the top of his head, “The more I learn about you, Peter.” Both of you silently chuckled at how ridiculous it was, him lifting his head to look up at you a little.

Slowly, his hands grab your shirt and turn you around so you face him. Your back is now against the counter, his arms still around you as you both look at each other with loving eyes. “Good morning, then” you say before pressing a kiss to his lips, it was simple but filled with love.

“Morning” he repeats, leaning in for another kiss.

Tippy Toe sat on a pillowed chair, watching the TV that played some random show on one of the millions of streaming services you owned. Doreen sat huddled in your arm, hers wrapping around yours, her full weight practically on your side.

“Wait, so he doesn't love her?” Doreen asked, subconsciously her hand moving to rest higher on your side. “Doesn't seem like it.” You answered her question, ruffling her hair gently while your other hand fiddled with the remote to play the next episode.

She lets out a frustrated huff, “well I can't see how anyone would do that.” you glanced over at her, letting out an ‘oh?’ to question her. “Not loving someone you're dating, absolutely absurd!” She complains, raising a hand to point at the guy that was the topic of your discussion as the episode recap played.

“Yeah,” you agreed, pulling her close “I can't either.” She looks up at you with a bright smile. “I know you can't resist my pretty squirrel charm” she says with pride, pushing up more against you as her tail comes to wrap closer to you.

“I certainly can't” you said back, leaning down to peck at her cheek, pulling back to skip the show intro. Though she wasn't satisfied with that, moving to grab the neck of your shirt and pulled you down so she could get another kiss. Her lips met yours in a playful kiss.

The two of you sat like that for a bit, simply enjoying the others embrace and the kiss. But then the two of you pulled away with smiles, Doreen going back to resting on you.

“Wait, rewind, we totally just missed something important.”

-----

Tag list!!

@ihrtsamwinchester

@ghost-candyyy

@fun-k-boards

[echoes-of-a-dream]

matthew "matt" murdock | daredevil

back to mcu masterlist

ONE-SHOTS

mini-me

a slice-of-life of mom!reader x dad!matt, in which matt has two new favorite superheros, even if they do attack him, figures out parenting, and can't quite keep his hands off you.

marriage of genuine fradulence

you and matt have been best friends since being raised at st. agnes together, since he beat up a bully for you. now, you work for him at nelson & murdock. but when matt is framed for a crime, and you're the only witness, and there's no way you can give your testimony in a way that both exonerates him and keeps his vigilantism safe... there's one solution anyone can come up with: marital privilege. the only way to keep you from having to testify and matt from prison? marriage.

tatted up, tied down | 18+

you really can't be blamed for what you're doing. if you were in a court of law, you'd plead insanity and win, because really, it's not your fault. it's your husband's, coming home with a new tattoo when he knows what it does to you. but judging by the smirk on his face, he doesn't mind the reaction at all, the smug bastard. which is when you decide to wipe that stupid expression off for good.

ONE-SHOT SERIES

like father, like lover (aka: daddy issues 101) | bruce wayne's daughter reader

if you're being incredibly honest, you have absolutely no idea how you ended up here, in a different world, where the heroes are different and vigilantism is... illegal? and entirely unstructured? the closest this world has to the jla is the avengers, some group that you have a gut feeling is about to go down the toilet, and you've never been so disappointed to be proven right. luckily, there's a brightside, a law firm you've started working with where one of the partners is really cute. and knowing your luck, also a vigilante or something. once again, you've never been so disappointed to be proven right.

BOOKS

for richer or for poorer | wilson fisk's daughter reader

(loosely based on the broadway musical "newsies") in the days of the gilded age, trusts, bosses, and political corruption rule new york city. wilson fisk resides at the top of the pile and doesn't appear that he will come crashing down any time soon. but matt murdock, aka daredevil has had enough of his city being destroyed and the people in it trampled on. so he decides to do something about it. lucky for him, he has an in--someone who is equally as passionate about changing the status quo: wilson fisk's daughter, you.

blind instinct

when you find matt unconscious and bleeding out, your instinct is to take him to the e.r.: good instinct. when they won’t release information on his condition to anyone outside of kin, you lie and say you’re his wife: bad instinct. when matt wakes up from surgery with amnesia, believing when the doctors say you’re married, you play along to keep him safe: you don’t even know how to categorize that one.

the skeletons in my closet, they're resurrecting | wilson fisk's daughter reader

you have been running from your past from as far back as you remember; you want to be something good, something better than how you were raised, want to block out the part of you that's bloodthirsty and ruthless and choke it out of you. but when your father comes knocking, you are unaware of just how much you'll be pulled to the middle of a battle between your closest friends and your closet skeletons.

BOOK SERIES

legally blind ‘verse | mcu!peter parker’s sister reader

(legally blond au, with a sequel and a prequel) reader, the daughter of richard parker and half-sister of peter parker, has always been a little too stubborn for her own good, held on to things a little too tightly. so when her boyfriend tells her he’s done with her, because she isn’t ‘serious’ enough, well… parkers don’t give up. so clearly, the only logical option is to completely deviate from her career plan leading up to this point and go to law school to get him back. and probably fall in love with the cute defense lawyer interning for her professor landman. wait, what?

[erinwantstowrite]

Opinions on Jason Todd being the multiversal equivalent to Uncle Ben 👀

i see the appeal, but i don't like it personally. they're just two fundamentally different characters now that i can't equivalate them with each other. maybe i could see the tie in with the both of them dying tragically? furthering the plot for another character? but at the same time, that'd make universal equivalents for millions of characters

[awhoreintheory]

I swear I check the Dick Grayson is Richard Parker tag on AO3 every other day to make sure I don't miss a single one, and yes, so many are so new!! God, the ones with Jason being Ben particularly crush me bc Peter can barely remember his dad, but Ben? Ben raised him, made him Spider-Man in a way. Screaming at the walls over here.

Anyway, I can see Spidey pulling a quad somersault before anyone knows who he is and Tim ripping his hair out trying to find out who in the hell that is because that's- that's a flying Grayson right there, what the fuccck

I have the tag (and all it's variants) favorited!! I check it every day and immediately book mark every new fic. They're getting so much spice now too. Ben being Jason's alternate?? Hits SO nicely. It's like getting repeatedly gut punched. I love it.

Peter doesn't really remember his parents, and sure, he misses them, but Uncle Ben and Aunt May raised him. Ben's the one who made sure Peter kept his morals and his mind straight, even if he didn't know about his powers. And then imagine just seeing this guy who LOOKS like your uncle, just younger, and what? Not follow him around like a lost puppy? Or avoid him like the plague. (Depends on the fic tbh)

And YES!!! Peter, as spider-man is the very important part, doing The quad summersault (yknow, the thing the Flyign Graysons got famous for because they were the only people who could do it) (and no, Tim asked Dick, and he hasn't taught or met anyone capable of pulling it off) obviously, this makes the entire family tweak

But. But also imagine. Peter, in civvies, pulling a quad summersault and just like how Tim figured out Robin was Dick because of that move, figures out Spider-man is Peter because of the quad summersault, like???

[pearlypegs]

Spider-Man, Scarlet Witch, and Batman!

So I noticed that my initial post abt this fic where I mention how I’d like to read other fics like mines got a little attention here on tumblr. Soo I might as well give them a full rundown of what I mixed together!

So we all love Dark Matter, Lazarus Peter, infinity stones, Dr Strange, etc. but we are sorely lacking The Scarlet Witch!

