#this is my personal mission sent from god

[mahmahmahmysharona]

When you and Bob have your first time…twice (pt. 2)

Bob Reynolds x Avenger Reader (Part 6/6)

*smut warning*

Part 1 // Part 2 // Part 3 // Part 4 // Part 5

You and Bob managed to get past your seemingly failed attempt at sleeping together pretty quickly.

If anything, it calmed you. You knew now that it couldn't be rushed, especially for the both of you. Too much pressure and one of you might implode — and considering one of you is arguably the most powerful person in the universe, it wasn't really a risk worth taking.

So, you let it be. For exactly a week, until you were sent out on a last minute mission.

It went terribly.

The fact that they saw you coming wasn't your fault — but Ava's near-miss and subsequent injuries were.

You were supposed to be covering her. But then you got distracted trying to reload a gun, and before you knew it she was on the floor, a blade sticking out of her side because she wasn't able to ghost-out in time and you weren't paying attention to warn her.

She stayed conscious, which was a good sign, but the return back to the tower was horrific, watching Yelena switch out bloody bandages and trying to keep her awake.

You, meanwhile, were a mess. You cried when you thought nobody was looking. How could you be so stupid? You had only one purpose in life — only one thing you were really good for — and you failed at that, too. If you couldn't help protect your team, then what was the point?

Ava could read your mind, telling you, "It's okay. It's not your fault." She was even cracking jokes by the time you arrived back. You smiled and nodded, but the smile faded as soon as you helped get her down to rest and you returned to your room. When you caught yourself in the mirror, you were taken aback. You hadn't even realized the extend of your own hits. You looked like shit, which only added to your dismay.

Then, right on cue, the door creaked open. Bob. He stepped inside, just as he always did after you got back.

You were certain you'd never seen anyone else in your life make the expression he made in that moment: like their heart is climbing up through their throat.

"I heard things went bad," he said. He moved towards you, but you stepped back. You didn't want to be held right then. You didn't deserve it.

"I'm just...gonna take a shower," you told him. You didn't even wait for a response. You went into the bathroom, stripped your clothes, and stood under the water, trying to scald yourself of your misery and guilt.

What good are you?

By the time you got out and wrapped a towel around yourself, you expected Bob to have given up and returned to his own room. But when you stepped out, he was still there, sitting on a chair and playing with his fingers. Of course he wouldn't give up on you. And then you feel even worse for thinking he might have done.

"Do you want to talk about it?" he asked, standing up.

God, you thought. You don't deserve any of this. Him. Them. This job. Your eyes welled up with threatening tears, and you wiped them away before they even had a chance to fall.

"I failed to do my job, it's as simple as that," you said. "Now Ava's in for a difficult recovery, and the team won't trust me."

"Of course they will."

You shook your head. "I'm only valuable because of what I can do, not because of who I am. And now I've just proved I can't even do that. Maybe they don't even need me."

You laughed, because it was all you could bear to do. You didn't even know what you needed, what would lessen some of the burden that had been nipping at you since you stepped foot back in the tower.

But Bob did. He saw you standing there, all your well-concealed self-hatred finally coming to the surface, and there was only one way he could think to stop it in its tracks.

He reached forward and took your arm in his hand, pulling you towards him. When you reached him, he wrapped his other arm around your waist and kissed you deeply.

You stumbled a little, not expecting this, and from Bob of all people. But he had you. He always had you, and as he kissed you, you found yourself melting under his grip.

It took a lot of strength to reach up and wrap your arms around his neck, but you managed. Then you were on each other, pressed against one another as close as you could without wondering when the universe might collapse in on itself between you, right there.

He was pulling you out of your own mind, like you had done for him so many times before. It was intoxicating for you both. You wouldn't have been surprised if things had stopped there — if you had both pulled away from the edge before you'd toppled over it — but you were surprised when you suddenly felt his hand drop down to the back of your thigh, dripping the skin there through your towel.

"I need you," he said into your ear. You could feel the words slipping into you and making your spine tingle. "Can I have you now?"

"Yes." You think you said it. Maybe you didn't say anything at all. But suddenly, you felt his hand gripping the towel at your back and tearing at it, pulling it free and dropping it to the ground beside you. Jesus, was this real? You only needed to look at his eyes, which looked you up and down with almost painful reverence, to confirm that it was.

Then he was on you again, his palms dragging against your bare skin and leaving trails of goosebumps all over as he kissed you harder, faster. He moved you around to position himself on the side of the bed, using his hands to bring you to him until you stood between his knees.

He pressed his kisses against your stomach, your ribs, the mounds of your breasts, leaving you breathless and gripping onto his hair just to keep yourself upright. But that was nothing compared to what he did next, dragging his lips down to where your thighs met, where you were already wet and waiting for him.

When his tongue found you, you gasped. Despite all the things you'd done, all the chaos you'd seen, nothing had thrown you as much as the feeling of his tongue lapping at you, grabbing handfuls of your thighs and pressing you onto his mouth even more.

"Holy shit," you breathed, pulling at his shirt. You wanted it gone. You wanted him to be as exposed as you, ready for you to climb on top of him and take him in. But he wasn't letting you, instead grabbing your hands and pulling them down by your sides, holding you there.

You wondered briefly if this was still Bob. But then he loosened his grip and ran his thumb across your wrist, and you knew it was. This was just a new side of him you never even knew he had.

Honestly, Bob didn't know he had this in him either. It astounded him that at times he wasn't able to put one foot in front of the other without messing up, but now, he had you wrapped around his little finger. He hated having such little control over his own life, always at the mercy of the darkness that hid inside him. But now, he was taking control, and there wasn't anything dark or regretful about it. In fact, he thought he could have burst into a ball of light right then and there, listening to the sound of your whimpers.

"Please," you said. "I want— I want you."

When his mouth left you, you were finally able to wrestle his shirt off of him. And as he leaned back, you took the chance to press him down onto the bed and mount him, taking his face in your hands and pressing your mouth against his like it was the only oxygen in the room.

Underneath, he shifted to remove his pants, and you finally felt his hard length pressing against you. You ground down onto him, earning a moan from him into your neck. There was no rush, but you felt as though you might pass out if you didn't have him soon. You reached down and freed him from his underwear, your breath hitching in your throat as you felt him bound against your core.

He was already reaching down, positioning himself at your entrance. "Jesus," he breathed. "You're perfect."

"You couldn't bring yourself to say anything to that. What was there to say? Instead, you gently perched at the tip of him, then lowered yourself onto him, slowly.

Someone whimpered. Someone gasped. It was hard to tell anything anymore, since the only thing you could focus on was how perfectly he fit into you. How good it was to feel him in the pit of you. As you rocked yourself on top of him, rising and falling with the lift of his hips, his hands found your face and used it to lower you down to meet him.

He kissed you, your bodies grinding together in a quickening pace, desperate to get closer, deeper. But there was nowhere else to go. Nobody had ever got this close to you before, and you hoped he could tell that just by the pounding of your heart. (He had to feel that too, right?)

When you felt one of his hands slip between you both, his thumb finding your core and caressing it, you could barely stop yourself from letting out a yelp. Instead, you settled for moaning his name, and he suddenly reacted with a new urgency.

You were growing close and wanted to tell him as much, but there was no way in the world you could form any sort of words right now. Instead, you grabbed his free hand, locking your fingers together and squeezing it tight. You found the wave, finally letting out a small cry as you finished. When you came to, his hand had found the base of your throat, and he was whispering in your ear feverishly, "I'm gonna— Can I—"

"Yes, yes, please."

That was all he needed. He buried himself in you, shuddering with his final thrusts and pressing his face into your shoulder. You waited until you were fully certain he was through — and then a few moments longer to catch your breath — before lifting yourself off and settling on the bed next to him. Between you both, your hands found each other.

"You didn't break anything," you told him after a while. "What does that mean?"

You didn't look at him, but you could hear him smiling. "It means it was perfect," he said, exhausted. "Was it— good for you?"

"Of course."

Everything else — the mission, the dread, the future — that would come back to you. It would never go away. But now it was different, because you had each other. Two fucked-up peas in a pod, trying to find some grasp on reality. He was your reality now, and he was rolling over to press his lips against your cheek.

You regretted nothing.

(That's the last of this miniseries, but open to requests if anyone has ideas for Bob one-shots they want to see!)

Tag list: @purplefluffycows @i-shall-abide @avengersinitiative2012 @tatsunesworld @lovelyypythoness @yujyujj @tortilla-chips-and-allioli @thek8archive @k1ttyjuice

[kivaember]

arthur nightingale character rambling

my favourite thing when it comes to fic writing is really getting into the guts of a character and figuring out how they tick or react to certain situations based on what info you have about them from canon

anyway under the cut is my self-indulgent ramble about my thoughts (which are probably disorganised sorry) on arthur nightingale

okay, first off, let's get to the basics:

he's your knight in sour armour, to break him down into the very basic of tropes. he's difficult to get close to because he's so standoffish with strangers and resistant to showing vulnerability, but he's also genuinely a good guy beneath the gruff who wants to help people just because it's the right thing and because he's naturally a very empathetic guy.

as eleanor pointed out, arthur had dreams of being a hero ever since he was leaping on pine cone grenades as a child. i wouldn't be surprised if as a kid he even fantasied about doing some heroic sacrifice that has everyone like "oh wow he was a true hero!" like you see in movies dfhddh since from what i've gleaned from 1999 they do idolise people being sent to the "hall of heroes" upon death. but i think his friend's death also compounded in arthur a sense of: if someone has to be sacrificed, it has to be him because...

well being the one left behind hurts. it's awful. you have to live with it, while the dead get to die with the satisfaction of doing a good thing. it's a complicated emotion that arthur has 99.9% likely not processed or even thought about too deeply, but i do feel that arthur has a fear of being the one left behind. he doesn't want other people dying for him, and god i bet the shitshow of a mission on new years eve had been the most horrific scenario for him:

Everyone dying before him, leaving him the last one standing, alive just long enough to know he got everyone killed for nothing. awful.

anyway, moving onto his initial curt personality. we always knew he was driven based on aoi's KIM convos where she explains their break-up. arthur's very blinkered and a big picture kind of guy, i feel, where because he's good at setting aside his personal feelings in favour of the "greater good", he forgets that not everyone else functions like that. i think this is also compounded by the whole entrati fiasco, where lettie explains that initially the hex loyally followed entrati against their higher ups' orders, distributing his medicines and encouraging people to take up his vaccines, etc.

and you know, burned once, shame on you, burned twice, shame on me. entrati and drifter are similar in that they're strange people who popped up literally out of nowhere claiming they have the magical solution to your problems if you just trusted them. entrati strung the hex along with promises of a cure for the techrot, and initiatially it seemed like he was telling the truth: his vaccine did stop people getting sick - it just turned them into asymptomatic carriers instead, which the hex didn't immediately clock onto, and when they started to have suspicions, well they really didn't want to believe they'd made the wrong choice. they must be mistaken, right? entrati kept his promise to make a cure so... there's probably a reason why other people are getting sick, right?

it's why they took the second vaccine he offered which turned them into protoframes: because they were desperate and, despite it all, they trusted entrati.

whiiiiiiiich kinda fucks over drifter from the outset, i feel. the whole fiasco with entrati is very likely lurking in the forefront of arthur's mind when it comes to drifter in the initial few months. drifter arriving from the future and locking them all into a time loop, saying "don't worry, i can help you with means you don't understand, you just have to trust me".

so with arthur, i really feel like the entire year of the first loop is drifter overcoming that initial (and understandable) mistrust. arthur was probably waiting for the other shoe to drop with drifter - like, he had no idea how this was going to turn out to be a scam, but he was probably waiting for something to happen... but no, drifter is genuine, they're not playing with the hex or trying to trick them into anything.

the KIM convos probably helped with that, honestly. entrati likely maintained an authorative distance with the hex, whereas drifter was, well, drifter: clearly traumatised and socially awkward, if emotionally intelligent, but genuinely trying to connect and make friends with the hex - wanting to help them but also get to know them.

and that kind of quality i think would draw arthur in. yeah, drifter has no filter when it comes to talking about their fucked up past (ngl its funny that you can practically hear the "jesus christ" reverbing through arthur's brain whenever drifter casually reveals yet another traumatising event from their past like it's no big deal), but they're kinda stupidly committed to doing the right thing no matter how crazy and hard it is. arthur is also stupidly committed to doing the right thing no matter how crazy and hard it is! they have something in common in that!

also drives them both insane because i can just imagine drifter and arthur being in a state of "no i will sacrifice myself for YOU" to each other bc both refuse to be the one left behind. they'd be insufferable on a dangerous mission together. i think eleanor would strangle them both.

this really is a disorganised ramble. but anyways, arthur's fun to write about bc this guy really wants to do the right thing, but he's made a terrible decision in trusting the wrong person which landed him and his comrades in a situation where they get to enjoy the body horror that is being turned into protoframes against their will with a potential future of having their minds consumed by the techrot eventually, where there is no easy route to doing the "right thing", where their future is uncertain and where they have living evidence of someone from the future being all like "yeah so the infestation still exists thousands of years from now and the future is fucked up to hell and back but... well, we're alive!" and they're also stuck in a time loop for who knows how long.

anyway this is why i love drifter/arthur bc i feel like they're both on the same wavelength of "heroically deranged" and they give each other enrichment that others would find diabolically annoying. they know how to respect each other's boundaries but also when to push, and they have that insane quality where they want to hope for a better future, think they can make a better future, if they just keep forging towards doing the right thing no matter how disgustingly hard and painful it is.

this is why aoi and arthur broke up, i feel. they both had different priorities, which is fine! honestly i'm so glad DE had them both be extremely mature about the whole thing, because sometimes relationships do end bc both parties realise that they're better as friends than romantic partners and it doesnt have to result in them being bitter or angry at each other. aoi was justified in wanting to break up bc she wanted someone who prioritised the relationship just as much as she did, whereas arthur kinda needs someone who's willing to butt heads with him when he's being a bit of an ass but also understand that he's not naturally a super romantic or emotional kind of person.

anyway tl;dr i love arthur bc he's a wet cat kind of guy who's trying his best and that's just endearing. thank you for listening to my disjointed rambling lmao

[adreamfromnevermore]

AU Where the Justice League forms as usual except for one slight difference where Bruce just so happens to have been the one superheroing for the longest. (Excluding Diana, who got up to it in World War 1 and then mostly didn't while she learned about Man's World)

Bruce helps form the Justice League, ignoring all of the comments as they come to the sudden realization that Gotham's baby cryptid story is actually a man in a very intimidating armored suit who can and will break your arm if you cause problems for him. They are unaware that this is not the first team he's led, and actually he's used to teams full of mostly teenagers who also happen to be his children. This should be easier, this team is primarily adults.