Ok first, this takes place a month after No Way Home! And follows along to Multiverse of Madness!

So we have a corrupted Wanda, grieving her lost husband and kids.

And we have a forgotten Peter, also grieving Aunt May and not just losing his friends but the Avengers and anyone else he could’ve called family!

Both are distant from the Avengers and are left isolated in their grief.

Let’s use that!!

Wanda pops into Peter’s room for a visit, they talk a bit before Peter realizes that she remembers him!

She blocked the memory spell, which is also how she found out what happened. She gives him an offer no normal person could refuse.

They can both go to another reality where they would no longer have to grieve over those that they have lost.

She asks him to go first, to find her twins and keep them safe. As a magic user herself, she needs to be careful abt alternate realities. How does chaos magic work with a reality that might have different rules on magic?

Even then, Peter hesitates. This is his punishment, with great power comes great responsibility. This is what he deserves,

Wanda only sees it as self destructive, she has no problem removing that issue herself.

With the help of a little magic, Peter agrees.

This is where it all begins.

He falls through the portal and land in the arms of his father, Nightwing aka Dick Grayson. The alternate version of Richard Parker.

We follow Peter as he navigates Gotham and her bats. But bats aren’t the only spooky creature of the night, looks like our spider will fit right in.

And thus, we have The Spider, The Witch, and The Bat

There’s going to be action, mystery, angst, and love? Some found family and new friends! But also new enemies and new problems! How will the vigilantes of Gotham react? What will they uncover? And what can they do to stop it?

[thebeesareback]

I just finished the audio book for Donna Tartt's novel The Secret History, so naturally I had to have a lil scroll to see what everyone thought on Tumblr. To add to the discourse: (spoilers, obviously)

Also trigger warning: incest, abuse, murder, alcoholism

Why is Tumblr so in love with Henry Winter?! He murders the farmer, Bunny, and possibly tries to kill Charles. He's manipulative and may well try to make Richard take the fall (har har) for Bunny's death. In the garden scene, he admits to being a psychopath/sociopath. Oh, and he's unbelievably pretentious

Also, why are there so many cute pictures of the twins hanging out? Their relationship was strained, incestuous, co-dependent, abusive. The whole uwu thing baffles me

Richard has a very obvious foot fetish and nobody is talking about it

The novel is quite funny, and I wish more people picked up on that. Most of the humour comes from Francis - the pinz nez stays ON during sex; no, Bunny's parents weren't very upset when one of their grandchildren ruined Francis' scarf, they were preoccupied by their missing son; and there's a throwaway line where the art students eat sushi with paintbrushes instead of chopsticks. I also liked when the twins panicked after Bunny's murder and decided to start repotting tulips

The farmer is referred to by name twice. Once in a newspaper, once by Bunny. Strange to think that he's the person in the squad who might actually have a conscience. Incidentally, Milo, the golden retriever who finds Bunny's body, has his name mentioned more frequently.

Richard is a smelly, badly dressed misanthrope. As is Henry, and Charles towards the end. Francis, Camilla and Hampden itself provide the (admittedly gorgeous) dark academia aesthetic, but if you want to end that dream, remember how terrible everything would have smelled. I guess the difference between appearance and reality is a pretty big theme

Julian is very creepy, obviously, but I was surprised that he wasn't more involved in the plot. He seems like exactly the sort of person to start a cult. I'd also like to know if he and Henry were in a sexual relationship, because we see them kiss once and then it's never mentioned again

Foreshadowing is done EXCELLENTLY through the book. There were a few characters who were described as ghostly at the start, and I THINK they're the ones who survive. Also, Tartt loves her pathetic fallacy (not phallusy).

Time is very strange. If you bothered to plot out all of the events, I don't think it quite makes sense. Term starts in September, say Richard joins Julian's classes in early October? That means all the picnics, the Sunday walks with Bunny, the trips to Francis' house, all happen over about five weeks, leading to the 12th November when Charles, Henry and Francis kill the farmer. Unreliable narrator, I guess

A lot of things about Richard's character make more sense when you realise the abuse he grew up experiencing and witnessing. Poor Ms Papen. Odd that Richard's parents don't visit him when he's in hospital

Funny that everyone is surprised when the twins' incest comes out. Like, they had an orgy at the start of the baccanal. Call me a prude, but I wouldn't attend an orgy with a family member

I would go for girls' night with Judy Poovey

Also, the book was published in 1992. Does anyone know when Prince Charles and Camila Parker Bowles went public with their relationship? Seems like an unbelievable coincidence otherwise

If anyone has an actual criteria for identifying alcohol abuse/alcoholism, please lmk if any of the main six characters AREN'T alcoholics. I'm pretty sure I got liver cirrhosis and lung cancer just from reading this book

[urdreamydoodles]

MARVEL COMICS CHARACTERS X FEM!READER

Your childhood was abusive, which caused you to have PTSD and your lover helps you through it

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

Please read with caution ♡

Peter Parker (Spider-Man)

- Peter had always been perceptive, but he knew better than anyone how wounds could be hidden beneath easy smiles. He saw it in the way your body tensed at raised voices, how your fingers curled too tightly into the fabric of your sleeves when a door slammed too hard. He never pressed, never pried. He just let you be, offering his presence as a quiet, unwavering shelter.

- The first time he saw you flinch—really flinch—was when he’d accidentally knocked a stack of books off his desk. The sound had sent you back to something far away, something dark. He saw it in the way your breath hitched, in the glassy sheen of your eyes. And without a word, Peter had just… sat down. Cross-legged on the floor, keeping his movements slow, his voice soft as he said, "You’re safe. Right here, right now—you’re safe."

- Patience was something Peter knew intimately, and he carried it into every touch, every kiss, every moment spent tangled in the sanctuary of his arms. He never reached for you without warning, never raised his voice in anger. The world could be loud, but Peter? Peter was a whisper, a steady heartbeat against your ear, a warm presence always willing to meet you where you needed him.

- And God help anyone who reminded you of your past. The first time someone tried to tear into your scars with cruel words, Peter had them webbed to a streetlamp before they could blink. "People like you? You’re nothing," he said, voice calm but cold, a sharp contrast to the warmth he always gave you. Because Peter would take any punch for you—but he would never let anyone hurt you again.

- At night, when nightmares curled around your throat like smoke, he would hold you through it. His lips would press against your forehead, murmuring soft reassurances, his fingers tracing absent patterns into your skin. "You don��t have to be strong right now," he would whisper. "I’ve got you. I’ll always have you."

Tony Stark (Iron Man)

- Tony had seen trauma in every shape and shade, had felt it crawl beneath his own skin like a second heartbeat. But the first time he saw it in you, it wrecked him. The way you shrank at a raised voice, the way your entire body locked up at the sound of breaking glass. The realization hit him like a freight train—you hadn’t just survived something terrible. You had lived in it.

- He changed after that. Subtly, at first. No more slamming doors, no more snapping at employees. His hands stopped hovering near yours and instead waited, patient and steady, for you to reach first. His voice was softer around you, his movements slower. He was a storm everywhere else—but with you? He was the calm.

- But the world wasn’t always gentle, and Tony Stark was not a man who forgave cruelty. When someone thought it was funny to push your limits, to test your reactions, Tony didn’t even raise his voice. He just smiled—sharp, cold, terrifying. The next day, that person lost everything. Their job. Their reputation. Their place in the world. "No one touches what’s mine," he told you later, brushing a hand through your hair. "No one."