He realizes rapidly that he doesn't understand these people.

His kids take bonding activities to mean learning a dozen different ways to break someones leg. That doesn't fly with these people. And that is most of Bruce's ideas, hell when he was a kid Alfred took every opportunity to get him out of his room and mostly that was with the agreement that Alfred would teach him how to defend himself. He's come by it honestly.

This team is not easier. They have more drama than when his house was actually full of kids. It's insane. He doesn't know what to do with it, usually he just sent the kids to their rooms or grounded them from patrol. That doesn't work here.

He comes to a strange crossroads. That falls apart when he forgets who he's working with and snaps at Hal with a full room of heroes that the next person to throw a punch or an insult without a reason too will be sparring with him.

A long standing rule in the batcave that worked two fold to prevent infighting between the kids and too ensure that they were well and truly trained.

It works wonders. No one says a word out of line for the rest of the debrief. Bruce becomes the unofficial mediator of the league over Clark because anytime he walked in on a fight it suddenly became 10 times more civil out of sheer terror of what he'd do to them in a sparring match.

Eventually they actually meet his kids. Well, one kid.

Half way through a mission (one of the rare ones in Gotham) the Bat comes to a complete stop at the edge of an alley. Every single league member on the team comes to a stop behind him. Slowly from the shadows of the alley a man in a red helmet stalks out to greet them.

"You don't call, you don't write"

"Red Hood."

"Don't Red Hood me! We've been worried sick!"

"I was at the cave last night."

"You didn't answer my texts B. You always answer my texts."

Somehow it ends with big and scary following them through the rest of the mission with a running commentary of how much Bats has let him down in his failure to respond in a timely manner to a text send less than an hour before he ran into them in the alley. It only ends when Red Robin shows up.

And even then it only ends because Hood can't keep himself from throwing a punch and Bruce has to snap at him that if he throws another one they're sparring when they get home.

And by god is Jason giving up the chance to punch his brothers.

[lizardho]

I came out to my dad as bisexual at 14 and I was PANICKED because I had a crush on a guy in my Boy Scout troop and thought I was Going To Hell Forever and he was so kind and understanding of my distress, but he had NO idea what bisexuality was. He just said “yeah but you like girls too? This is normal. Everyone is like this.” And I love my dad and trust him with my life to this day and the idea that the concept of bisexuality had not occurred to him had not occurred to me so I put it off.

By 16 though I had a crush on like THREE boys. Three entire boys in my Boy Scout troop. I felt like my sin was slowly advancing, until like an untreated cancer it had become metastatic. I remember bawling my L’il limp-wristed sissy eyes out in his big rumbly truck on the way home from a scout meeting and him telling me that it was OK, that he still loved me if I was gay, but that he knew I wasn’t gay because I still had crushes on women and that meant I was straight. I didn’t quite know how to explain that those felt *~*different*~* and that I felt like I was losing a fight to evil inside me but I again felt comforted by his reassurances and his genuine fatherly love.

At 18 I was like “hey I’m realizing all my friends are going on missions. I don’t wanna do that. Idk how to say that and I don’t have a ‘good enough’ reason to not wanna go.” So I just put it off. Again, my parents were extremely supportive of the information I gave them (I blamed it on perpetually forgetting to start the paperwork.) and one day my mom texted me that she had done the paperwork for me! And that all I needed was to get a physical! So I did that (it was awkward af tbh, my hernia check was done by a trainee doctor and she spent like 3 minutes fishing around my inguinal canals before her attending rescued me) and was sent to Mexico City where I learned that in addition to dipshit himbos with strong hands and scruffy guys with artistic hearts I was REALLY into chubby Latin men with strong personalities who bullied me a little when I lived in Mexico.

I remember my first companion got annoyed with me during an argument and said we were just gonna wrestle and whoever won the wrestling match won the argument (I stg I am dead serious this happened.) I was like…SWEATING when he tore off his tie and threw his white button-down shirt onto the ground (I won btw, don’t ask me how).

I remember one of my companions with this really intense, almost manic energy telling me that he was gonna make sure I was safe in a new area I didn’t know very well. He cooked breakfast for me and we’d go shopping together on P-Days and in the mornings before breakfast he’d jog around and do pull-ups with his shirt off and I’d do anything but look at him because my face would break out in a sweat so intense he’d think I was crying and come over to see if I was OK and somehow make it worse. He let me play D&D with myself in the evenings even though it was against mission rules because he knew how lonely and stressed I was.

I remember one of my companions was a big chubby man with a loud voice and a great sense of humor. He was kind and direct when addressing conflicts with me, and always bragged about how he knew the secrets of women’s minds and it felt like he really did since it almost always boiled down to “Treat Them Like People and Love Them a Lot. Don’t Stop Being A Person For Them. Also Eat Them Out Sloppy Style.” Our P-Day activities sometimes felt like dates, and it seemed like he was more attentive to my emotional state than I was since he was always the first to suggest we slow down our Divinely Mandated, God-Ordained, Super Sacred Work and Wonder to get a snack or check out a Pawn Shop (I love Pawn Shops).

I remember another companion who asked me to bully him every time he did something against his goal of losing weight. It was like he gave me Carte Blanche to take out my crush on him by being a nuisance and I LOVED that. I remember having a breakdown one day after we’d spent the afternoon frantically cleaning our disgusting-barely-habitable mission house to make it look less vile that it was (not our fault imo?) and I started bawling and he pulled me into a hug and he smelled good and he told me he knew it wasn’t just the house and that I was mad at him for being a Huge Dickhead for about a week (true) and that he would work on it. (He’s also a huge chaser but that’s a separate thing.)

I remember one of my companions waking up early (and our schedule is already built for sleep deprivation) to make me a “birthday cake” from knock-off Nutella and bread. He used matches for candles and woke me up, lit the ‘candles,’ pulled them out, then smashed it in my face and took a bunch of pictures while I was still madrugada and disoriented as fuck. He had the same sense of humor as one of my HS crushes and I could push his buttons pretty easily which was so fun.

I came home from my mission and started back at BYU where I became actively and aggressively suicidal. I had a stalker the year I moved up there and my dad’s solution to that was to get me a gun. I know he wouldn’t have bought me a gun if he could have read my mind, but I had a loaded pistol under my bed during a trifecta faith/sexuality/gender crisis and that was not helpful. I remember that the day I decided to kill myself I figured I’d call the BYU CAPS and see if I could get into therapy because it felt like what I was “supposed to do” so I could check my suicide boxes. My therapist was the guy who’d helped me pick a major the year before and was this drop-dead gorgeous Hawaiian man who cried when I told him how I’d been feeling.

A few weeks into therapy I met another stunning man with soft eyes and a scruffy illegal-at-BYU beard he kept pushing his luck with. He was funny, kind, patient, married, and wouldn’t give me the time of day if he knew I was crushing on him. We were in my history of psych class, which was inarguably the worst psych class I have ever had, and we studied together for every assignment and test and I realized that my feelings for him and for all the men I’d already mentioned were in direct conflict with my faith and relationship with God. My already agonizing spiritual conflict became even more wretched and as a result of this plus some other tightly-packed experiences with Mormonisms bullshit, I left the church.

After leaving the church I decided to move back to AZ and transfer to ASU. My mom helped me get a dog since I think it had started to dawn on my family that my mental health was barely getting me through the day, and she knew that we both loved dogs. Madi made my last year at BYU livable while I got my shit together and transferred. In that last year, I went on a date with quite possibly the only semi-openly-out trans person on BYU campus. It was not a great date imo, I was not doing well, but the person I spoke with was fun and fascinating and talked to me about Gender Dysphoria and it really cemented my need to go. To leave and never come back to that fucking school.

I started at ASU a month after my last semester at BYU and within a very short time frame it felt like I was coming back together, like a puzzle magically putting itself together in an environment that wasn’t slowly draining that puzzle’s will to live.

On the 4th of July, the year I started at ASU, I saw a transition timeline photo of a gorgeous happy beautiful happy radiant happy woman and her former Mormon missionary self and I realized the light that was on in her eyes was the light that was off in mine. I looked into transitioning for 3 days, sleeping about 10 hours total during that time. I started talking to other trans people on Reddit (one of whom is now my beautiful fiancée @cintailed) and after about a month of making preparations to be disowned and kicked out, something I was not sure would happen but was ready to go through to Turn On The Lights, I came out to my family and it was amazing. I started HRT a month after that. I secretly dated some dorky guys for about a year while I applied to grad schools. I got into a great grad school for me and my needs. I got FFS. I did my trainings and classes. Me and my fiancée moved in together after some LDR shenanigans. We’ve lived together now for 4 years of basically marital bliss. We have a cat named Grandmother Esmeralda Weatherwax who bites the hell out of my feet about three times a day. My bi-cycle continues to be part of my life but now it’s not as scary. Baby gays in my life have started to look to me for advice. Idk how this all happened so fast. When the years, months, weeks, days, and hours seems to crawl by so slowly now they are rushing past me so fast it’s almost bewildering. Whereas before I felt like I was living on borrowed time, past my ‘expiration date,’ now it feels like I can Fucking Breathe. I’m training myself to slow down now and it feels worth it to Live In The Moment.

Idk why I wrote this. Idk why these thoughts only seem to come up on Sundays when I’m supposed to be writing my dissertation. Idk why I’m crying rn or why I feel so happy. I’m gonna post this shit then get on with my dissertation I guess. Read more Terry Pratchett and give yourselves the time you need. Get a pet. Talk to someone. Re-examine the events that brought you here. Be gayer. Love y’all 💕

[strkly]

honey

s.m: after being off the grid for a while you return to society and meet up with your old friend bucky barnes. unexpectedly you run into someone you never thought you would see again. your high school boyfriend robert reynolds.

robert ‘bob’ reynolds x fem!reader

w.c: 4.8k

c.w: angst, hurt/comfort, mentions of drugs/drug addictions, reader (zero is your hero name) is apart of sam’s team with gravity related powers, bff bucky, you’re exes, the new avengers are chismosas, walker is an asshole, dialogue heavy, not proofread sorry for any spelling/grammar mistakes!

a.n: i cried like six times writing this i love bob so much my chest hurts might make a part two but im not sure yet

part two (soon!)

"bucky are you fucking with me?”

you stare blankly at the tower you had thought was abandoned when you and the rest of the team basically disbanded but the new A sign and the construction trucks littered around the area and tower told you otherwise.

“shut up come on up you’re already cleared for entry.”

you couldn’t believe this was happening. the mission you were recently placed on just so happened to leave you disconnected from society for a few months. bucky, your long time friend, was the first person you were interested in seeing and he agreed. when he sent you his location you merely thought he was pranking you but as you walk inside the building and hit the familiar button to the top of the tower it dawns on you he’s really not joking around.

when the elevator door opens he’s waiting there for you putting away his phone and smiling at you. “look who it is huh” you grin, the sight of your friend warming your heart, you rush towards him and throw your arms around him happily, burying your head in his neck. “i missed you jackass.” “yeah yeah missed you too.”

what you dont notice is the four people all at the bar looking at the scene in what could only be described as horror. “what is happening?” yelena whispers to ava who only shrugs unable to take her eyes off of the strange display.

when you pull away and the two of you begin to exchange a few words the group notices walkers eyes widen in horror upon seeing you and he attempts to push himself out of your line of sight. before any of them could question him the seemingly peaceful conversation between you and bucky turns hostile as you punch him across the face.

“you’re gonna tell me what the hell is going on right now!” alexei ava and yelena all exchange a look before they continue to eat the popcorn they had been snacking on and watching the two of you silently.

“what the hell is this? new avengers? what the fuck are you talking about? and where the hell is sam?” bucky glares at you as he cups his cheek, “can you just listen to me?” you throw your hands up and walk past him standing in the middle of the space not even noticing the group of people as you keep your gaze on bucky. “once you start making sense i’ll listen! god forbid i leave for a couple months and suddenly you’ve join some newly formed avengers team without! sam! who even are these people anyway...” you turn away from him and face the bar without even knowing youd be face to face with the majority of the team.

you scan each of their face one by one as your confusion grows until you land on him. your face drops into a blank stare as walker forces a smile on his face, “zero! hi! so good to see you.”

you say nothing as your head slowly turns towards bucky whos face had already twisted into a grimace knowing what you were going to say. they watch as your hand goes up and buckys body flies towards you, your hands wrapping around his neck. “james bucky barnes you will tell me what the hell is going on, right now!”

the four of them can only stare speechless as the two of you talk over one another, the anger twisted all over your face as bucky attempts to defend himself in strangled breaths. none of them could believe the sight in front of them other than walker who seemed like he had expected this to happen. you had seemed familiar to yelena and now that she saw your powers it had clicked. code name zero, you had been working for the old avengers behind the scenes and was now an associate of the new captain america sam wilson after the two of you became good friends.

if the file she had once read on you was right you could manipulate gravity at your will, a truly dangerous ability. none of them decide to help him simply watching the two of you argue.

“whats going on?” yelena turns to the soft sound of bobs voice who looks concerned as he slowly made his was towards the bar looking back and forth between everyone confused. bob tended to hide up in his room some days but the noise must have drawn his attention to the point he felt the need to come down and see.

all four of them shrug and the now five of them watch as you verbally berate bucky. finally growing tired of him you toss his down and kick him ignoring the groan he lets out you turn to the group hoping you could get some answers from one of them but when your eyes land on the newest addition to the group your expression drops to something unrecognizable.

bob grows uncomfortable under your stare and grips his hands together in front of his as you tilt your head and stare at him.

“robert? bob… reynolds?”

“um,,, yes?”

he fiddles with his fingers as you say nothing for a few moments. the look at your face laced with shock and something he can’t recognize but a small ache grows in his chest for some reason.

“holy shit.”

all eyes turn to bob as he awkwardly fidgets in his place. nobody says anything for a good while until bucky groans as he stands up looking at you. “you know him?”

he asks the question everyone was eager to know you turn your head slightly to look back at him, your voice a lot softer than it had been before. “we um, we were friends, in middle school high school you know,” you turn back to him, realizing he clearly has no memory of you you try to mask how much it hurt. for him to look at you like a stranger. you force a smile on your face as you shake your head.

“it was a long time ago, i dont blame you if you don’t remember.” you watch his face twist as he clearly tries to remember something, anything about you but he turns up blank, “sorry..” its the only thing he can force out but you wave your hand brushing him off. “dont worry about it seriously.”

you let your gaze linger on him for a little bit longer before you turn your back to him and force yourself to talk to bucky once more. he’s changed so much but he hasn’t changed at all. you hadn’t forgotten about him even after all these years have passed, it was almost jarring to see the man you spent so many years with not even seem to remember your name should make you angry but you knew him, you knew bob.

he was never really in the right mental state, with the stuff hes been through and the path he had been down you dont blame him for not remembering. hell if you were him you wouldn’t want to remember that time either but it still stung in a way you didn’t know could sting.

bucky decided to drag you off to a room where the two of you could talk thing out alone, bob doesn’t know why he cant take his eyes off of you as you walk away and why it bothers him so much. as soon as the two of you are our of ear shot everyone turns to bob.

he has no clue how to answer their questions and they quickly grow bored once they realize he truly has no memory of you. as the rest of them engross himself in another conversation about who you were bob finds himself lost in thought. you clearly knew him but it was odd you seemed to think positively of him. you didn’t look at him with disgust your gaze was something more like, fond? no it couldn’t be, nobody would look at him like that.

ill always love you honey

the voice rings in his head and he flinches as his hands gripping the bar table tightly. yelena looks at him concerned but he puts a smile on his face and she looks away hesitantly. what was that? the voice had brought him an odd sense of peace it was almost eerie. his head started to hurt as he tried to think about it, the soft pounding that would hit is body whenever someone asked about his childhood or his past. the life he’s tried to forget, he grimaces as he chugs down the glass of water yelena had given him. he wouldnt think about it anymore no matter how much it was bothering him, maybe it was better forgotten.

an hour passed as the rest of the new avengers made conversation about random nonsense until the sound of a door slamming turned all their heads towards the sight of you with a furious look on your face as bucky trailed behind you. “i just can’t believe you barnes.” “you think i wanted this?”

ignoring bucky you look at all of them with an apologetic look and bow your head. “sorry you all had to see me like that, i promise im a lot nicer than that usually.” bucky scowls like he wants to disagree but one look from you closes his mouth and he looks away. you introduce yourself and everyone but bob replies in turns back at you.

you walk towards the bar and reach over, bob isnt listening to what anyone is saying he can’t seem to take his eyes off you, he watch as you pour yourself a drink, your mouth moving to converse with the other members, a light smile graces your face as you continue to foster your drink. his head hurts. “you should do it to walker next.” the man in question glares daggers at ava who smiles and shrugs back at him. “dont tempt me.” “hey!” you laugh and his chest starts to ache even more.

when you turn your head lightly to look at him he freezes, there's something so familiar about you, he finds himself subconsciously leaning towards you like he was freezing cold and you were a warm fireplace. when you lightly smile at him before turning away he feels his whole world stop. a sudden flash pops up in his head and its you, much younger than you are now grinning at him ear to ear and he flinches, closing his eyes as he tries to push the memory away subconsciously. so he really did know you back then. his memories from his time that long ago were spotty at best, he could remember some things but they were all blurry.

he finally tunes back into the conversation when it turns to him, more specifically you and him. “you have to tell us the story between you two.” yelena wags her finger back and forth between you and bob, a mischievous look on her face as the other agree. you shake your head frantically as you shrug, “i mean whats there to say…”

“oh come on he doesnt know anything you have to tell us everything.” you turn to look at bob expecting him to tell them to stop, he probably doesn’t want them knowing about his past but the look of anticipation on his face tells you what you needed to know. you sigh and try to think about how to word this without letting them know the real dynamic of your relationship.

“well we met during middle school, kept in contact after he had dropped out of highschool. he was always getting himself into some shit and i had to bail him out.” your tone lightens up as you fondly remember your youth, “whenever he was out too late and didnt come home i was so pissed i thought i was gonna have to walk down to the station.”

“home? you guys lived together?” you barely even noticed you let that slip out, quickly covering your wide eyes with a sip of your drink and a wave of your hand. “you know his home life wasnt the best so,,, you know he just stayed with me thats all.” you tried your best to make it sound as casual as possible but it was painfully obvious that wasnt the case.

bob couldnt wrap his head around this. he had no one during his youth or atleast he thought he did but why did your words seem so right to him. a couple more flashes appered in his mind. a warm quiet home, cozy to the point he was uncomfortable to be in there alone but he wasnt really alone was he? there was always someone by his side, sitting on the couch with him standing in the kitchen with him. something in the house standing out to him.

“the tapestry.” all eyes dart to bob who had been silent this whole time, your eyes widen in shock at his words. “it was so ugly.” your shocked face twists into mock anger as you cross your arms the smile on your face and the joy in your tone unable to hide how happy you were. “can you stop saying that? i worked really hard on that thing.” “it was so ugly..” “really? after all this time you still think its ugly,,,” you look at the confused group of heros and sigh, “when i first started to crochet i made a tapestry to hang on my wall in my apartment but this jackass always thought it was so ugly. i still have it you know.” “you should throw it out.”

he doesn’t know why he cant help but tease you, he doesn’t tease anyone but it seems like second nature. the affectionate look you have on your face as you fake glare at him fills his heart with a strange sensation.

“holy shit.” your face drops at walkers voice and you turn to glare at him. “you were his girlfriend werent you.”

your stomach plummets. everyone turns to look at you expecting you to outright deny it but when you are stuck frozen in shock staring at walker he starts to laugh. “no fucking way, you were his little girlfriend.”

he turns away, laughing like it was the funniest thing on earth as you stare daggers into his back. “shut the fuck up walker.” your tone has lost all the previous joy it once had as you stare at him with disgust.

as the group explodes in chaos bobs head spins, he can barely compose himself before you lean down towards him and whisper, “im sorry honey.”

honey. the nickname unlocks memories he had buried so deep down he had forgotten them.

he met you during 7th grade. you were desk mates, the overly friendly cheery girl who didn’t seem bothered by his lack of responses to your questions and shy demeanor. you sat with him during lunch, shared your notes with him, played with him during recess. you slowly became his whole world.

you ended up asking him to be your boyfriend in 8th grade at your middle school graduation and you started dating. when he dropped out of high school and left home had no clue what he was gonna do but you took him in, living alone in an apartment with your uncle who was never home made it easy enough for bob to move in with you. while you were at school he did things you didn’t like to think about but he always tried to be home by the time you go back from your after school job.

he was so happy. throughout his shitty life you were the only constant and good thing he had, he loved you so much he always cheered up when he saw you.

some particular memories stand out to him, one of them was when the two of you were at home. you were both 17. you had moved out of your uncles and bob came with you. it was a sunday your only true day off, his head was laying in your lap clearly he was on something but you didn’t seem you to mind.

you played with his hair and you read a book, his eyes were mindless on the tv show you had thrown on neither of you were paying attention to it. his eyes trailed off the tv and onto the wall. you had many different knickknacks and trinkets postered up on your walls. awards you won during school, gifts people gave you. but one thing caught his eyes and he grimaced.

“what is that?” you look down at him, following his line of sight towards your wall. “which thing honey?” he points to the tapestry you have hung on your wall. it was white, it looked like someone was in the middle but he couldn’t make it out. “its a tapestry.” “its ugly,” you punch him in the stomach and he groans, “i made that jackass.” he laughs as you wack him again, “sorry sorry its just wow that thing is hideous.” you huff in disbelief and cross your arms. “i worked really hard on it thank you very much.” “what even is that thing in the middle? a rat?” “its a flower you asshole.”

you throw your book to the side as you punch him and the two of you soon befall into a fit of laughter as he apologizes over and over and you keep on lightly hitting him. soon enough the two of you stop to caught your breaths. you lean your head to look at him and his heart swells at the pure affection in your gaze, he knows hes looking at you the exact same way. “i love you.” only after your bring your lips down to his and cup his face his heart calms down enough for him to be able to reply that he loves you too.

the next memory is the day before he had left you a few years later. he had been in jail for god knows what for the hundredth time. he always knows its you who bailed him out and he’s thankful for it. but as he’s walking out to see you the guard escorting him, it was a small town, you all knew each other, he had grown used to seeing this particular officer at the station but that day he had said something that bothered him. “shes such a smart girl. such a bright future ahead of her. such a shame shes stuck with you holding her down.”

it bothers him. it bothers him so much because its true. he cant even bring himself to smile or hug you back as you throw yourself to his arms. when you pull alway and cup his face concerned he tells you he’s fine and walks past you. its so clear you’re trying your best to cheer him up like you always did but he was so set in his plan not even you buying his favorite take out or cuddling him in bed could help.

it was later that night. the house was completely dark and quiet. the only sound he can hear is your soft breathing as you sleep and the whirling of the fan above you. he couldnt sleep, staring up at the ceiling, allowing himself to revel in your warmth one last time.

a few hours pass before he lets himself slip out of your arms. he gathers some things i had around your room and attempts to slip out but he freezes when he hears you groan. “honey what are you doing?” “just getting some water.” you hum and settle back down to sleep as he sighs in relief. right as he’s about to close the door he can hear you mumble loud enough for him to hear. “ill always love you honey.” he stands frozen. he almost just gives up, dropping all his shit and turning around and laying in bed with you without a care in the world. he cant. he knows he cant it would kill him. “i love you too.” he whispers to the air. you would never hear him say that as he closes the door and never turns back.

he leaves you a note, telling you hes leaving and not to look for him. by the time you wake up for college he’ll hopefully already be out of the state. he places the box he had made of all the stuff you got him on the coffee table in your living room taping the note ontop of it. he takes one long final glance around the room he would never see again as his heart breaks. memories run through his mind of every second you shared together, this is for the best he knows it is but it hurts. it hurts so much.

tears run down his face as he forces himself with the clothes on his back and the small stack of cash he gained from odd jobs you helped him get. it felt wrong to take any of the stuff you had given him, he didn’t deserve any of it he didn’t deserve you. he didn’t know where he was going just that he was going somewhere, somewhere far far away from you.

he could never stop thinking about you no matter how much time had passed. he cried so much he could barely do anything else. so he decided to forget. force himself to lock up the memories of you and the best years of his life, the only good memories he had forced away so he could try to do something else anything else with his life other than missing you.

“bob?” yelena leans in towards him concerned. he has no clue how much time has passed. you’re too busy yelling at walker as bucky holds you back. ava and alexei too entertained to notice him but yelena did. you turn back to look at him at the sound of his name and your eyes widen, throwing walker against the wall you rush towards him, ignoring the way walker groans and curses at you as you bend down to eye level with him. bob had tears streaming down his face, violently shaking, “i left you im sorry im sorry.” your face falls into a pout as you look at him, unable to say anything simply staring at him.

yelena stands up with one clap of her hands shes rushing everyone out the room. “everyone out lets go.“ “no i want to watch them.” nope everyone out.” it takes a minute but she quickly rushes everyone out of the room sparing you a smile before she closes the door leaving you alone with him. you silently thank her in your mind before turning you attention towards bob.

he covered his face with his hands as he sobbed into his palms. “bob?” he wouldn’t respond, too lost in his emotions so you sigh. standing up you grip his forearms and tug at them. “come on honey.” he atleast follows you this time, allowing him to pull you to sit on the floor with him, still not looking at you.

“i looked for you.” he twitches but doesn’t dare look up. “i spent the next week running around the city looking for you at every corner. i was so scared j was gonna find you laying on the ground in some alley way.” your words seems to make his crying worse as he cant stop mumbling over and over again how sorry he was. “even after that i spent so long looking for you in every person i came across. it was second nature to glance around the street to see if i would see you, hell i dont know if i ever even stopped doing that.”

“i couldnt be the one to ruin your life.” he finally allows himself to whisper the thing he’s always thought. you would have never been able to achieve what you have if he stayed by your side. he only would have dragged you down, you probably would still be living in that old run down apartment building in florida if he had stayed. your face falls and you look down at the ground, tears pooling up in your eyes. “bob.”

“you are so amazing, everyday i was in awe of you, i was the thing setting you back. i had to go but it hurt you im sorry.” you reach over and grip his forearm, you can feel him shaking under your grip and the tears begin to spill down your face. “im happy you left.“

he looks up at you alarmed. as if you had said the craziest thing ever but you looked beyond him to the window outside. “you were miserable.”

“no i was so happy with you-“ “but you were so unhappy with your life!” he flinches as you raise your voice, you quietly apologize and fix your volume before you speak again, you shouldn’t let your emotions take over you like that. “i could tell, every single day you were just so miserable, it made me so sad to think about when i went to school or work you were just sitting at home alone doing nothing but getting high or you were getting yelled at at some part time job. you deserved so much better, you think i was being dragged down by you i was the one dragging you down.”

he couldn’t believe what he was hearing. you had thought you were keeping him down? that was ridiculous. he was the one who was going to ruin your life. when he opened his mouth to stop you you continued to speak over him. “i would have been so content just staying in that stupid city in that stupid apartment with you because i would have been with you. if you stayed i probably would have graduated from that community college and get some job at some office there to support us but you never would have been happy. you deserved more than that. to go out there to go see the world leave that city you were stuck in.”

the grip you must have on his arm would kill another man but neither of you notice lost in your own world, “if you leaving me got you here im so happy you did. look at you, you’re a hero honey, just like you always wanted to be. “

he has nothing to say. his body still shaking, as more silent tears run down his face. he cant believe you had thought like this, your words feel unreal to him. he doesnt even know what emotion he’s feeling.

“im sorry.” its the only words he can force out of his mouth. his stomach pulled in knots as forces himself to look down at the floor. you know maybe it wasn’t the best decision to dump all that on him but you couldnt help it, the thoughts you had been thinking for over a decade finally spilling from your lips. you sit in silence for awhile. you know its not good to leave it off there.

“you know what the best apology you can give me is?” when your voice unintentionally cracks he weakly looks up at you, “if you can tell me you’re happy now, without the need to stick some needle in your arm or shoot some powder up your nose you’d make me so happy.”

he sniffs a bit, finally seemingly calmed down and nods. “theyre nice to me, um im happy. i haven’t even thought about that stuff in awhile, it feels so nice. im so happy.” you choke back the sob that builds in your throat, “then thats more than enough for me.” he places his hand on top of yours and the two of you just sit and smile at each other for a bit.

“hey you wanna go eat? theres this place i really like around here havent been in ages, you can even bring your friends ill call over some of mine too.” his smile grows larger than ever and happily nods.

you dont know what the future will hold for either of you, unexpectedly running into the man you could never forget was certain to stir up some feelings in you, but for now you were so happy to see him so happy.

[urdreamydoodles]

MARVEL COMICS CHARACTERS x FEM!READER

Marvel Comics Characters Receiving a Dirty Picture from You in Public

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

God, I love Marvel Comics...

Peter Parker aka. Spider-Man

Peter has been through a lot. He’s fought villains, lost people he’s loved, and carried the weight of responsibility since he was a kid. But nothing—not Venom, not Doctor Octopus, not the Green Goblin—has ever hit him as hard as opening his phone and seeing you.