- Tony had never been one for sleep, but after learning the weight of your nightmares, he never left you alone in the dark. His arms became your haven, his heartbeat a rhythm you could anchor yourself to. And when you couldn’t speak, when the memories were too thick, he would simply pull you close and say, "It’s okay. You don’t have to explain. Just breathe with me."

- You weren’t broken. He never saw you that way. You were a masterpiece with fractures, and Tony—Tony had always loved things that had lived, things that had survived. He traced his fingers over your scars like they were constellations, pressing kisses to the places that once held pain, as if rewriting history with every touch. "They don’t own you anymore," he murmured one night, lips against your temple. "Only you do. Only you ever will."

Steve Rogers (Captain America)

- Steve was gentle by nature, but after he learned the truth—after he saw the weight you carried—he became something else entirely. He became careful. Every touch was preceded by a quiet "May I?", every movement slowed until he was sure you felt safe. The world had been unkind to you, but Steve Rogers would never be.

- The first time you flinched at his raised voice, he looked wrecked. He had only been arguing with Sam, nothing serious—but when he turned and saw the way your shoulders curled inward, the way your breath stuttered—his heart broke. That night, he held you without a word, just pressing soft kisses to your hair, silently promising to never let his anger touch you.

- He carried your pain like it was his own. When he saw bruises on others, when he heard whispers of children suffering at the hands of those meant to protect them—he acted. His fists never wavered when thrown in the name of justice, but when it came to you, his hands were only ever soft.

- Steve had always been a shield before a sword, and with you, that never changed. He positioned himself between you and the world’s cruelty, standing firm against anything—or anyone—who thought they had the right to hurt you. "No more," he told you one evening, his blue eyes burning with something fierce, something unyielding. "No one will ever lay a hand on you again. Not while I’m here."

- He became your home. Not just in the way he held you, but in the way he stayed. When you woke up gasping from nightmares, when you couldn’t find the words for what hurt, Steve was simply there. His hands traced slow, soothing circles into your back, his voice a steady hum of comfort. "You’re not alone," he whispered against your skin. "You’ll never be alone again."

Thor

- Thor had never known restraint. He loved fully, existed loudly, and wielded his presence like the storm that bore him. But the first time he saw you recoil, saw the way shadows swallowed the light in your eyes at the wrong tone, the wrong movement—he stilled. For you, he would quiet the thunder.

- He learned to approach you with care, to temper his strength into something softer. "You are safe, my love," he told you often, his voice as steady as the earth beneath your feet. When others forgot, when the world was careless, Thor remembered. Every sharp sound was met with his immediate presence, his hands warm and grounding against yours.

- But the storm did not vanish—it was merely redirected. The first time someone sneered at your trauma, dismissed the things you had suffered, lightning cracked the sky. Thor did not raise his voice—he did not need to. He simply looked at them, eyes dark with a promise of wrath, and they crumbled. "You will speak no more," he commanded, and the heavens listened.

- At night, when the weight of the past crept in, Thor would wrap himself around you like an unshakable fortress. His fingers traced the curve of your spine, his lips pressing warmth into your hair. "Breathe with me, beloved," he would murmur, his heartbeat steady and unyielding against your own. "Feel the steadiness of my soul, the certainty of my love. You are here, in my arms, and I shall never let harm befall you again."

- Thor did not see you as fragile—he saw you as enduring. He did not mourn your scars, did not pity your past. Instead, he celebrated you, worshipped the strength it took to survive. "You are mighty," he whispered one night, pressing a reverent kiss to your palm. "Mightier than even I. And I shall spend every day proving to you that you are worthy of love."

Loki

- Loki was not a man who shied away from darkness. He had lived in its embrace, had let it carve itself into his soul, twisting and shifting until it was impossible to tell where the wounds ended and where he began. So when he saw the way you flinched at raised voices, the way your breath hitched when hands moved too fast, he did not ask questions. He simply understood.

- He moved differently around you—not out of pity, but out of respect. His steps were quieter, his gestures slower, his voice a low, soothing thing instead of the sharp-edged blade it usually was. He never forced you to speak of your past, never pressed when he saw the weight in your eyes. He simply let you be, allowing you to come to him when you were ready.

- But Loki was still Loki, and he was vengeful in the way he loved you. He kept a careful tally of those who mistreated you, of those who so much as sneered at the pain you had endured. And when the moment was right, when their own sins came to collect, he ensured they suffered. He never told you, never admitted the reason for his sudden, pleased smirks—but the air always smelled of satisfaction after your ghosts disappeared.

- When nightmares curled their fingers around your throat, when sleep was stolen by memories of cruelty, he was there. He would whisper to you in languages older than time, his voice an anchor in the storm. And when you couldn’t bear to be held, he would simply sit beside you, a silent sentinel against the ghosts that dared haunt you.

- "They will never touch you again," he told you once, fingers tracing slow patterns along your wrist. "You belong to no one. No gods, no mortals, no past. You are yours, and I will burn the world before I let them steal even a whisper of you."

Clint Barton (Hawkeye)

- Clint had never been one for loud spaces, had never been the type to fill silences just to hear himself speak. He noticed things—the way you tensed when voices rose, the way your hands clenched when something moved too fast, too sudden. He saw it all, but he never made you feel watched. Instead, he made sure you felt safe.

- He adapted without hesitation. Doors never slammed, footsteps never came without warning. When arguments brewed, he kept his voice steady, calm, even when frustration burned in his chest. He knew what it was like to grow up under a heavy hand, to flinch before the pain even came. And if he could make sure you never felt that way around him, he would.

- But God help anyone who reminded you of your past. Clint might not have been as openly vengeful as others, but he had his own ways of handling things. A carefully placed arrow, a reputation ruined in the right circles—silent, subtle, but effective. And when he returned home, when he climbed into bed beside you, he never told you what he had done. He just pulled you close, letting you rest against the steady rhythm of his heart.

- The first time he caught you in the grips of a panic attack, he didn’t speak. He didn’t try to fix it, didn’t try to force you into comfort. He simply sat with you, close enough that you knew you weren’t alone, but never too close, never pushing. And when your breathing finally steadied, when the world no longer felt like it was closing in, he simply murmured, "Atta girl. I knew you’d find your way back."

- Clint wasn’t good with words, wasn’t good with grand declarations—but in every action, in every careful movement, he told you what you meant to him. And when you doubted yourself, when the past clawed its way to the surface, he would only shake his head, lean in, and press a kiss to your temple. "You’re tougher than all of them," he’d whisper. "And I’ve got your back. Always."

Natasha Romanoff (Black Widow)

- Natasha recognized the signs before you even knew she had noticed. The way you stiffened at the wrong tone, the way your body seemed to shrink in on itself at sudden movements. She had lived it—had felt it in every sharp order, every bruising lesson drilled into her bones. She didn’t need to ask. She just knew.

- She adjusted without hesitation. She never moved too quickly around you, never raised her voice when emotions ran high. If she was angry, she stepped away. If you were overwhelmed, she gave you space—but never too much. Just enough to breathe, just enough to know she was still there, waiting, steady.

- But when it came to those who had hurt you—those who had carved fear into your very skin—Natasha was not merciful. She did not believe in forgiveness, not for them. She was quiet in her vengeance, unseen and unknown, but when she returned, when she curled up beside you at night, there was a peace in her that hadn’t been there before. A satisfaction that told you she had made sure they would never haunt you again.

- She never pushed you to talk, never forced you to relive what had already scarred you. But when you were ready, when the words finally slipped from your lips in a trembling whisper, she listened. And when the silence stretched between you, heavy and raw, she simply reached out, tracing slow, deliberate circles against your wrist. "They don’t get to win," she said, voice steady. "You do. You already have."

- Natasha wasn’t one for flowery words or grand gestures, but she made sure you knew. Knew that you were safe, that you were hers, and that nothing—nothing—would ever touch you again. And in the quiet moments, when the past felt like a weight you couldn’t escape, she would press a kiss to your shoulder and whisper, "No one owns you anymore. No one ever will."

Bucky Barnes (Winter Soldier)

- Bucky knew trauma. Knew it like the back of his hand, like the weight of a metal limb that wasn’t his to choose. He saw it in you, saw the way your body locked up at the wrong sounds, the wrong movements. And he didn’t just understand it—he felt it. Deep in his bones, in the echoes of his own past.

- He was careful with you in a way he hadn’t been with anyone else. His movements were always slow, deliberate. He never reached for you unless you reached first. Never raised his voice, never let frustration color his tone when he knew it would hurt more than help. He knew how it felt to be afraid of something you couldn’t control, and he would be damned if he ever became one of those things for you.

- But Bucky was not a forgiving man when it came to those who had made you this way. He didn’t rage, didn’t storm—he simply acted. No words, no threats, just quiet, methodical destruction. And when he came back, when he curled his body around yours at night, he never told you what he had done. He just kissed your hair and whispered, "They won’t bother you anymore."

- When you woke up gasping from nightmares, when panic had its claws around your throat, Bucky didn’t try to fix it. He just stayed. He let you grip his shirt, let you shake in his arms until the storm passed. And when words finally found you, when you whispered apologies into his chest, he only shook his head and murmured, "You don’t have to say sorry. Not to me. Never to me."

- Bucky didn’t promise that the past wouldn’t hurt anymore—he knew better than that. But he did promise that you wouldn’t have to face it alone. That you would never be trapped in it again. And when the memories threatened to drown you, when the fear clawed its way back, he would hold you tighter and remind you, "You survived them. You beat them. And I’ll spend the rest of my life making sure they never touch you again."

Matthew Murdock (Daredevil)

- Matthew was a man who carried his own ghosts. He understood pain, not just in theory but in the way it etched itself into bones, the way it lingered in the spaces between breaths. He didn’t need to see your wounds to know they were there—he could hear them in the tremor of your voice, feel them in the way your heartbeat stuttered when voices were raised. He never asked. He simply knew.

- He adjusted to you the way he adjusted to the city—effortlessly, instinctively. His movements became softer, more deliberate. He never reached for you without warning, never let his own temper boil over into something you might mistake for danger. Even when he was furious—when justice burned in his chest like a second heartbeat—he kept his voice steady, kept his presence calm. He refused to let anything make you feel unsafe.

- But Matt was not a man who tolerated cruelty. He had seen too much of it in his lifetime, and he would not abide it in yours. If there was anyone who still haunted you, anyone who had left scars on your soul, they would not last long in Hell’s Kitchen. The city had a way of swallowing people like that—of making them disappear in the dead of night. Matt never admitted to it, but the satisfaction in his silence told you all you needed to know.

- When nightmares clutched at you, when memories turned your breath ragged and your body rigid, Matt did not rush you. He did not drown you in empty reassurances. He simply stayed. His hands—calloused, steady—would find yours, grounding you. And when you could finally breathe again, when the world stopped spinning, he would murmur, "You’re not there anymore. You’re here. With me."

- Matthew did not offer false promises. He did not tell you that the past would stop hurting or that the fear would vanish overnight. But he did promise you this—that you were his, and no force in heaven or hell would ever harm you again. And when the city whispered threats in the dark, when shadows from your past tried to creep back in, he would remind them, in blood and bruises, that Daredevil does not forgive.

Frank Castle (Punisher)

- Frank was not a man of gentle words. He was not soft, not delicate, but he was careful. With you, at least. The first time he saw you flinch at a raised voice, the first time you recoiled from a sudden movement, something in him snapped. He had known cruelty before, had spent his life hunting the kind of people who inflicted it. And he knew—without you ever telling him—that someone had hurt you. Badly.

- He never asked for details. Never pushed you to talk. If you wanted to tell him, you would. Until then, all he needed to know was that it would never happen again. The first time he heard the name of someone who had hurt you, he disappeared for three days. When he came back, there was blood on his knuckles and peace in his eyes. He never said a word about it, and you never asked.

- Frank wasn’t good with emotions, wasn’t good at comfort. But he was good at protecting. He noticed your triggers, memorized them like a soldier memorizes an enemy’s weakness. He never slammed doors, never moved too fast around you, never let his anger spill into something reckless. His rage was a weapon, and he wielded it with precision.

- He was your shield when you needed it, your anchor when the past threatened to pull you under. When you woke up shaking, when memories made your hands tremble, he would simply pull you into his chest, let your fingers clutch at the fabric of his shirt. And when words failed you, when all you could do was breathe through the fear, he would murmur, "Ain't nobody touchin’ you again. Not while I’m breathin’."

- Frank Castle was a monster to the world—a nightmare wrapped in flesh. But to you, he was something else entirely. A protector. A force of nature that stood between you and the demons of your past. And when ghosts tried to return, when the world thought it could hurt you again, Frank reminded them, in blood and fire, that The Punisher doesn’t forgive. And he doesn’t forget.

Bullseye (Lester)

- Bullseye was not a good man. He had never been a good man, and he never pretended otherwise. But when he saw the way you flinched at raised voices, the way you anticipated pain before it ever came, something inside him twisted. He recognized that fear. He had been the one causing it most of his life. But he wasn’t them. He wasn’t the bastards who had hurt you. And he’d make damn sure you knew that.

- He changed for you—not in a way that made him soft, not in a way that stripped him of the sharp edges that made him him, but in a way that mattered. He learned your triggers, memorized them like a game he refused to lose. He didn’t raise his voice around you, didn’t move too fast unless he wanted you to see it coming. Control was everything to him, and he exercised it for you.

- But he was still Bullseye. Still sadistic, still twisted in the way he loved. He didn’t just hate the people who had hurt you—he hunted them. It wasn’t about justice. It wasn’t about morality. It was about fun. And there was nothing more satisfying than making monsters feel like prey. He never told you what he did, but the way he smirked when he came home, the way he wiped blood off his hands with a satisfied sigh—it was enough.

- He wasn’t good at comfort, wasn’t good at softness. But when you woke up shaking, when the past crawled up your throat like poison, he didn’t mock you. He didn’t push you away. He just pulled you into his lap, let you cling to him until the tremors stopped. And when you finally looked at him, vulnerable and raw, he would grin, tilt your chin up, and say, "I don’t care how broken you think you are, sweetheart. You’re still mine. And I take care of what’s mine."

- Bullseye was chaos incarnate, a storm with no mercy. But for you, he was something else. Still dangerous, still unpredictable—but yours. And if the past ever came knocking, if the people who had hurt you ever dared to crawl out of the shadows, they wouldn’t last long. Because Bullseye didn’t just protect what he loved—he destroyed anything that threatened it.

Marc Spector (Moon Knight)

- Marc was haunted long before he met you. He carried ghosts in his skin, blood on his hands. He was a man split in three, a storm constantly raging beneath the surface. But when he saw the fear in your eyes, the way you recoiled from sudden movement, something inside him settled. He knew pain when he saw it. And he knew how to handle it.