He’s perched upside-down on a fire escape, mid-stakeout with Daredevil, when his phone buzzes. He barely glances at it at first, assuming it’s an update from MJ or the Bugle. But then—his Spidey-Sense misfires. His stomach drops. And suddenly, he’s scrambling so fast that he almost falls off the fire escape.

“...Parker?” Matt’s voice is suspicious, brow furrowing beneath the red mask. Peter clutches his phone like a lifeline, heat rushing to his face, his entire body going rigid. “Uh—nope! Nothing’s wrong! Totally fine! Just, uh—gotta—go!” Before Matt can say another word, Peter web-slings away, heart pounding.

Later, in his apartment, he stares at the image, biting his lip so hard he might draw blood. Then, fumbling with his phone, he types back: You cannot just drop this on me in the middle of a mission. I almost DIED. You’re gonna make it up to me. In person. Immediately.

Tony Stark aka. Iron Man

Tony Stark is always the one making people flustered. He’s the king of inappropriate timing, the grandmaster of chaos. So when you flip the game on him? When you send him something completely indecent while he’s in the middle of a live press conference? Oh, he is in trouble.

He’s mid-sentence, standing in front of a sea of reporters, when his phone vibrates. He glances at it without thinking, because hey, it might be about stock prices or another alien invasion. But no. No, it’s you. In the filthiest pose imaginable.

He visibly freezes. Blinks. Blanches. Then—his brain blue screens. The entire room stares as Tony suddenly cuts off mid-sentence, clears his throat, and forces a smirk that’s absolutely not covering up a crisis. “Uh—ladies and gentlemen, I think that’s enough questions for today.”

The moment he’s offstage, he stumbles into the nearest private room, yanks at his tie, and pulls out his phone like it holds the meaning of life. He types back immediately: Oh, now you’ve done it, sweetheart. I hope you’re home right now, because I’m on my way, and I’m bringing consequences.

Steve Rogers aka. Captain America

Steve is not a prude. He’s been around, he’s seen things. But there’s something about you—about the way you know exactly how to knock the breath from his lungs—that makes him feel like a kid again.

He’s in the middle of a strategy meeting with Sam and Bucky, his shield leaning against the table, when his phone vibrates. He checks it without thinking, eyes flicking down—and then every muscle in his body tenses. His grip on the phone tightens. His ears burn red.

“You good, Rogers?” Bucky gives him a knowing smirk, because he immediately recognizes that look—Steve flustered beyond belief. Steve clears his throat, hard, locking his phone like it’s offended him. “Fine,” he says, voice a little too even. “Let’s, uh—let’s keep going.”

But later, when he’s alone, he exhales deeply, pressing a hand over his face before looking at the image again. Then, with slow deliberation, he types: I hope you know what you just started. Because I don’t break my promises, sweetheart. And I promise—you’re not leaving that bed when I get there.

Thor Odinson aka. God of Thunder

Thor has seen battles, has waged wars across the cosmos, has faced monsters and gods. But when his phone pings—when he sees the absolute sin that you’ve just sent him—he forgets how to breathe.

He is in the middle of the Avengers’ common room, laughing boisterously with Bruce and Natasha, when he pulls out his phone. He expects something simple—a text from his brother, perhaps, or a message from Jane. But instead? Instead, he sees you.

The entire room feels it when Thor’s laughter stops. There is a moment—just a beat of silence—before the lights flicker. The air crackles with static electricity. His fingers twitch around the phone, and then, in a low, very serious voice, he mutters, “By the Norns…”

Natasha raises an eyebrow, but Thor abruptly stands, clearing his throat. “I must depart. Urgently.” Bruce frowns. “What? Why?” Thor barely offers an explanation before storming out of the room, typing furiously: You dare tempt the God of Thunder? Very well, little one. You shall learn what it means to summon a storm.

Loki Laufeyson aka. God of Mischief

Loki is the undisputed master of control. He is calm, composed, always one step ahead of everyone else. But when you send him something so shameless, so brazen, in the middle of an important diplomatic event in Asgard—he nearly drops his goblet of wine.

He’s reclining on his throne, listening to some dull ambassador drone on about trade negotiations, when his phone vibrates. He lifts it lazily, expecting nothing of importance—until he sees you.

His entire body goes rigid. His grip tightens around the goblet, the silver denting beneath his fingers. His green eyes darken, and for the first time in centuries, he feels his pulse stutter. The ambassador keeps talking, oblivious, but Loki? Loki is seething.

Later, in his chambers, he lounges on his bed, turning the phone over in his fingers before smirking. Then, with slow, careful precision, he types: You dare tease the God of Mischief? Oh, darling, you are in such trouble. And you know how much I enjoy trouble.

Clint Barton aka. Hawkeye

Clint Barton is used to chaos. He’s fought alien invasions, taken down crime syndicates, and, most impressively, lived in a house with three dogs and somehow survived. But nothing—not the Avengers, not S.H.I.E.L.D., not even Kate Bishop’s endless sarcasm—could have prepared him for this.

He’s in the middle of a debriefing with Captain America and Black Widow when his phone vibrates. Normally, he’d ignore it, but boredom gets the better of him. He sneaks a glance, tilting the screen just slightly—and immediately chokes on his coffee.

“Barton?” Natasha’s voice is sharp, her suspicious gaze snapping to him. Steve looks concerned. Clint, on the other hand, is malfunctioning. He quickly locks his phone, pressing it to his thigh like it’s burning him. “Yep. All good. Just… wrong text thread. You know how it is.”

The second he’s alone, he whistles, rubbing a hand down his face before sending a text: You are absolutely trying to kill me, aren’t you? I’m a trained marksman, babe. You know I always hit my target. Hope you’re ready.

Natasha Romanoff aka. Black Widow

Natasha Romanoff is a professional. She’s endured psychological conditioning, trained with the deadliest assassins in the world, and can lie so well that even she forgets what’s real. But when you send her something so utterly filthy, in the middle of a high-stakes poker game with some very dangerous people—she nearly loses her composure.

She’s holding a perfect poker face, one leg crossed over the other, a cigarette between her fingers (purely for effect). Then, her phone buzzes. She never checks her phone during missions, but for some reason, she does this time.

The second she sees the image, her fingers twitch. She almost fumbles her cigarette. Almost. A single slow breath is all that betrays her before she locks the screen and smirks, adjusting her sunglasses to hide the flicker of heat in her gaze.

Later, after she’s won the game (because of course she has), she finally responds: You must be very confident, sending me something like that. I hope you know what happens when I catch my prey, моя любовь (my love). Because I always catch them.

Bucky Barnes aka. Winter Soldier

Bucky is already always on edge. He spent decades being controlled, his mind fractured, his instincts constantly telling him that danger lurks around every corner. But when his phone vibrates in the middle of a mission briefing and he makes the mistake of checking it—he nearly self-destructs.

He’s sitting next to Sam Wilson, arms crossed, trying to focus on the tactical discussion. Then, out of habit, he glances at his phone. And suddenly? His enhanced heartbeat spikes. His grip on the phone tightens, metal fingers creaking.

Sam immediately notices. “Dude. You okay?” Bucky doesn’t answer. He just exhales deeply, jaw clenching, and locks his phone like it’s personally offended him. “Fine,” he mutters, but the way his throat bobs betrays him.

Later, in the privacy of his room, he leans against the wall, pressing his flesh hand over his face before looking at the image again. Then, he types—slow, deliberate, full of promise: You are playing with fire, doll. And you know I don’t burn alone.

Matthew Murdock aka. Daredevil

Matt has learned to control himself. He has to, considering his senses pick up everything. The heartbeat of a liar, the scent of blood, the whisper of fabric against skin. But when he puts in his earpiece during a stakeout with Elektra and hears you—sultry, teasing, wicked—his composure shatters.

Your voice is a purr, warm and full of amusement, as you describe, in explicit detail, exactly what you want to do to him. Every syllable slides into his ear like a sin, and for the first time in years, Matt Murdock forgets how to breathe.

“Murdock.” Elektra’s voice is unimpressed. “Are you even listening?” Matt clenches his jaw, forcing his expression into something neutral as he slowly removes the earpiece. “Yeah,” he lies, his voice way too tight. “Loud and clear.” But his fingers twitch, betraying him.

Later, alone in his apartment, he plays the message again. And again. Until his own heartbeat is thunderous in his ears. Then, with a slow smirk, he records his reply—his voice low, gravelly, barely more than a rasp: Angel, you have no idea what you’ve just done. And I promise—you won’t be able to walk tomorrow.

Frank Castle aka. The Punisher

Frank Castle does not fluster. He’s a man who’s seen the worst of the world, a soldier who has lost everything. He does not get distracted. But when he’s sitting in the middle of a grimy bar, brooding over a whiskey, and his phone vibrates—everything stops.

He checks it absently, expecting intel from Micro or maybe a warning from Daredevil. But instead, he gets you. And just like that, his grip on the glass tightens. His jaw locks. His entire body tenses, muscles coiled, because you have just sent him something so utterly indecent that he has to set his whiskey down before he crushes the glass.

The bartender notices. “You good, man?” Frank barely glances up, his fingers white-knuckled around his phone. “Fine,” he mutters, voice rough. He shoves his phone back in his pocket and downs the rest of his drink in one go.

Later, in the dead of night, he finally lets himself look at the picture again. He exhales, rubbing a hand over his face, before sending a single message: You think you’re real cute, huh? Yeah. Keep that same energy when I get home. See if you’re still smirking when I’ve got my hands on you.

Marc Spector aka. Moon Knight

Marc has lived multiple lives. A mercenary. A vigilante. A fist of vengeance. But the moment his phone vibrates in the middle of a stakeout, and he sees you—he nearly blows his own cover.

He’s perched on a rooftop, watching a weapons deal go down, his mind sharp and focused. Then, out of habit, he checks his phone. His breath hitches. His grip tightens around the device, and he has to physically restrain himself from groaning. Khonshu’s voice rumbles in his mind: "Your mortal desires are distracting, Spector." Marc grits his teeth. "Yeah, no shit."

“Something wrong?” Jake’s voice purrs from inside his head, amused. “She send you something nice, hermano?” Marc rolls his eyes, exhaling sharply before locking his phone. “Mind your damn business.” But his pulse is thundering.

Later, back at his apartment, he leans against the wall, staring at the image before typing: You have no idea what you’ve just done. Hope you’re home. Hope you’re ready.

Johnny Storm aka. Human Torch

Johnny Storm is used to attention. He thrives on it. He’s a celebrity, a hero, a walking flame. But when you send him something scandalous in the middle of a live television interview, even he isn’t ready for it.

He’s laughing, flashing his signature cocky grin at the camera, when his phone buzzes. He checks it without thinking—because hey, it might be Sue yelling at him again—but instead, it’s you. In the filthiest pose imaginable.

Johnny visibly chokes. His entire body tenses. For the first time ever, he forgets what he was saying. The interviewer blinks. “Uh… Johnny?” His brain short-circuits. His face heats—literally. The tips of his ears ignite before he clenches his fists and forces himself to not spontaneously combust on live television.

The second the interview is over, he’s sprinting to his dressing room, slamming the door shut and typing frantically: Ohhh, you are in trouble. You’re really trying to set me on fire, huh? Hope you’re home, babe, ‘cause I’m flying over. Right. Now.

Reed Richards aka. Mister Fantastic

Reed Richards is a genius. His mind is constantly working at speeds beyond human comprehension. But when he’s mid-lecture at a prestigious scientific conference and his phone vibrates—his brilliant mind suddenly goes blank.

He absently checks his phone, half-expecting an alert from the Baxter Building. But instead, it’s you. Wearing almost nothing.

For a solid ten seconds, he is frozen. His eyes slightly widen. His fingers twitch. And then, very slowly, he locks his phone and clears his throat. “Ah—excuse me, esteemed colleagues, but I must—um—attend to an urgent matter.”

Later, he adjusts his glasses, staring at the image with a fascinated, almost scientific appreciation. Then, with methodical precision, he types: You are a very distracting woman. I will be conducting an… in-depth study on you as soon as I return. Expect a thorough examination.

Felicia Hardy aka. Black Cat

Felicia Hardy is a master of seduction. She flusters men for fun. But when she’s in the middle of a high-stakes casino heist, and you send her something utterly indecent, even she loses her composure.

She’s leaning against the bar, sipping an expensive martini, eyes locked on her mark. Then, her phone buzzes. She lazily checks it, expecting an update from her crew. But instead? Instead, she sees you.

Her eyelashes flutter. Her lips part just slightly. And for the first time in years, her poker face cracks. The bartender—oblivious—raises an eyebrow. “Everything okay, miss?” Felicia exhales, smirking as she locks her phone. “Oh, it’s better than okay.”

Later, she lounges on silk sheets, staring at the picture before purring into her phone: You really think you can tease me, kitten? Oh, sweetheart… you just made a very expensive bet. And I never lose.

Stephen Strange aka. Doctor Strange

Stephen Strange is not easily shaken. He’s fought cosmic horrors, bent reality, and wielded power beyond mortal comprehension. But when he’s in the middle of a magical duel with Dormammu, and you send him a sinfully explicit picture—he almost loses.

He’s mid-incantation, floating above the Sanctum’s rooftop, when his phone vibrates. Normally, he’d ignore it—except something in the back of his mind tells him it’s you. He flicks his fingers, glancing at the screen—and immediately regrets it.

His spell stutters. His fingers twitch. The fabric of reality briefly warps. Wong, standing below, yells, “What the hell was that?!” Stephen clenches his jaw, locking his phone immediately before snapping his wrist and repairing the timeline. “Nothing,” he mutters. “Absolutely nothing.”

The moment the battle is over, he retreats into his study, loosening his Cloak, before typing: You dare distract the Sorcerer Supreme? You have no idea what you’ve just unleashed, darling. And I do hope you’re prepared for consequences beyond mortal comprehension.

Namor aka. The Sub-Mariner

Namor is a king. He does not answer to anyone. He has waged war against the surface world, stood against the mightiest heroes, and commands the loyalty of an entire empire. But when he is seated on his throne, discussing politics with his council, and his communicator vibrates—everything else becomes irrelevant.

He glances down, expecting a diplomatic missive. Instead, he is greeted by you—a vision of temptation, captured in a way that only he has the privilege to see. His grip on the communicator tightens, his lips parting slightly. The light of the display reflects in his dark, narrowed eyes.

The council drones on, but Namor hears nothing. His golden gauntlets flex, his knuckles tightening as his jaw sets. A slow, deliberate exhale is all that betrays his reaction. But those closest to him—his most trusted generals—see the flicker of something dangerous in his expression. A storm, barely contained.

Later, as he stands upon his balcony, overlooking the endless ocean, he types a single response: You seek to tempt a king, my love? Then be prepared for the wrath of a god. When next we meet, you will drown in my devotion.