- He adapted instantly. He didn’t raise his voice, didn’t make any sudden movements around you unless he warned you first. He made sure you always knew it was him—whispered your name before entering a room, let you see his hands before reaching for you. He knew what it was like to live on edge, to always expect the worst. He would never be a source of that for you.

- But Marc was not a merciful man. When he learned the truth—when he learned about the people who had made you this way—his entire body stilled. And then, with a terrifying calm, he asked for names. He didn’t yell. He didn’t rage. He simply disappeared that night, and when he came back, there was no more past to haunt you. Only silence. Only peace.

- He didn’t push you to talk, didn’t force you to relive the worst of it. But when the pain overwhelmed you, when you woke up gasping for breath, he was there. He would hold you if you let him, would whisper reassurances against your hair. And when you finally settled, when your breathing evened out, he would kiss your temple and murmur, "They don’t get to hurt you anymore. Not while I’m here."

- Marc Spector was a man of war, a man built for violence. But with you, he was something else. He was safety. He was home. And if the world ever tried to take that from you again, it would learn—painfully, brutally—that Moon Knight does not forgive. And he does not forget.

Taskmaster (Tony Masters)

- Taskmaster had spent his life among the worst of humanity. He had trained murderers, killers, people who saw life as nothing more than a transaction. He didn’t consider himself a good man—never had, never would—but when he learned about what had been done to you, something in him twisted. He had never been one for justice, but vengeance? That, he understood. That, he thrived on.

- He noticed your triggers before you ever spoke about them. The way your breath hitched when someone raised their voice, the way your body tensed at sudden movements. He wasn’t the kind of man who asked questions—he didn’t need to. Instead, he adapted. His voice never rose around you, his movements became deliberate, controlled. The world saw him as unpredictable, but around you, he was calculated. He would never be something you feared.

- He was possessive, territorial in a way that most people would find terrifying. But with you, it was different. It wasn’t just about having you—it was about protecting you. When he found out who had hurt you, they simply ceased to exist. There was no spectacle, no grand revenge plan. Just silence. Just a quiet, efficient elimination. And when he returned to you, wiping blood off his gloves, all he said was, "They won’t bother you anymore."

- Taskmaster wasn’t good with words, wasn’t good with comfort. But he was good at making sure you knew you were safe. When the nightmares hit, when memories turned your breath ragged, he wouldn’t drown you in reassurances. He’d simply pull you into his lap, let you press your face against his chest, his body a solid, unshakable presence against your trembling form. And when you could finally breathe again, he would murmur, "Ain't nobody touchin’ what’s mine. Not ever again."

- He was a weapon, a killer, a ghost that haunted the criminal underworld. But to you, he was something else. Not soft, not gentle—but yours. And if the world ever tried to touch you again, to drag you back into the hell you had escaped, Taskmaster would remind them—painfully, mercilessly—that Tony Masters does not forgive.

Johnny Storm (Human Torch)

- Johnny had never known real fear—not the kind that lived in bones, in breath, in the spaces between heartbeats. He had been reckless his entire life, unafraid, untouchable. But when he saw the way you flinched at raised voices, the way your body froze when anger crackled too close, it hit him. Hard. You weren’t just sensitive. You had been hurt.

- He didn’t know how to deal with that at first. He was loud, animated, a storm of energy and fire. But for you, he learned to temper himself. He kept his voice light, playful, never sharp. He warned you before he moved too fast, before his hands reached for you. It wasn’t something he did consciously—he just wanted to make you feel safe.

- But Johnny was also angry. Not at you, never at you, but at the people who had made you this way. He wasn’t violent—not like some of the others in your life—but if he ever saw the ones who had hurt you, he wouldn’t hesitate to burn their lives to the ground. Not physically, maybe, but socially, financially? He’d ruin them with a smile, make sure they lost everything.

- He didn’t always know what to do when the past clawed at you, when memories turned your nights into something unbearable. But he stayed. He cracked stupid jokes, let you curl into his warmth, let his fire chase away the cold that lingered in your bones. And when words failed him, when all he could do was be there, he would press a kiss to your forehead and whisper, "You got me, babe. You’ll always have me."

- Johnny was reckless, wild, untamed. But when it came to you, he was something else. Steady. Safe. And if anyone thought they could hurt you again, if the past ever came crawling back, they would learn the hard way that the Human Torch burns hotter than any hell they’ve ever known.

Reed Richards (Mister Fantastic)

- Reed was a man of logic, of science, of equations and solutions. But there was no equation for the way your breath hitched at loud voices, no formula for the way your body braced for impact when someone moved too quickly. He noticed it all, memorized the patterns, the reactions. And it wrecked him to realize why.

- He approached it the way he approached everything else—with patience, with precision. He never made you feel like an experiment, never made you feel studied. But he adapted. His voice never rose in anger, his movements were controlled, calculated. If he noticed you shrinking away, he would slow, give you space. He would never be something you feared.

- But Reed was also furious. He wasn’t a violent man, wasn’t someone who solved problems with fists or fire. But he was powerful. And when he found out who had hurt you, he destroyed them in the way only he could—legally, financially, socially. They lost their jobs, their reputations, their entire existences. And it was done so subtly, so flawlessly, that they never even knew why their world was falling apart.

- He wasn’t always good with emotions, wasn’t always good at comfort. But when you broke, when the past pulled you under, he was there. He held you, let you cling to him, let you find solace in his steady, unwavering presence. And when the worst of it passed, when you could finally breathe again, he would cup your face in his hands and whisper, "You are not alone. You never will be again."

- Reed Richards was a scientist, a genius, a man who could reshape reality itself. But for you, he was something even greater. He was yours. And if the world ever tried to hurt you again, he would remind them—quietly, ruthlessly—that there is no escape from the mind of Mr. Fantastic.

Ben Grimm (The Thing)

- Ben Grimm had seen the worst of the world. He had felt the sting of rejection, the ache of knowing that no matter how much good he did, there would always be people who saw him as a monster. So when he learned about your past, when he realized the weight you carried, it wasn’t anger that filled him—not at you, never at you—but at the people who had made you this way. The people who had hurt you, who had made you flinch at loud voices and sudden movements, who had made you believe that love was something you had to earn.

- Ben was big—he knew that. He knew his size, his strength, could be intimidating. And so he was careful with you in ways most people wouldn’t expect. His movements around you were slower, more deliberate. He never raised his voice, never let frustration slip into his tone. If he ever had to yell, if the world pushed him to the point of shouting, he always made sure you weren’t in earshot. Because the last thing he ever wanted was to make you afraid of him.

- When the nightmares came, when the past wrapped its claws around your throat and dragged you back into the darkness, Ben was there. He didn’t say much—he knew words weren’t always enough—but he was steady. A wall of warmth and strength that you could lean against, could hide behind, could trust. And when the worst of it had passed, when you were left shaking and breathless, he would squeeze your hand and murmur, "Ain't nothin’ gonna hurt ya no more, sweetheart. Not while I’m here."

- But Ben was also fierce in his love. If he ever saw the people who had hurt you, if he ever had the chance to make them understand the damage they had done, he wouldn’t hesitate. He wasn’t a cruel man, wasn’t one for vengeance—but for you, for the love of his life, he would make an exception. They would know fear. They would pay. And if you ever worried about what he had done, about how far he was willing to go for you, he would simply shake his head and say, "Some people don’t deserve a second chance, doll. Some people just deserve a reminder of what it means to be small."