Johnny Blaze aka. Ghost Rider

Johnny Blaze has seen Hell—literally. He has ridden across the desolate highways of damnation, stared into the abyss, and laughed. But when he’s sitting in a biker bar, nursing a whiskey and half-listening to some guy ramble about the Devil, his phone vibrates. And when he checks it—he nearly sets the whole place on fire.

The image of you is burned into his mind, seared into his soul. He sucks in a slow breath through his teeth, his fingers tightening around the glass. His knuckles go white. Somewhere deep inside, the Spirit of Vengeance chuckles.

“Something wrong, Blaze?” One of the other bikers eyes him warily. Johnny forces a smirk, setting his whiskey down before he crushes the glass in his grip. “Nah,” he rasps, his voice a little too rough. “Just realized I got… unfinished business to take care of.”

Later, on his Hellfire-coated bike, he sends a text: You got a real bad habit of making me wanna sin, sweetheart. And I promise—I’ll make sure you repent. Over. And over.

Eddie Brock & Venom aka. Venom

Eddie Brock has been through hell. He’s fought monsters, been one himself, lost everything, and still kept going. But nothing—not a damn thing—could prepare him for the absolute carnage of getting that picture from you in the middle of a crowded subway.

He’s scrolling through his phone absentmindedly, Venom muttering in his head about wanting tater tots, when the image loads. For a solid five seconds, he is completely still. Then—

“Eddie.” Venom’s voice rumbles, amused. “Your mate is very… bold. We approve.” Eddie, red-faced, slams his phone against his chest like that’ll somehow erase what just happened. “Jesus Christ,” he mutters, eyes darting around to make sure no one saw. A teenager across from him raises an eyebrow.

Later, when he’s alone, he finally lets himself look at the picture again. A slow, predatory grin spreads across his face as he types back: Oh, you think you’re being cute, huh? Yeah. Just wait till I get my hands on you. Hell, maybe we’ll even let Venom have a little fun, too.

T’Challa aka. Black Panther

T’Challa is a king, a warrior, a legend. His mind is a fortress, his will unshakable. But when he is seated in the royal palace of Wakanda, surrounded by dignitaries, and his Kimoyo Beads alert him to a personal message—his focus wavers.

He allows himself a discreet glance. And in that moment? His heart skips a single beat. His fingers—steady even in the heat of battle—tighten just slightly around his beads. His expression does not change. But to those who know him well—Okoye, Shuri—they notice the subtlest flicker of something dangerous in his eyes.

Shuri smirks. “Brother,” she murmurs, leaning in. “You look… distracted.” T’Challa exhales deeply, locking the message with a casual flick of his fingers. “I am merely… anticipating a conversation.”

Later, when he is alone, he reviews the picture once more, fingers grazing his jaw before he types: You are testing my patience, beloved. And you know I am a man of great discipline. But for you? I am willing to break my own rules. Expect me soon.

Elektra Natchios aka. Elektra

Elektra Natchios does not fluster. She has slit the throats of kings, danced on the edge of oblivion, and played cat-and-mouse with death itself. But when she is sharpening her sai on the rooftop of a New York high-rise and her phone buzzes—her grip falters.

The blade nicks her glove. Barely. But it happens. Her lips part in a slow, dangerous smirk as she tilts the phone toward the moonlight, drinking in the absolute audacity of your message.

“Something amusing?” A voice—a rival assassin, lurking in the shadows. Elektra does not answer. She merely tucks her phone away, standing smoothly, her stance lethal. “Yes,” she purrs. “Something… very amusing.”

Later, as she leans against the window of her penthouse, she finally sends a reply: You are so very reckless, my love. And I do enjoy breaking reckless little things.

[irefy]

My favorite parts of the Iliad now that I’ve finished it for the first time:

Odysseus running around beating people with a scepter (and the amount of joy he got from it)

Agamemnon prematurely mourning Menelaus, who is standing right next to him.

Zeus telling Ares he hates him the most of all his children. God damn. He really did just say that to his face didn’t he.

Diomedes being a force of nature on the battlefield

Diomedes being a force of nature on the battlefield and everyone still treating him like he’s their annoying little brother who they unfortunately sometimes have to kind of listen to.

Diomedes.

“What are you talking about?” I laughed out loud multiple times because of this line. I don’t know what it is, but every single time it’s said I just imagine the most baffled/annoyed expression and tone of voice on whoever was saying it and I just. Lose it every time.

Helen being extremely passive aggressive the entire time she’s on the page. Seriously love her.

Helen believing her brothers didn’t come to war because they were ashamed of her, not knowing they have been dead for some time. It hurts and I love it.

Odysseus and Diomedes being sent on a spy mission and deciding that, after getting information from the Trojan spy, they are going to go to their camp and steal some horses. (And a chariot. And some armor, I think???) Utter chaos. They did not have to do this. This was A Choice.

Them coming back after stealing said horses and NOT A SINGLE PERSON QUESTIONS IT. IMPLYING THIS IS A NORMAL THING FOR THEM. AND THEY JUST,,,,,REGULARLY DO SHIT LIKE THIS.

Athena helping them.

The Trojans being annoyed with Paris

Nestor kicking Diomedes awake, who is, for some fucking reason, sleeping on the ground (?????)

Nestor.

Nestor going on long winded rants about His Day and his exploits. And everyone just kinda has to sit and listen to him talk.

Poseidon causing an earthquake so extreme Hades worried he was going to expose the underworld.

Artemis calling Apollo a baby for not wanting to fight Poseidon

Apollo ignoring her entirely. Peak sibling energy.

Achilles calling Patroclus’ ghost “true heart.” I know what you are.

Athena helping Diomedes in the funeral games.

Athena getting so mad Apollo made Diomedes drop his whip during said games she sabotaged Eumelus and made Diomedes’ horses run faster.

Antilochus threatening his horses into running faster.

This working.

Odysseus and Ajax wrestling and being so evenly matched that everyone gets tired of watching.

When they get up for round three Achilles telling them to “put not eachother further to such cruel suffering.”

The idea that Achilles was so sick of watching them that he compares it to actively being in pain.

Odysseus praying to Athena for help when he’s loosing the footrace.

Athena actually helping him.

Athena sabotaging Ajax and making him slip and fall face first into dung.

Ajax saying Athena hovers over Odysseus like his mother. Everyone finds this hilarious. Odysseus does not disagree.

Diomedes continually aiming at Ajax’s neck while fighting for a sword and armor. They are stopped by the rest of the Achaeans in fear for Ajax’s safety.

Yea, I’m convinced the Iliad is a comagedy. A comedic tragedy. A tragic comedy?

[devdozes]

ACCIDENTALLY KIDNAPPING A MAFIA BOSS?!

silly idea :3 should i make this into a series? was listening to bring me to life while making this lmao (also more phainon fanart at the end of the post)

It started with a simple friendship—one that no one really questioned. You and Phainon were practically inseparable, an odd yet perfect duo that made everyone wonder how the universe aligned so well to bring you together.

Phainon was the golden retriever of your life, all bright smiles, mischievous grins, and boundless energy that made it impossible to be in a bad mood around him. He was always there—whether you wanted him to be or not.

Like that time when you had a late-night craving for bubble tea, and he showed up at your doorstep five minutes after your text, holding two cups like he had been waiting for the opportunity all night. Or when you got sick and insisted you were fine, only for him to barge into your apartment with an entire care package—complete with soup, blankets, and a ridiculously oversized hoodie that smelled like him.

“You don’t take care of yourself, so I gotta do it for you,” he had said, grinning as he forced a spoonful of soup into your mouth. “If I wasn’t around, who’d be your personal nurse, huh?”

You had rolled your eyes, but truthfully, you loved having him around.

Phainon was also a menace in the best way possible. He made it his personal mission to embarrass you in public, whether that meant dramatically fake-proposing to you in the middle of a grocery store or loudly announcing that you were his “number one best friend” every time he saw you in class.

“[NAME]!” he had once yelled across the university campus, sprinting toward you like a lunatic while students turned to stare. “I haven’t seen you in two hours! Did you miss me?”

You had barely dodged him, tackling you in front of everyone. “Phainon, oh my god, please calm down.”

He was never calm. He never was and never will be.

But that was what you loved about him—his relentless energy, his unwavering presence. No matter what, he was always there, like a constant, bright force in your life.

And yet, beneath the sunshine exterior, there were times when his blue eyes darkened, moments where his grip on your wrist would linger just a second too long, where his playful teasing held an edge of something deeper. Something..terrifying?

Phainon wasn’t just close to you—he revolved around you. Every little thing you did, every fleeting expression, every shift in your tone, he noticed. He memorized your favorite drinks, your quirks, the way your eyes sparkled when you talked about something you loved. He lived for those moments.

There were nights he stayed up scrolling through your old messages, rereading your texts like they were sacred scripture. He had a folder on his phone filled with candid pictures of you—laughing, sleeping, lost in thought. Some you had sent him. Some you hadn't.

If anyone got too close, if anyone dared to make you laugh the way he did, his jaw would clench, his grip on his drink tightening. He knew you were his. Even if you didn’t realize it yet.

And when you weren’t looking, when you weren’t aware of the way he watched you, the way his entire world narrowed down to just you—his smile would fade, his cheerful mask slipping, revealing the raw, unfiltered obsession lurking beneath.

On his wrist, always, was a simple black hair tie—yours. You had probably forgotten about it, left it on his wrist one day without a second thought, but to him, it was a sacred token, a symbol of ownership. He never took it off. It was stretched and worn from his constant fidgeting, his fingers absently tugging at it whenever you spoke, whenever you so much as smiled at someone else.

You had asked about it once, laughing, “Why do you always wear that? Do you even have long enough hair to need it?”

His grin was quick, easy. “It’s lucky,” he had replied, flicking it with his fingers. “And it reminds me of someone important.”

You had shrugged, not thinking much of it. But if you had paid closer attention, you would have noticed the way his fingers curled over the hair tie protectively, as if he were afraid someone would take it from him. As if losing it meant losing you.

Phainon was careful. He never let his obsession slip too far, never let you see the depths of his devotion. You thought he was just a clingy best friend, a lovable idiot who adored you. You didn’t know about the people who had gotten too close, only to suddenly lose interest, to quietly disappear from your life.

You didn’t know about the nights he watched you through the reflection of a window, keeping an eye on you from the shadows when you thought you were alone. You didn’t know about the things he had done, the people he had silenced, all to keep you safe—to keep you his.

And then, there were the little things. The way he always knew where you had been, even when you hadn’t told him. The way he always seemed to show up at just the right time, as if he had been tracking your schedule down to the second. He was always prepared—whether it was having your favorite drink ready before you even asked, or subtly steering you away from conversations with people he didn’t like. He never said it outright, never made his possessiveness obvious, but the hints were there. The intensity in his eyes when he watched you, the way his fingers tightened around your wrist when he pulled you away from a stranger, the way he always seemed to whisper, half-joking but dead serious, “You belong with me.”

It was a quiet evening when you curled up on your couch, flipping through channels absentmindedly, sipping on your favorite drink. The warm glow of the TV cast soft shadows across your living room, your eyelids drooping from exhaustion. That was, until the flashing "BREAKING NEWS" banner jolted you awake.

"Another victim of the infamous Flamereaver has been discovered in the city’s industrial district," the news anchor reported, their tone grim. "Authorities believe this is the latest in a string of calculated eliminations carried out by the elusive mafia leader. The identity of the Flamereaver remains unknown, but their signature brutality and precision leave no doubt—this was an execution."

You blinked, the weight of the report settling in your chest. The Flamereaver. You had heard the name before—who hadn’t? The ghostly swordmaster who had left entire organizations in ruin, a name spoken in hushed whispers, feared by even the most powerful figures in the underground world.

The news station flashed grainy images of the crime scene—police cars, body bags, shaken witnesses. You shivered, setting your drink down.

Another one? This was happening too often.

Your mind wandered, a passing thought striking you. Phainon had mentioned going out earlier, hadn’t he? Something about meeting an old friend.

You shook your head, dismissing the ridiculous idea that had briefly surfaced. No way. Not Phainon. He was too much of a goofball, too softhearted to be involved in something this violent.

Still, you couldn't help but feel an eerie chill run down your spine as you turned the volume down, trying to push away the unease settling deep within your bones as if someone or something was watching you.

Outside, hidden beneath the cover of darkness, Phainon stood motionless.

Draped in a black cloak and hoodie, his face concealed by the shadows, he watched you through your window, blue eyes burning with something indescribable. Admiration. Love.

You had no idea how beautiful you looked in this moment—so peaceful, so unaware. So his.

A gloved hand brushed against the black hair tie on his wrist, a slow, possessive motion. He never took it off. Just like he would never let you go.

Soon, he thought. Soon, you would understand.

Soon, you would be his completely.

And as the cold night pressed in, Phainon allowed a small, knowing smirk to curl at his lips. The world might fear the Flamereaver—but you? You would never have to.

Because he would do anything to keep you safe.

Even if it meant making sure no one else could ever have you. . . . . Minutes passed. Perhaps an hour. Only when the house lights dimmed, signaling you to retreat to bed, only then did Phainon finally move. He let out a slow exhale, fogging up the cold air before turning away, his steps eerily silent against the pavement.

And then, his expression changed.

His once cheerful blue eyes turned glacial, devoid of emotion. The warmth drained from his features as he tilted his head downward, staring at the lifeless body sprawled at his feet. A fresh corpse, still warm. Blood pooled beneath it, seeping into the cracks of the pavement, glistening under the dim glow of a streetlamp. The man’s face was twisted in frozen terror, eyes wide and vacant, his lips still parted as if in a final, unfinished plea for mercy.

Phainon had granted him none.

A golden blade protruded from the man’s chest, its edge gleaming even through the thick coat of crimson that dripped from its surface. Phainon knelt, completely unaffected, and with a practiced, almost lazy motion, he wiped the blade clean against the dead man’s own shirt. The metal shone again, immaculate, as if it had never been tainted with the act of ending a life.

His fingers moved to his face, smearing away a thin line of blood that had splattered across his cheek. The expression he wore now was unreadable—detached, mechanical. This was not the same Phainon who grinned and cracked jokes, who draped himself over your shoulders with a playful whine, who gazed at you like she was the very sun in his sky.

This was the Flamereaver.

His gaze flicked down at the corpse once more, unimpressed, before he stepped over it without hesitation, leaving only the scent of blood and death in his wake. His black hoodie rustled slightly in the night breeze, his golden blade disappearing into the folds of his cloak. As he walked, his fingers briefly brushed against the black hair tie wrapped securely around his wrist—the only tether left to the warmth he allowed himself to feel.

For her, he would remain the Phainon she knew.

For the rest of the world, he was a nightmare in human skin.

Meanwhile, inside your room, you sat on your bed, the faint hum of the television still lingering in the silence. You had retreated into your space, but your mind was far from tired. Instead, it buzzed with the same consuming thoughts that had plagued you for months—Phainon.

Your walls were a testament to your obsession, though no one else would ever see. A large corkboard hung above your desk, filled with drawings of him—his laughing expression, the soft tilt of his head, the way his golden blade gleamed when he trained. Your fingers absentmindedly traced the edges of one of the sketches before you turned your gaze to the digital clock beside your bed.

12:30 AM.

Like clockwork, your head snapped toward your window. You knew Phainon's schedule down to the minute. He always returned home at this hour, no later, no sooner. You had memorized the sound of his footsteps, the rhythm of his habits, the way he sometimes hummed to himself under his breath when he thought no one was listening. The way he would smile, the way his oh so beautiful cerulean eyes would glimmer under the moonlight.

Slipping quietly to your window, you peered through the curtains, your pulse quickening with anticipation. Your eyes locked onto the street below, searching, waiting.

Because just like Phainon watched you, you had been watching him all along. . . . . . . Something was wrong.

Instead of Phainon casually strolling up to his house, there was another figure—taller, clothed in dark black robes with a hood obscuring their face. Your breath hitched as you noticed the faint glint of a weapon in their grip—a golden blade, slick with fresh blood. Your stomach twisted at the sight.

A murderer. Right outside Phainon’s house.

Your fingers clenched around the windowsill as you watched, heart pounding. The figure stood motionless for a moment before casually wiping the blade against their sleeve, as if the act of killing meant nothing to them. Then, with eerie calmness, they sheathed the weapon beneath their cloak and turned slightly, revealing just enough for you to see their towering frame—easily around 6'3.

Panic flared through you. Whoever they were, they were close. Too close. Had they been watching Phainon? Had they come to kill him? Or worse—were they waiting for him?

You swallowed hard, eyes darting between the figure and Phainon’s front door. He still wasn’t home. He was late. He was never late. A creeping dread coiled in your chest as you gripped your phone, debating whether to call him, to warn him. But would he believe you? Would you even be able to explain this?

Your gaze flicked back to the figure just as they simply stood in front of Phainon's house, looking left and right as if he was searching for something.

But something was wrong.

Instead of Phainon casually strolling up to his house, there was another figure—taller, clothed in dark robes with a hood obscuring their face. Your breath hitched as you noticed the faint glint of a weapon in their grip—a golden blade, slick with fresh blood. Your stomach twisted at the sight.

A murderer. Right outside Phainon’s house.

Your fingers clenched around the windowsill as you watched, heart pounding. The figure stood motionless for a moment before casually wiping the blade against their sleeve, as if the act of killing meant nothing to them. Then, with eerie calmness, they sheathed the weapon beneath their cloak and turned slightly, revealing just enough for you to see their towering frame—easily around 6'3.

Panic flared through you. Whoever they were, they were close. Too close. Had they been watching Phainon? Had they come to kill him? Or worse—were they waiting for him?

You swallowed hard, eyes darting between the figure and Phainon’s front door. He still wasn’t home. He was late. He was never late. A creeping dread coiled in your chest as you gripped your phone, debating whether to call him, to warn him. But would he believe you? Would you even be able to explain this?

Your gaze flicked back to the figure just standing their eerily in front of your best friend's house, looking left and right as if they were searching for something or someone. . . . . Fuckfuckfuckfuckfuck

Your heart pounded in your chest as you sprinted down the stairs, your thoughts racing just as fast. Who the hell was that outside Phainon's house? A murderer? A thief? Some lunatic waiting for Phainon to come home?

You didn’t stop to think. Your body moved on instinct.

Grabbing the cold, heavy metal baseball bat from beside the shoe rack, you tightened your grip, your knuckles turning white. As you shoved your hands into the worn leather knuckle gloves Phainon had given you—his little “gift” after you won a sparring match against him—you took a deep breath to steady yourself.

Stay calm. Stay sharp.

You flung open your front door and stormed outside, your breath misting in the night air. The distant hum of streetlights and the soft rustling of tree leaves did nothing to ease the sheer unease creeping up your spine.

And there he was.

The figure stood still—eerily, unnaturally still—right in front of Phainon’s house. His tall frame loomed at around 6’3, making him tower over most people. A long, black cloak with patterns of a crescent moon billowed slightly in the cold wind, its hood casting a deep shadow over his face. But what really made your blood run cold was the weapon in his hand.

A golden blade. Its edge gleamed faintly under the moonlight, marred by something dark, something wet. Blood.

Your grip on the bat tightened as your stomach twisted.

He wasn’t moving. He was just... standing there. Watching.

Was he waiting for Phainon? Did he already—No. You refused to finish that thought.

Without hesitation, you stormed forward, heart hammering against your ribs.

“Hey!” Your voice rang out in the dead of night, sharp and unwavering. “Oi bastard what the fuck are you doing outside his house?”

No response.

The man didn’t even flinch. Didn’t turn. Didn’t acknowledge you.

Your body tensed. Every instinct screamed danger. But you weren’t about to back down.

“Oi, asshole! I’m talking to you!” You took another step forward, raising the bat slightly. “I don’t know what creepy shit you’re trying to pull, but you better step the fuck away from Phainon’s house before I break that fancy little sword of yours over my knee.”

Still, nothing. The figure remained silent, his presence as cold and unmoving as a statue.

The only shift was the subtle tilt of his head—just slightly—like he was regarding you.

Something about that small movement made your skin crawl.

Why did it feel so familiar?

But you had no time to second-guess yourself.

You tightened your stance, shifting your weight, ready to swing if you had to. This bastard wasn’t about to get past you.

The figure finally moved.

With slow, deliberate precision, he tilted his head downward—as if looking at the bloodied golden blade in his grasp. Then, with an eerily casual flick of his wrist, he wiped the blood off its edge with his gloved fingers.

The movement was practiced. Effortless. Like he had done this a thousand times before.

Your breath hitched.

He wasn’t just some random thug.

This man was a killer.

And yet… he still didn’t strike.

He simply stood there, staring at his weapon, his face obscured by the cloak’s deep hood. The silence between you stretched, suffocating and unnerving.

Your heartbeat pounded in your ears.

For a split second, you considered your next move. Should you charge at him? Should you call someone? Should you—

You stood frozen in place, gripping your bat so tightly your hands ached.

The golden weapon. The black cloak. The blood. The way he moved. The way he didn’t attack you.

Your stomach churned.

Who the hell was that?

And why… did something about him feel so unsettlingly familiar?

. . . .

The moment he turned his back on you, something inside snapped.

Oh, hell no.

You weren’t about to let some bloodstained creep just walk away after standing in front of Phainon’s house like some horror movie stalker. What if he was waiting for Phainon to come home? What if he had already done something?

You didn’t even think. You ran.

Your feet pounded against the pavement as you rushed forward, closing the distance between you and the cloaked bastard in seconds.

And then—

CRACK.

Your fist slammed into the side of his face, the impact so strong you felt his jaw shift beneath your knuckles.

The force of your punch sent him staggering back, but you weren’t done. Not even close.

You pivoted on your heel, twisting your body for momentum, before swinging again.

BAM!

Your second punch landed hard on the opposite side of his face, his hood shifting slightly from the sheer impact.

The bastard stumbled further, nearly losing his balance.

But you didn’t give him a second to recover.

Your hands gripped the bat tightly—muscles coiling like a spring—before you swung with everything you had.

WHAM!

The bat slammed into his head with full force.

A sickening thud echoed through the empty street as the figure’s entire body jerked from the impact.

His legs gave out instantly.

His body collapsed to the ground, unmoving.

The once-imposing figure—shrouded in mystery, with a golden weapon still faintly glinting in his grip—now lay sprawled out at your feet.

Knocked out cold.

You took a deep breath, wiping the sweat from your brow with the back of your gloved hand, before glancing down at him.

And then…

You grinned.

A slow, faint smile curled at your lips as you admired your handiwork.

There was something thrilling about seeing this so-called intimidating figure sprawled out, helpless, after you had beaten him down.

“Tch.” You scoffed, tilting your head slightly as you inspected his unconscious form. “What, that’s it? No fight back? No last words? Kinda disappointing, really.”

You nudged his side with your foot, testing for any movement.

Nothing.

Your smirk widened.

This idiot seriously underestimated you.

Big mistake.

The golden weapon lay loosely in his grip now, the blood along its edge darkening under the moonlight. You eyed it for a moment, debating whether to take it—or at least break it—but then your gaze flickered back to the figure’s half-uncovered face.

And for a split second, something nagged at you.

Something felt… off.

That jawline… that build…

Why did he look so—

You shook the thought away. Who cares?

Right now, you needed to figure out what to do next.

This bastard clearly wasn’t some random mugger. Murderer? Maybe. Either way, you weren’t about to leave him lying here without some answers.

Maybe… you should drag him somewhere and question him when he wakes up.

Your grin turned sharper.

Yeah. That sounded like a fun idea.

You exhaled sharply, gripping the unconscious figure by his arm as you dragged his heavy, lifeless body across the pavement.

His golden weapon gleamed faintly under the streetlights, the bloodstains dark and fresh along its edge. You had it clutched tightly in your other hand, fingers curling around the hilt as you stole a glance at its intricate design.

This was no ordinary blade.

No mugger or common thug carried something this finely crafted.

Your grip tightened.

Who the hell was this guy?

Even unconscious, his presence felt off—too eerily still, too controlled, even in this state. It almost pissed you off.

No fear. No desperation. Just… silence.

You dragged him up the porch of your house, gritting your teeth at his weight before kicking open the door.

THUD.

His body hit the floorboards with a dull noise, limbs sprawled like a broken puppet.

Without wasting a second, you grabbed a chair, shoved it into the center of the room, and hauled him onto it.

His black cloak rustled as you forced his arms behind his back, tying them up tightly with thick rope. You did the same to his legs, making sure he couldn’t move an inch.

But the most unsettling part?

Even as you worked, his face remained hidden beneath that black metal mask—its golden vine-like engravings catching the dim light of the room.

You stepped back, crossing your arms as you inspected your handiwork.

He looked… oddly regal like this. A fallen king, tied up and waiting for judgment.

You tilted your head.

Something about this moment—about him sitting there, unmoving, under your control—sent a sharp thrill down your spine.

You stared.

Now… all you had to do was wait.

You stepped forward, tapping the flat edge of his own golden weapon against your palm, staring at him with amusement.

“Alright, mystery man,” you muttered under your breath, eyes gleaming. “Let’s see who the hell you really are.”

And with that, you settled onto the couch across from him—watching.

Waiting. . . . . .

You sat on the couch, idly twirling the golden weapon in your grip, its weight heavier than you expected. The craftsmanship was exquisite—each detail carved with precision, the sharp gleam of the blade still slick with drying blood.

Your fingers traced the intricate patterns along the hilt, a mix of black and gold, before your gaze drifted lower…

And then you saw it.

A small engraving near the base of the blade.

A crescent moon.

Your brows furrowed as you leaned in, squinting at the faint lettering just beneath it—so subtle, it was almost impossible to notice unless you were looking closely.

“Flame—”

Your stomach dropped.

“—Reaver.”

Your breath hitched.

Your grip on the sword tightened, pulse hammering in your ears as realization slammed into you like a freight train.

No. No, no, no—this had to be some sick joke.

Flame Reaver wasn’t just some low-level criminal—he was a fucking legend. A nameless swordmaster, a phantom of the underworld, responsible for massacres that tore entire syndicates apart.

Nobody knew who he was. Nobody even had a confirmed sighting.

But every victim—every last one—had been ripped apart with a blade.

And you just… tied him up.

In your own house.

Fuck.

A low groan echoed from across the room.

You froze.

The sound sent a cold shiver crawling down your spine.

Your head snapped toward the chair.

The figure—Flame Reaver—shifted slightly, his bound form tensing as he started to regain consciousness.

Your fingers instinctively curled around the weapon tighter, but your palms felt sweaty now.

Shit.

Your mind raced.

What were you supposed to do? Run? Kill him? Hope he has amnesia?!

Before you could even decide—

His head lifted slightly.

His chest rose and fell steadily.

And then—

The black metal mask tilted up, ever so slightly…

And you could feel it.

Even without seeing his eyes, you could feel his gaze locking onto you.

A quiet, low chuckle rasped through the air.

Oh, you were so fucking dead.

A dull, throbbing pain bloomed at the back of his skull. His senses were sluggish, slow to return, like wading through thick water. For a few moments, there was nothing but darkness, a heavy weight pressing down on him, his body sluggish and foreign. Then, piece by piece, it all began to come back.

The night. The streets. Blood.

A fight. A sharp pain bursting at the side of his head.

And then—

His consciousness snapped into place like a whip.

His muscles tensed.

Bound.

His arms wouldn’t move.

Neither would his legs.

The air was stale. The scent of the room was faintly familiar—wood, a trace of perfume, something warm yet utterly foreign in this moment. But none of it compared to the sudden, gut-wrenching realization that he was restrained.

A cold blade of tension ran up his spine.

He knew better than anyone that being tied up meant being vulnerable. He was never the one on this end of the rope. Never.

Where the fuck was he?

Slowly, deliberately, he cracked his eyes open behind the black metal mask.

And the moment he did—

His breath caught in his throat.

There, seated in front of him, holding his own golden blade, was 𝙮𝙤𝙪.

But it wasn’t you. Not the way he knew you. Not the way he had memorized you—every expression, every playful glint in your eyes, every ridiculous joke you cracked at his expense. The warmth, the laughter, the way you made his obsessive devotion feel justified.

No.

The person sitting in front of him now—this was different.

You were looking at him wrong.

Your expression was cold.

Your fingers gripped his weapon with a force that made your knuckles go white.

And worst of all—

You were looking at him with pure burning hatred.

Not mild irritation, not the usual exasperation you had when he stole your food or teased you too much—real, burning hatred.

Why? What Happened? Why..why were you..

His breath came slow and measured, but his mind raced violently. Everything was wrong. Everything was out of place.

And then it hit him.

You didn't know.

You didn't realize.

You didn’t know it was him. You didn't know that he was flamereaver You didn't know that he killed for you for years. He felt something deep and ugly twist inside his chest, but he remained utterly still. If he spoke now—if his voice slipped, if his tone wavered even slightly—you would realize. And he wasn't ready for that.

The second you moved closer, heart pounding in your chest, your fingers reached for the black and gold metal mask covering his face.

But before you could even brush against it—

SNAP.

The ropes shattered like they were made of paper.

Your eyes widened.

What the fuck—?!

Before you could even react, before you could take a single step back, a sharp golden clawed hand shot up and grasped your wrist.