- Ben Grimm had been turned into a monster, but he had never been one. And when it came to you, when it came to keeping you safe, he was something else. A fortress. A protector. A love so unwavering it could withstand anything. And if the world ever tried to take you from him, if the past ever tried to claim you again, it would learn—The Thing doesn’t break. And he doesn’t let go.

Susan Storm (Invisible Woman)

- Susan had always been a shield, always been the one to stand between the people she loved and the things that threatened them. But when she learned about your past, when she realized the depth of your pain, she felt something she hadn’t in a long time—rage. Not the kind that burned hot and fast, not the kind that exploded outward, but the kind that simmered deep, the kind that settled into her bones and waited.

- She was gentle with you. Not because she thought you were fragile—no, she had seen your strength, had felt the resilience in your touch—but because she knew what it was like to carry a weight you couldn’t always put into words. She never pushed, never pried. But she watched. She learned your triggers, learned the small signs that meant you needed space or, conversely, that you needed her. And when you needed her, she was there—always.

- But Susan was not just a shield. She was also a weapon. And when she found out about the people who had hurt you, she didn’t hesitate. She erased them from your life, not just physically, but completely. She made sure they could never reach you again, never so much as whisper your name. She would never tell you what she had done—you had suffered enough. But if you ever asked, if you ever needed to know, she would take your hands in hers, look you in the eye, and say, "You never have to be afraid again."

- But beyond the protection, beyond the quiet, careful ways she ensured your safety, Susan loved you. And her love was soft. It was hands in your hair, arms wrapped around you in the quiet of the night. It was whispered reassurances, gentle smiles, the kind of tenderness that never asked for anything in return. She made you feel seen, made you feel wanted in a way you never had before. And if you ever doubted it, if the echoes of your past made you question your worth, she would cup your face in her hands and remind you—"You are not what they made you. You are mine."

- Susan Storm was many things. A hero, a leader, a woman who had faced more than most could ever understand. But when it came to you, she was something else. Unbreakable. Fierce. Yours. And if the past ever tried to take you from her, if the people who had hurt you ever resurfaced, they would learn the hard way that The Invisible Woman sees everything—and she does not forgive.

Felicia Hardy (Black Cat)

- Felicia had spent her life slipping through the cracks of the world, always one step ahead, always dancing between the lines of hero and villain. But with you, there was no game, no mask. When she learned about your past, when she saw the way you shrank from anger, the way your breath hitched at the wrong tone, something inside her snapped. Because she had spent her whole life taking from people—stealing from them—but you? You had only ever had things stolen from you. And that? That wasn’t something she could forgive.

- She didn’t change who she was, didn’t suddenly become soft and delicate. But she became careful. Her teasing turned more mindful, her touches more deliberate. She never made a move without your permission, never touched you unless she knew you wanted her to. And if you ever flinched, ever winced at something unintentional, she would stop in her tracks, hold her hands up, and wait. Not with impatience, not with frustration, but with the unwavering promise that she would always let you set the pace.

- But Felicia was still Felicia. And when she found out about the people who had hurt you, she hunted. Not for money, not for jewels, but for revenge. She made their lives hell, made them feel small. She didn’t kill—not because she wasn’t willing, but because she knew that some punishments were worse than death. When she was done, they were nothing. Just ghosts of the monsters they had once been. And if you ever asked, if you ever wondered why you never heard from them again, she would smirk and purr, "Oh, kitten, let’s just say karma has very sharp claws."

- But for all her fire, for all her wild, reckless energy, Felicia loved you in a way that was startlingly soft. It was the way she curled against you at night, the way she brushed her fingers through your hair absentmindedly, the way she looked at you like you were the most valuable thing in the world. And for someone who had spent her life chasing the thrill of the steal, she found that nothing compared to the way you whispered her name in the quiet.

- Felicia Hardy was not a hero. She was not safe, she was not predictable. But when it came to you, she was something else entirely. Devoted. Fierce. Unrelenting. And if the past ever tried to take you from her, if anyone dared to hurt you again, they would learn—The Black Cat does not share. And she never lets go.

Stephen Strange (Doctor Strange)

- Stephen was not a man easily shaken. He had seen horrors beyond imagination, had faced gods and monsters and lived to tell the tale. But when he saw the way you flinched at anger, the way your breath came too fast at sudden movement, he felt something inside him break. This? This was worse than any magic, worse than any curse. Because this was something human.

- He was not naturally gentle—not in the way others were. He was sharp, impatient, his mind always ten steps ahead. But with you, he learned. He softened his voice, measured his tone. He let you see his hands before he touched you, let you know where he was before he moved. He was deliberate in his care, never careless, never reckless.

- But he was also merciless. He did not tolerate those who harmed the innocent, and when he found out about your past, about the people who had made you this way—he acted. Not with violence, not with rage, but with something worse. A quiet, inescapable curse. A twist of fate that ensured they would never hurt anyone again.

- He wasn’t always great with comfort, wasn’t always great with words. But when the past gripped you too tightly, when you couldn’t breathe through the weight of it, he did what he did best—he protected. He cast wards around your mind, spells to soothe your fear. And when even magic wasn’t enough, he simply held you, his voice low and certain as he murmured, "You are safe. You are mine. And nothing will ever hurt you again."

- Stephen Strange was a sorcerer, a man who wielded the very fabric of the universe. But for you, he was something simpler—home. And if anyone thought they could take that from you, if the past ever dared to reclaim you, they would learn, in the most painful of ways, that Doctor Strange does not give second chances.

Namor

- Namor was not a gentle man. He was the ocean itself—vast, untamed, merciless when necessary. But when he learned of your past, when he realized the horrors you had endured at the hands of those who should have protected you, something inside him darkened. He had always known the cruelty of the surface world, had witnessed the rot that festered in its people, but to know that you—his beloved—had suffered beneath their hands? It ignited a rage deeper than the Mariana Trench.

- Yet, despite his nature, despite his storms, Namor was careful with you. He had never been one to temper himself for anyone, had never felt the need to soften his edges. But with you, he became something else. His voice, once sharp as the tridents he wielded, became measured in your presence. He moved with intention, never sudden, never careless. And if you flinched—if the ghosts of your past tried to drag you back—his hands would hover near but never touch, his eyes searching yours, waiting for permission. For you to reach for him.

- He did not speak empty reassurances, did not offer hollow words of comfort. Instead, he made promises. Promises backed by the weight of his throne, by the power of Atlantis itself. "No one will ever harm you again," he vowed, his voice like the tides—endless, absolute. "Not while I breathe. Not while I reign." And Namor was not a man who broke his vows. If he ever saw the ones who had hurt you, if they still drew breath, he would ensure that breath was stolen from their lungs, swallowed by the sea itself.

- But love with Namor was not only protection; it was devotion. It was the way he brought you to Atlantis, let you stand beside him, let the world see that you were his. It was the way he lifted you above even his own people, a mortal among gods, and dared anyone to question your place by his side. And when nightmares clawed at your mind, when fear crept into your bones, he would hold you—truly hold you, as if anchoring you to the present, reminding you that you were safe. That you were his.

- Namor was not a gentle man. But for you, he became something he had never been before. Patient. Steady. And if the past ever tried to reclaim you, if the wounds of your childhood ever bled anew, he would remind the world—The ocean does not forget. And it does not forgive.

Johnny Blaze (Ghost Rider)

- Johnny had been to hell and back—literally. He had seen damnation, had felt the weight of chains, the burn of brimstone. But none of it compared to the rage that ignited in his chest when he learned what had been done to you. You didn’t have the scars he did, not the kind that burned in the shape of a demon’s touch, but you had scars all the same—ones that ran deep, ones that made you flinch at raised voices and sudden movements. And for that, he would never forgive the world.