Not tightly. Not enough to hurt.

But enough to stop you in your tracks.

Your breath hitched as you stared at the sharp, deadly claws glinting in the dim light. They were curved like talons, polished gold reflecting your startled expression. They could have pierced your skin. Could have ripped through flesh effortlessly.

But they didn’t.

He wasn’t hurting you.

He wasn’t even squeezing your wrist.

He was just… holding it.

Stopping you.

Slowly, your gaze trailed up from the golden claws to his mask.

It was still intact. Still covering his entire face. That damn mask—black with intricate golden vine-like patterns etched into it, elegant yet eerily haunting.

And then, he moved.

Not roughly. Not aggressively. But with a deliberateness that sent shivers down your spine.

He tilted his head.

His free hand, the one that had just torn through the restraints like they were nothing, reached up towards his mask but stopped.

Like he was considering something.

Like he was debating.

Your breath felt uneven. Your pulse pounded in your ears.

He didn’t speak.

He didn’t move any further.

He just… held your wrist in place. Why isn't he hurting you?? Why isn't he trying to kill you?? What fucking game is he playing.

A sharp tension filled the room, thick and suffocating.

Your fingers twitched, still aching to rip that mask off.

To see who the hell he really was.

But his claws remained firm on your wrist—gentle, yet unyielding.

He was stopping you.

But he wasn’t hurting you.

And that was somehow worse.

Who the fuck was he?

Your fingers tightened. Your heartbeat pounded in your ears, a deafening rhythm of adrenaline and disbelief.

He wasn’t speaking. He wasn’t trying to stop you any further, only holding your wrist in that maddeningly gentle yet firm grip.

But it didn’t matter.

Because you didn’t hesitate.

With a sharp inhale, you yanked your hand free from his grasp and lunged forward.

Your fingers caught the edges of the black metal mask, and before he could react—

Rip.

You tore it off his face.

The mask clattered onto the wooden floor with a loud, echoing clang.

And for a split second—

You still had no idea who he was.

Because your eyes weren’t on his face yet.

They were on his hands—his claws. They were trembling, the golden tips slick with faint traces of blood.

And then—

Then you saw it.

The moment your gaze snapped up to meet his—

You stopped breathing.

Your stomach twisted into a thousand knots.

Because staring back at you—

Was a pair of wide, terrified, cerulean blue eyes.

A face framed by fluffy white hair.

A face you had seen every single day.

This can't be fucking real.

“P—Phainon?”

But you didn't even get a chance to speak the words in your mind.

Because in the next second—

Your back hit the floor.

He pinned you down against the cold wooden floor.

Your wrists were trapped beneath his claws, his weight pressing down against you. His breath was uneven, a mixture of fear, adrenaline, and something unreadable swimming in those now-exposed, once-gentle blue eyes.

Now they were shaken.

Now they were desperate.

But the worst part?

There was blood on his face.

Small splatters of blood on the corner of his jaw and cheek.

And it wasn’t his.

No, no, no, no.

Your brain couldn’t process it.

Couldn’t believe what you were seeing.

Because this was Phainon.

Your best friend.

The cheerful idiot who always smiled at you, laughed with you, annoyed you.

He couldn't be—

The Flamereaver.

But the golden blade lying beside you on the floor—

The bloodstains on his face, his hands, his claws—

The fact that he had been standing outside his own house, alone, covered in blood, wearing a mask.

The fact that he hadn't said a single word.

It all made sense.

HI GANG !! this is the fanart I did for phainon. i am so down bad for him if you like this , please like, follow, reblog and comment :D

LONG HAIR PHAINON AAAA

[tea-writes19]

ra-ra-rasputin | b.b.

pairing: bucky barnes x reader

summary: your boyfriend discovers some interesting edits of himself

w/c: 598

warnings: fluff, slight angst, mentions of bucky’s past, swearing, comedy?, minor ca:bnw spoilers

a/n: this is based off of this post and written for @allthewordsofafeather. also my first time writing bucky so i’m sorry if anything feels ooc!! never written in second pov before either so…

It started as a joke.

You and Sam had been looking at some tiktoks when an interesting video came up on your fyp. It was an edit of Bucky to the iconic song Rasputin. Some of the videos used were easily identified as being from different news sources from missions he and Sam had gone on in the past.

Other clips were older, grainier, and distinctly showed Bucky's old titanium arm in them. You didn't want to know where this person had acquired such footage.

Fascinated you and Sam had fallen down a rabbit hole of edits of your boyfriend and began to send every single one to each other when they popped up on your fyp’s. Now weeks later it had come back to haunt your ass.

Sam had finally convinced Bucky to download tiktok. Claiming it would be good for his campaign and reach the younger voters. In reality it was so Sam could send all the stupid tiktok’s he found funny to him instead of you or Joaquin.

The problem started with a simple misclick. You had been lying in bed bundled up in the comforter scrolling when another edit of Buck to Rasputin came on. This one had sped the audio up and showed Bucky fighting some random bad guy of the month. Smiling you hit the arrow and sent the video to Sam and went back to your doomscrolling.

☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*

The ping of a notification coming through woke you from your nap. Groaning you opened your eyes, gaze narrowing on your phone which now lied haphazardly at the edge of the bed.

Freeing yourself from the confines of your makeshift cocoon you had grabbed your phone and squinted at the bright screen. A single message on tiktok showed on your lock screen.

bucky: what the fuck?

Your brows furrowed as you racked your brain for what video could have pertained to such a response from your boyfriend. You didn’t remember sending him any videos as you usually showed him your likes when he was home. And the only tiktok you remember sending that afternoon had been—

“shit.”

Scrambling you sat up, turning on the bedside lamp and unlocking your phone to enter the app. Eyes wide you tapped on messages and Bucky’s icon and saw what you feared.

You hadn’t sent the edit of your boyfriend to Sam. You had sent it to Bucky.

Horror replaced the shock on your face as you realised Bucky had seen the tiktok. You cursed Sam for showing Buck how to use the fucking app instead of just hiring a social media manager.

you: I can explain…

bucky: doll, why is there a video of me fighting a guy to a song?

you: it’s an edit. some people like to take clips of celebrities and fictional characters and put them to a song or audio. there’s a bunch of Sam and even me as well.

bucky: why would anyone do that?

you: because it’s fun? idk people just like to watch videos of their celeb crushes or whatever. really buck it’s not anything bad and that video wasn’t even meant for you!! I thought I sent it to Sam but I must have misclicked.

There was a pause in the messaging and you assumed Bucky had simply given up on trying to understand until—

a new message popped up.

bucky: WHY THE FUCK WOULD YOU SEND IT TO SAM?!?

God, you were going to throttle Sam for this…

© tea-writes19 do not repost, translate, or copy

[gf2bellamy]

Oh my god, can I just say that I absolutely love your newlyweds fic!

Can I please request a spin on that where Spencer and fem!bau!reader are still in the pining/completely and utterly smitten stage of their crushes on each other and need to go undercover as a married couple to catch the unsub?

And Spencer just completely bluescreens/shuts down/gets his IQ slashed to 20 when he first hears reader refer to him as his husband (while internally he's just giggling like crazy) and then reader is the one that gets completely flustered when he calls her his wife and the two of them are just happily dreamily smiling at each other as if a psychotic serial killer is not within three feet of them.

married — spencer reid

pairing: spencer reid x fem!reader ( no use of y/n ) content warnings: they interact with the unsub, mention of the unsub's victims / motive , a/n: hi hi hi ! i hope you like this <3 i literally had so much fun writing this

“You okay?” you asked softly, stopping Spencer with a gentle touch on his arm.

The two of you were standing in front of a modern art exhibition building. Hotch had assigned you both to go undercover, posing as a married couple to lure out the unsub—an artist with a vendetta against happy couples.

It was a solid plan, but Spencer had been acting… off. More than usual, anyway.

He hesitated, his eyes darting away from yours as he adjusted the collar of his shirt. “Yeah, I just—” His voice trailed off, and he glanced over your shoulder, avoiding your gaze. You noticed the way his fingers fidgeted with the edge of his sleeve, a telltale sign that he was nervous.

But why? This wasn’t his first undercover assignment, and he’d handled far more stressful situations.

You tilted your head, stepping slightly into his line of sight to catch his attention. “Hey,” you said gently, your voice warm and reassuring. “Come on, it’ll be fun.” You flashed him a smile, hoping to ease the tension. “You can tell me about all the art styles. Didn’t you once tell me about surrealism?”

At that, Spencer’s eyes flicked back to yours, a spark of interest lighting up his face. “Yeah,” he said, nodding slowly. “Salvador Dalí, René Magritte… their work challenges the perception of reality. It’s fascinating, really.”

You grinned, encouraged by his response. “Well, you can tell me all about that inside,” you said, gesturing toward the entrance of the exhibition. “I’m counting on you to be my personal art historian tonight.”

Spencer’s lips twitched into a small smile, but you could still see the faint unease in his eyes. You tried to ignore the way your own heart was racing, the way your stomach fluttered every time he looked at you.

When Hotch had assigned you this mission, you’d nearly fallen out of your chair. JJ had noticed, of course, and her knowing giggles hadn’t helped. But now wasn’t the time to dwell on your feelings. Y

ou had a job to do, even if that job involved pretending to be married to the man you’d been quietly crushing on for months—a man who had no idea how you felt.

You held out your hand to him, your heart pounding in your chest. It was a bold move, but you told yourself it was necessary for the case.

You had to act like you were married, right? Holding hands was part of the job. At least, that’s what you kept repeating to yourself as you tried to ignore the way your pulse raced at the thought of touching him.

Spencer looked down at your hand, then back up at you, his expression unreadable for a moment. Then, slowly, he reached out and took your hand, his fingers intertwining with yours. His hand was warm, his grip gentle, and the contact sent a jolt of electricity up your arm.

You tried to ignore the way your cheeks heated, focusing instead on the mission.

“Ready?” you asked, squeezing his hand lightly.

Spencer nodded, his smile a little more genuine now. “Ready.”

The two of you walked into the exhibition hall, hand in hand, the sound of your footsteps echoing against the polished floors.

“Which one is his?” you mumbled, leaning slightly closer to Spencer so only he could hear you. Your breath brushed against his ear, and you didn’t miss the way he stiffened for a moment, a faint shiver running through him. He cleared his throat, trying to focus, and glanced around the room.

“Straight forward and then on the right,” he replied, his voice low.

His thumb instinctively brushed over your knuckles, a small, unconscious gesture that made your heart skip a beat. You had to bite your lip to stop yourself from grinning like an idiot.

This was supposed to be a mission, but it was getting harder and harder to separate the act from the way you really felt.

“Okay, so let’s start here and work our way to the front,” you said, pointing to a painting nearby. You couldn’t rush straight to the unsub’s work—that would look suspicious. Instead, you had to play the part of a curious couple, taking your time to appreciate the art. Spencer nodded, his eyes following your gesture, and the two of you stopped in front of the first painting.

It was a colorful abstract piece, a swirl of blues and greens that seemed to dance across the canvas. “That’s pretty,” you said, tilting your head as you studied it. You weren’t just saying it to keep up the act; you genuinely found it beautiful.

But when you glanced at Spencer, you noticed he wasn’t looking at the painting. His gaze was distant, his mind clearly somewhere else.

Spencer was barely focused on the artwork. How could he be, when you were standing so close to him, your hand warm in his? He could feel the softness of your skin, the way your fingers fit perfectly against his own. It was distracting in the best possible way, and he couldn’t help but wonder what it would be like to hold your hand like this outside of a mission.

To hold your hand forever.

“Oh, yeah, it’s pretty,” he mumbled finally, realizing you were waiting for him to say something. His voice was soft, almost absentminded, and you couldn’t help but smile at his awkwardness.

“Spence,” you said gently, tugging his hand slightly to bring him back to the present. You could tell he was lost in his own thoughts, and you wanted to pull him out of it. “What do you think about it?” you asked, your tone encouraging. You were practically giving him permission to ramble, and you knew he wouldn’t be able to resist.

Spencer’s eyes lit up at your question, and he felt his heart skip a beat. He loved the way you always asked for his opinion, the way you genuinely seemed to care about what he had to say. Most people tuned him out when he started talking about things he was passionate about, but not you.

You listened. You always listened.

“Well,” he began, his voice gaining confidence as he turned back to the painting. “The use of color here is really interesting. The artist is playing with contrast—see how the cool tones of the blue and green are balanced by the warmer accents here and here?” He pointed to specific areas of the canvas, his words flowing easily now.

You watched him as he spoke, a soft smile playing on your lips.

And as the two of you moved through the exhibition, discussing almost every painting in detail, you found yourself wishing this moment could last forever.

But soon enough, the two of you had talked your way through nearly every piece of art in the room, and you were inching closer to the unsub’s painting.

Most of the artists stood proudly beside their work, ready to discuss their creations with curious visitors, and the unsub was no exception.

He stood there, his arms crossed, his eyes scanning the room with an analytical gaze.

He seemed to be searching for something—or someone.

You and Spencer exchanged a quick glance as you both spotted him. The unsub’s painting was just ahead, a dark, brooding piece filled with jagged lines and splashes of red.

It was unsettling, to say the least. You and Spencer stepped closer. You pretended to study the painting, your hand still firmly clasped in Spencer’s, while keeping the unsub in your peripheral vision.

The unsub’s eyes locked onto you almost immediately, and you could see the flicker of satisfaction in his expression. He had found what he was looking for—a happy couple, just like the others he had targeted.

Spencer must have noticed it too because his grip on your hand tightened slightly.

Spencer leaned down, his lips brushing close to your ear as he whispered, “You okay?” His breath was warm against your skin, and you had to close your eyes for a second to steady yourself. His voice, so soft and concerned, sent a shiver down your spine, and you felt your heart race in response.

“Yeah,” you nodded, turning your head slightly to look at him. His face was inches from yours, his hazel eyes searching yours.

For a moment, it felt like the world had stopped, and all you could see was him. His lips were so close, and you couldn’t help but wonder what it would be like to close the distance between you.

But before you could say anything, the moment was shattered. The unsub stepped closer.

You could feel Spencer tense beside you, his protective instincts kicking in as he subtly shifted his stance, positioning himself slightly in front of you. His grip on your hand tightened. But before either of you could say anything, the unsub broke the silence.

“Hello!” the unsub said in a cheery tone, his voice a stark contrast to the dark, brooding painting behind him. His smile was wide, but it didn’t reach his eyes, and you couldn’t shake the unease that settled in your stomach.

“Hi,” you replied, turning to face him fully. You forced a polite smile, trying to ignore how queasy it made you feel to talk to a man like this—a man who had caused so much pain.

“I love your piece,” you said, gesturing toward the painting with your free hand. “Especially the red stripes in this corner. They add such a striking contrast.”