- He was rough around the edges, hardened by a life that had never been kind. But around you, he softened—not in a way that made him weak, but in a way that made you safe. His voice never rose in anger, his hands never moved too fast. He always made sure you knew where he was before he touched you, always gave you the space to come to him. He wasn’t a gentle man, but for you, he learned to be careful.

- But Johnny was also vengeful. He didn’t believe in letting monsters walk free. When he found out who had hurt you, the Ghost Rider stirred in his chest, the flames of vengeance licking at his bones. He never told you what happened to them—only that they were gone, their souls left to answer for what they had done. And if the nightmares still came, if the past still clawed at you, he would pull you against him, let the warmth of his fire chase away the cold.

- He wasn’t good with words, wasn’t good with comfort. But when your breath hitched in fear, when memories turned your nights into something unbearable, he was there. He let you cling to him, let you bury your face in his chest, his arms steady and strong around you. And when the worst of it passed, when the ghosts of your past finally loosened their grip, he would press a kiss to your hair and murmur, "Ain't nobody hurtin’ you again. Not while I’m around."

- Johnny Blaze had been cursed, had been broken, had been forced to walk through hell itself. But when it came to you, he was something else. Steady. Safe. And if the past ever came for you again, if the people who had hurt you ever dared to resurface, they would learn—painfully, mercilessly—that the Ghost Rider does not forgive.

Eddie Brock / Venom

- Eddie had never trusted the world. It had chewed him up, spit him out, left him hollow and angry. But when he met you, when he saw the way you carried yourself—beautiful, but always guarded—he recognized the same war in your eyes. And when he learned why, when he pieced together the way you flinched at raised voices, the way you braced for impact at sudden movement, something inside him snapped.

- Venom reacted first, a growl rumbling from deep within his chest, a protective rage Eddie had never quite felt before. "Who hurt her?" the symbiote demanded, its voice a low, dangerous snarl in his mind. And Eddie, for once, didn’t try to hold Venom back. Because for the first time in his life, he had something worth protecting.

- Eddie wasn’t a good man. He had tried to be once, had tried to play by the rules, but the world had beaten that out of him. And when it came to you, when it came to them, the ones who had hurt you—there were no rules. He never told you what he did, never let you see the mess he made of them. But he came back to you with blood on his hands and nothing but gentleness in his touch.

- Venom became your shadow, an unseen protector that never strayed far. "We will keep you safe," the symbiote would whisper to you in the dead of night, its voice low and almost affectionate. Eddie wasn’t much better—he was obsessive in his care, possessive in the way he made sure you always knew you were his. Not in a way that suffocated, but in a way that promised—no one will ever hurt you again.

- Eddie Brock was not a hero. He was not kind, not merciful. But for you? He was yours. And if the world ever thought to take you from him, to drag you back into the darkness you had escaped, it would learn the hard way that Venom does not share.

T'Challa (Black Panther)

- T'Challa had spent his life protecting his people, had spent years ensuring that no harm befell Wakanda. But when he learned of your past, of the pain you had suffered, it was the first time he had ever felt helpless. Because this was a war that had already been fought, a battle whose scars could not be undone. And for all his knowledge, all his power, he could not rewrite history. He could only stand beside you in its aftermath and swear that you would never face such suffering again.

- He was a man of control, of precision, but around you, he became something softer. His movements were measured, his tone always gentle. He never raised his voice near you—not in anger, not in command—because he had seen the way sharp tones made your breath catch, had felt the way sudden movements made you stiffen. And T'Challa was not a man who ignored the unspoken. He adapted, not out of obligation, but because he loved you. And love, to him, meant understanding.

- But there was also fire in his love. A quiet, unshakable wrath that burned beneath his skin when he thought of those who had hurt you. He did not believe in cruelty, did not believe in striking down those who were weak. But if your abusers still lived, still walked, he would make certain they never did so again. Not through violence, not through blood—no, T’Challa was smarter than that. He would dismantle their lives piece by piece, until they had nothing. Until they felt, for the first time, what it meant to be powerless.

- But his vengeance was not the weight he placed on your shoulders. With you, he was light. His love was the kind that wrapped around you in quiet moments, the kind that whispered through fingertips grazing your skin, through the warmth of his presence beside you. He did not try to fix what had been broken—he simply stood beside you, unwavering. And when the nights were long, when the memories clawed at your mind, he would hold you against his chest and murmur, "You are not alone. You will never be alone again."

- T’Challa was a king. A warrior. A man who bore the weight of a nation on his shoulders. But when it came to you, he was something else entirely. A protector. A lover. A promise. And if the past ever tried to take you from him, if the shadows of your childhood ever threatened to return, he would remind the world—The Black Panther does not bow. And he does not forget.

Elektra Natchios

- Elektra had never believed in softness. Her world had been carved from blood, from betrayal, from the understanding that love was often just another weapon waiting to be used against you. But with you, everything changed. Because when she learned of your past, when she realized the depths of the pain you had endured, it was the first time in her life that she wanted to protect something—not for duty, not for advantage, but for love.

- She was sharp edges and honed steel, but for you, she became something different. She learned your triggers, memorized them like she would a target’s weaknesses. She moved differently around you—not with hesitation, but with intent. She never raised her voice, never made a move she knew would unsettle you. And if you ever flinched, if the ghosts of your childhood ever tried to pull you back, she would wait. Not with frustration, not with pity, but with the steady patience of a woman who had spent her life navigating war zones.

- But Elektra was still Elektra. And if she ever saw the people who had hurt you, they would cease to exist. Not metaphorically. Not in some abstract, distant way. She would erase them from the world, make them disappear in the only way she knew how. And she would never tell you. Because she knew you—knew that despite everything, there was still goodness in you, still kindness that the world had not managed to steal. And she would not let her darkness stain that.

- But her love was not just vengeance. It was fierce devotion, the kind that bound itself to your bones and refused to let go. She did not whisper reassurances, did not offer empty comfort. Instead, she showed you. In the way she stood between you and the world, in the way she let her guard down in your presence, in the way she let you touch her scars—both the ones on her skin and the ones hidden deeper. With you, she was not the assassin, not the warrior. She was simply yours.

- Elektra did not believe in softness. But for you, she learned. And if the past ever tried to take you, if the wounds of your childhood ever bled anew, she would ensure one thing—The world may have failed you once. But it will never touch you again.

Muse

- Muse was not a man of warmth, nor was he a man of comfort. He was a creature of chaos, an artist who carved beauty from suffering, who found divinity in destruction. Yet, when he learned of your past, when the remnants of your childhood bled into the present, he did not respond with words—Muse was never a man of words. Instead, he listened, in his own twisted way, tilting his head like a predator considering its prey. Not out of cruelty, not out of disinterest, but because he was fascinated—not by your pain, but by you. By the fact that you had endured.

- His movements, normally erratic and unpredictable, shifted in your presence. He never made sudden gestures near you, never raised his voice—though his voice was never loud to begin with. And though he lacked the morality most others possessed, he understood something primal about fear, about trauma. He had seen it in the eyes of those who had stared too long into the abyss before he ended them. And so, when your past clawed at your mind, when memories threatened to drown you, Muse would simply be there—unmoving, silent, an ever-present shadow beside you.

- But Muse was still Muse. And when he realized the ones who had hurt you were still out there, still breathing, he could not fathom why you had let them live. You may have been content to let the past remain buried, but he was not. He was an artist, and what better canvas than the flesh of those who had dared to break what was his? He never told you what he did. Never let you see the grotesque poetry he left behind. But if your abusers began disappearing, one by one, if whispers of horrors filled the underworld, you would know. And Muse? He would only tilt his head and smile.

- But it was not only destruction that defined his love—it was obsession. The way his fingers would trace your features, as if memorizing every inch of you, as if you were the only masterpiece worth preserving. The way he would sit in silence, sketching, painting, creating you over and over again as if he could capture you, keep you forever. The way he would stare—unblinking, unwavering—not with judgment, not with pity, but with a reverence so deep it was almost worship.

- Muse did not love like others. His love was twisted, fractured, something neither holy nor entirely damned. But in his own way, he was constant. And if the past ever tried to take you, if the shadows of your childhood ever reached for you again, he would remind the world—Pain is temporary. But art? Art is eternal.

Victor von Doom (Dr. Doom)

- Doom did not tolerate weakness—not in himself, not in others. But when he learned of your past, when he saw the way you flinched at anger, the way fear flickered in your eyes at the wrong tone, he did not see weakness. He saw injustice. And Doom did not tolerate injustice.

- He did not ask questions—he did not need to. The knowledge of what had been done to you came to him through his own means, through whispers and shadows. And once he knew, once he understood, he acted with the precision of a man who had never allowed an insult to go unanswered. The ones who had hurt you ceased to exist—not just physically, but entirely. Their names were erased, their legacies burned, their very existence reduced to nothing.

- Doom was not a man of softness, but with you, he was something close. His voice never rose in your presence, his movements were deliberate, measured. He did not comfort—he protected. He ensured you were untouchable, invulnerable. He built walls around you, not to keep you in, but to keep the world out. And if that meant drenching the earth in blood, so be it.

- He was not affectionate in the way others were. He did not whisper reassurances, did not soothe with words. But when you trembled, when memories wrapped around your throat like chains, he was there. He would tilt your chin up, force you to meet his gaze, and state—simply, factually—"You are Doom’s. And Doom does not allow his to suffer."

- Victor von Doom was a tyrant, a ruler, a man feared by nations. But when it came to you, he was something else. A shield. A weapon. A god. And if anyone, anyone, thought to take what was his, they would learn—painfully, excruciatingly—that Doom does not forgive.

Peter Quill (Star-Lord)

- Peter had spent his life running—from responsibility, from the past, from the weight of loss. But he couldn’t run from this. He couldn’t run from the way you flinched at sudden movement, the way your breath hitched when voices rose too loud. And when he learned why—when he learned what had been done to you—his usual easygoing demeanor cracked.

- He wasn’t like the others—he wasn’t ruthless, wasn’t cruel. But he was protective. And when he found out about the people who had hurt you, he didn’t let it go. He didn’t let them go. He wasn’t a killer, not by nature, but for you? He would make an exception. He didn’t tell you what happened—only that they wouldn’t be a problem anymore.

- Peter wasn’t always great at dealing with feelings. He was better with jokes, with distractions. But he was attentive. If he saw the past creeping up on you, if he saw the way your hands trembled, he wouldn’t push, wouldn’t pry. He’d just pull you into some ridiculous adventure, make you laugh until you forgot, if only for a moment, that the past even existed.

- And when that wasn’t enough, when the weight of it all settled too heavily on your shoulders, he would hold you. No words, no reassurances—just warmth, just presence. And when you finally pulled away, when the worst of it had passed, he would grin and say, "Y’know, babe, I don’t say this lightly, but… if you ever need someone to be space dust, I got your back."

- Peter Quill was not perfect. He was reckless, immature, sometimes a little too much. But for you, he was something else. He was home. And if the past ever came knocking, if the people who had hurt you ever thought to reclaim you, they would learn that Star-Lord never lets go of what’s his.

Nova (Richard Rider)

- Richard Rider had seen suffering. He had seen entire planets crumble, had watched as entire civilizations were snuffed out like dying embers. But when he learned of your pain, of the horrors you had endured at the hands of those who should have loved you, it was different. Because this wasn’t war, wasn’t some inevitable cosmic tragedy—this was personal. This was something that had been done to you, something that had shaped the person he loved. And he didn’t know how to handle that.

- He had always been brash, reckless, loud—but for you, he tried. He learned not to raise his voice around you, even when frustration burned in his throat. He learned to move slower, to be gentle, even when every instinct told him to rush in, to act. And when you flinched—when old wounds resurfaced and you expected anger, expected punishment—he would stop, hands raised, eyes wide with something raw. "Hey, it's okay. I'm here. No one's gonna hurt you. Not ever again." And he meant it.

- But Nova had never been good at stillness. He needed action, needed to do something. And the knowledge that the people who had hurt you were still out there? It ate at him. He wasn't like Daredevil, wasn't some brooding vigilante lurking in the shadows—he was Nova. And that meant he could go anywhere. It meant that if he ever found them, if he ever got so much as a whisper of their location, he would ensure they never so much as breathed in your direction again. He wouldn’t kill them—he wasn’t that kind of man—but he would make damn sure they wished he had.

- But love with Richard was not only protection—it was light. It was the way he made you laugh, the way he insisted on making you laugh, even when the weight of your past threatened to pull you under. It was the way he wrapped you in his arms, warm and solid, a barrier between you and the rest of the universe. It was the way he kissed you—soft when you needed gentleness, fierce when he needed to remind you that you were here, that you were his, that you were alive.

- Richard Rider had seen entire worlds burn. But he had never fought for anything as fiercely as he fought for you. And if the past ever tried to reclaim you, if the wounds of your childhood ever bled anew, he would remind the universe—There’s not a single star out there worth more than the person I love. And I will tear the cosmos apart before I let them suffer again.

[hauntedfrogarchive]

has anyone made a richard parker is dick grayson tumblr community bc i desperately need to find my people

[petermorwood]

Happy birthday! If you could have any one authentic antique (weapon, armor, art, vehicle, anything, any era) for your birthday present, what would it be?

First thought would be the A.489 Swiss sabre from the Wallace Collection.

And then sense steps in, because - like all my other swords - this one is a bit limited. I'd get to own it, and polish it, and dust it, but since I don't do HEMA (Historical European Martial Arts) that's about the lot.

I might be able to take it to various places such as conventions, and bask in second-hand admiration - or I might end up having it seized by the police for (insert reason here).

So a much more practical birthday present would be a vintage Conway Stewart fountain pen, the one my Dad used to use. He wrote with that pen every workday for knocking on 40 years, and its (gold, flexible) nib became so attuned to his own handwriting quirks that he wouldn't let anyone else use it.

If you sometimes wonder why fountain-pen users are rather possessive about their oldest or most favourite pens, this is why.

@dduane is getting a bit that way about her Mont Blanc 146, which I bought her on a day when (1) she saw it, (2) she liked it and (3) I could afford it without hesitation all happened on the same afternoon.

I'm definitely that way about my Parker 51. I was given it on my first day of Big School in 1968, and since then it's written or signed essays, dissertations, examinations, the Official Secrets Act (twice - don't ask, it's a Secret), novel drafts, love letters and a marriage certificate.

I don't loan it to anyone.

The pen IS mightier than the sword. For one thing, it can go places a sword can't and for another, while a sword can kill a body only once, a pen can kill a reputation every time the disparaging comment it writes goes into print.

See Richard III of England for how well that works.