The unsub’s smile widened, and he nodded appreciatively. “Thank you,” he said, his eyes flicking down to your and Spencer’s interlocked hands. His gaze lingered on the rings on your fingers.

Before you had left for the mission, Derek had handed you both simple silver bands—props to sell the married couple act. You remembered the way your heart had skipped a beat as you stared down at the ring, your fingers trembling slightly as you slid it onto your finger.

Spencer, standing next to you, had done the same, wiggling his ring finger slightly.

He hadn’t been able to suppress the big smile that spread across his face as he looked at you, and you’d felt your cheeks heat up at the sight.

Now, as the unsub’s eyes narrowed at the rings, you felt a fresh wave of nerves. Spencer was still silent beside you, undoubtedly profiling the unsub. You weren’t sure how to continue, so you took the lead, hoping to fill the awkward gap.

“My husband loves paintings,” you said, your voice natural despite the way your heart was racing. “He decided to bring me here on a date.” You paused, glancing up at Spencer with a soft smile, but the moment the word “husband” left your lips, Spencer’s brain—which was always working overtime—seemed to short-circuit.

He froze, his eyes widening slightly as he stared down at you. You could practically see the gears in his mind grinding to a halt. The red crept up his neck, spreading to his cheeks, and you had to bite the inside of your cheek to keep from laughing at how caught off guard he looked.

You looked up at him, your eyes slightly widening in a silent plea for him to snap out of it. When he didn’t, you quickly turned your attention back to the unsub, hoping to distract him from Spencer’s awkward silence.

“I think he made the right choice bringing me here,” you continued, your tone light and conversational. “I love your painting. It’s so… evocative. What was your inspiration?”

The unsub’s eyes lingered on you for a moment before he finally looked away, his gaze shifting back to the canvas behind him.

“Love and heartbreak,” he replied, his tone heavy with emotion. He stepped closer to the painting, his fingers brushing lightly against the edge of the frame as if caressing a memory. “They’re two sides of the same coin, aren’t they? You can’t have one without the other.”

You nodded, trying to maintain your composure as the unsub’s words hung in the air. But before you could respond, you felt Spencer’s hand slowly untangle from yours.

Instead, his arm slid around your waist, pulling you gently into his side. His hand settled on your lower back and you couldn’t help the way your breath hitched at the sudden closeness.

Spencer’s grip tightened slightly. He didn’t like how close the man was standing to you, and his protective instincts were kicking into overdrive.

You, on the other hand, were trying desperately to keep your heart from leaping out of your chest. The warmth of Spencer’s hand on your back, the way his body pressed lightly against yours—it was all too much, and yet not enough at the same time.

The unsub continued to ramble about love and heartbreak, his voice growing more animated as he delved into the darker aspects of his inspiration.

But Spencer had finally decided it was time to step in. He had let you lead the conversation for long enough.

“It’s fascinating,” Spencer said, his voice calm and measured as he interrupted the unsub’s monologue. “The way you’ve captured such complex emotions in a single piece. It’s… visceral.” He paused, his hand still resting on your lower back as he glanced down at you, his lips curving into a small, almost imperceptible smile. “My wife has always had an eye for art, but even I can appreciate the depth of your work.”

Your heart stuttered at the word wife, and you felt your cheeks flush with heat. You had been the one to bring up the “husband” angle earlier, but hearing Spencer say it so casually, so naturally, was something else entirely.

You looked up at him, your eyes wide and slightly dazed, and for a moment, you forgot where you were. The unsub, the mission, the danger—it all faded into the background as you stared at Spencer, your lips parting in surprise.

Spencer, for his part, seemed completely unfazed by your reaction. If anything, the faintest hint of a smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth, and you could have sworn his hand pressed just a little more firmly against your back.

He was enjoying this—enjoying the way you were flustered, the way your breath caught when he called you his wife. And despite the situation, despite the fact that a psychotic serial killer was standing mere feet away, you couldn’t help but smile back at him.

The unsub, oblivious to the silent exchange between you and Spencer, nodded enthusiastically at Spencer’s comment. “Exactly,” he said, his voice tinged with excitement. “That’s what I was going for—raw, unfiltered emotion. Love, heartbreak, betrayal… it’s all there, if you know how to look.”

The unsub beamed at the praise, clearly pleased with your reactions. But as he launched into another detailed explanation of his creative process, you found it increasingly difficult to focus. Spencer’s hand on your back, the way he kept glancing down at you with that soft, almost dreamy expression.

The conversation dragged on.

Spencer could tell that the two of you were done with the job here. He straightened up, his hand slipping from your back to take your hand again. “Well, it’s been a pleasure,” he said, his tone polite as he addressed the unsub. “But we should probably get going. We have… dinner reservations.”

The unsub nodded, though his expression was slightly disappointed. “Of course,” he said. “Thank you for stopping by. It’s always nice to meet people who truly appreciate art.”

“Thank you,” you replied, forcing a smile as Spencer gently tugged you away.

You walked out of the art exhibit, Spencer’s hand still wrapped around yours.

“Do you think he bought it?” you murmured, casting a quick glance over your shoulder.

The sky had begun to darken. Right on schedule.

The plan had been for you to leave as the exhibit closed, ensuring that the unsub would mark you as his next target. Now, you and Spencer just had to make it to the car and drive to the safe house, where the team was waiting.

“I think so,” Spencer replied, though his voice was a little distant.

You both had the same thought running through your minds—but different words lingering there.

Husband. The word echoed in your head, refusing to fade. It had felt too easy, too natural, to call him that.

Wife. That was the word Spencer couldn’t stop thinking about. The way it had slipped from his lips so effortlessly, like it was something he had thought about before. Like it was something he had wanted.

Neither of you said anything as you reached the car. Spencer walked ahead, pulling the passenger door open for you. A small, old-fashioned gesture, but one that made your heart stutter nonetheless.

“Thanks,” you said softly, sliding into the seat.

He walked around to the driver’s side, settling in but he didn’t start the car right away. Instead, he sat still for a moment, hands gripping the wheel, his eyes fixed on some distant point beyond the windshield.

You turned to him, brows furrowed. “Spence?”

His grip on the wheel tightened briefly before he finally spoke, his voice softer than usual. “You called me your husband.”

Your stomach flipped. You swallowed, trying to ignore the heat rising to your face. “Well… yeah,” you said, attempting to keep your tone light. “That was kind of the whole point of the mission, remember? Happy couple and all that.”

Spencer let out a breath that was almost a laugh. He finally turned to look at you, and for once, you couldn’t decipher what was going on behind those warm, hazel eyes. “I know. It’s just… you said it so easily.”

You blinked. “Was I supposed to make it sound awkward?”

“No,” he said quickly. Then, after a beat, “It didn’t sound awkward at all. That’s what’s messing with me.”

The car felt smaller suddenly. Your heart was pounding again, and you weren’t sure if it was because of the way he was looking at you or the fact that he hadn’t even tried to start the car yet.

Spencer's fingers were still tapping anxiously against the wheel. He hesitated for a second, like he was debating whether or not to continue, but then he spoke again, voice quieter this time. “I liked it.”

Your breath caught.

You weren’t sure if he meant the act, the mission, or something more. And you weren’t sure if you had the courage to ask.

Before you could say anything, Spencer finally started the car, the engine humming to life and breaking the moment like shattering glass. He cleared his throat, keeping his eyes firmly on the road as he pulled away from the curb. “We should get to the house. The team’s probably waiting.”

You nodded slowly, forcing yourself to look out the window, even though your mind was still spinning.

But one thought lingered, circling back over and over.

Spencer liked it.

And so did you.

[stars-in-a-jam-jar]

(So I feel the desire to chime in because I forced myself through this run for YouTube Video Reasons and have what I believe to be a not insignificant amount of tools to break down what's up with Sun King in the Moon Knight comics. But just so my mutuals who are not Deeply Invested In Moon Knight can follow: these panels are from the Max Bemis run of Moon Knight comics which I hate. The character with burn scars on his hands is called Sun King and was made for this run by Bemis himself. The doctor speaking to him was created by Jeff Lemire in the run directly preceeding commonly regarded as one of the best Moon Knight runs in the character's history. Bemis has decided to Add Things to her character in this run. This was a bad decision.)

The characters who engage with any form of the psychiatric in the Max Bemis run speak as if someone who was deeply antipsych and a little bad at writing was trying to write a cautionary tale of why the system gets people fucking killed, EXCEPT YOU THE AUDIENCE ARE SUPPOSED TO BELIEVE THE SYSTEM IS NOT THE PROBLEM??????? It's repeatedly presented in this run as a constant and a generally neutral entity, but Sun King's character and his arc and relationship to Moon Knight DIRECTLY CONTRADICTS this idea with the way they and everything around the both of them is written in both this run AND the run directly preceeding.

The entirety of Sun King's arc is about him learning how to negotiate and cooperate with that system in order to not be a danger to society. But if you want me to believe this man being in psychiatric care is a good thing For Anyone, maybe don't have the inciting incident of his entry into the plot be him burning down the mental institution he's being kept in a few pages after this exchange, killing 99% of people inside. If you want me to believe this man being in psychiatric care is a good thing For Anyone, maybe don't have the things other doctors say at him and his companion later in the run (another new character don't worry about it) be so patently a one-sided lecture that makes him visibly more and more frustrated as time goes on and doesn't seem to make him any more stable and happy than Moon Knight punching some clarity into him did. If you want me to believe this man being in psychiatric care is a good thing For Anyone, Maybe Give Him A Goddamn Name??????

He starts his arc depersonalized at the hands of the psychiatric institutions that incorrectly label his latent pyrokinesis and connection to an extradimensional implied-despot god as hallucinations and symbols he's using as tools to hide from The Real Reality that he's too damaged and unwell to acheive a worthwhile place in the world and society. He must make himself More Like A Real Person, and the way to do that is to regain access to the memories he's lost to amnesiac blackouts and admit he's a bad person who's done bad and should be normal. He's called Patient 86.

He calls himself Sun King in reference to Ra, a name he didn't even come up with and which identifies him as an extension of a god he later openly calls a bitch. Marc and company also do this with Khonshu whilst calling themselves Moon Knight, but importantly all of the system members also have their own names! By the end of his arc, Sun King re-admits himself into yet another mental hospital, saying he still has some healing and growing to do (implying he'll get a name when he's Earned One) and I'm like 'All of your healing and growing happened OUTSIDE of these institutions, my guy!! With your buddy you're going in there without!!!'

Him shutting himself away in the same place he started the narrative without a name is framed as a happy ending where he's realized so much more of himself than he ever could without his encounters with everyone up to this point, and that's partially correct but in what way is he done justice and given closure by going back into his little box for crazy people?

Why should we believe this will make him happy? Fulfilled? Better as a person and member of society? His narrative starts with a doctor who's obsessing over a different patient that isn't even under her anymore and waxing philosophical about how it's enriching to truly dig into and talk to the insane— her telling him 'You can redeem yourself for being bad in these moments you have no memory of if you stop being crazy, and the way to do that is to use these things you're associating yourself with as an avenue to achieve redemption and get those memories.'

Get the fuck out of here, shut the FUCK up, who greenlit this fucking comic run? They should be fired.

Ok all things considered it's not super bad so far, there are iffy things and... I don't like they're going this hard with the med talk because I don't have the tools to be able to know whether they're saying something legit or utter bullshit.

[sunarryn]

DP X Marvel #22

Nick Fury hadn’t known peace in years. Aliens, HYDRA, interdimensional rifts, Tony Stark’s emotional instability—he thought he’d seen it all. That was until a small, gremlin-like twelve-year-old girl phased through the wall of the S.H.I.E.L.D. helicarrier, exploded three vending machines with a casual flick of her wrist, and declared with unshakeable confidence, “You guys owe me a snack for saving the multiverse.”

Her name was Danielle Phantom—Dani, with an “i”—and she was, allegedly, a clone of a ghost-human hybrid from another dimension. She was twelve, made entirely out of spite and ectoplasm, and Nick Fury made the catastrophic mistake of not immediately tossing her into a containment chamber.

Not that it would’ve helped. The last time they tried, she melted the titanium walls by burping.

“She’s not a threat,” Banner had insisted.

“She’s twelve!” Steve argued.

“She called me a rotting rotisserie chicken and set my cape on fire,” Thor grumbled, looking genuinely unsettled.

“She’s perfect,” Tony said. “Can I adopt her?”

“NO,” Fury barked. “She’s mine.”

And that’s how Dani Phantom became Nick Fury’s personal chaos goblin.

It started with the incident in Belarus. Fury had sent her to shadow a low-risk intel extraction mission—get in, get out, observe. She got bored. Two hours later, she returned with the mission completed, three HYDRA bases blown up, and a new trench coat she’d stolen off an agent twice her size. She looked proud. She also had a churro.

“Where the hell did you get that?” Fury asked.

“Multiversal Costco. Long story.”

She ate it while hovering upside down.

Dani didn’t walk. She floated. She didn’t knock. She phased through walls, floors, and sometimes people, which she claimed was “great for making dudes pee themselves.” She kept trying to haunt Clint Barton’s hearing aids (“for funsies”), called Natasha “Murder Barbie,” and threatened to sell Peter to the Tooth Fairy for “a good price.”

“I don’t even have ghost teeth!” Peter shrieked.

“Exactly. You’re rare,” Dani replied ominously.

She made the mistake of touching Loki once. Just once. She’d been told not to.

“Don’t touch the Asgardian,” Fury had said.

“Why not?” she asked.

“Because he’s the God of Mischief.”

“Oh. Cool.”

She poked him.

Loki screamed. She screamed louder. Everyone screamed. For some reason, there were snakes involved by the end of it.

Now, every time Loki sees Dani, he immediately teleports to another continent. “She’s worse than Odin,” he whispers, eyes wide and glassy.

Fury had to admit: Dani got results. She was an absolute menace—a glowing, cackling, miniature poltergeist in ripped jeans and combat boots—but she could sniff out a Kree spy from fifty yards away, beat an Ultron drone with a piece of rebar, and disable alien tech by licking it. (He didn’t approve of that one, but she claimed it was “a ghost thing.”)

“Why do you keep her?” Hill asked him one day, as Dani was in the background convincing a rookie agent that she was a resurrected Soviet weapon.

Fury sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Because the little gremlin saved my life.”

That part was true. He’d been cornered by a Skrull impersonating Agent Coulson, and before he could blink, Dani had flown through the ceiling screaming, “NOT MY BALD DAD, YOU SLIMEY LIZARD BASTARD!” She obliterated the Skrull with a ghost ray and threw Fury over her shoulder like a sack of potatoes.

“You weigh like a thousand pounds!” she’d grunted, struggling to fly him out of danger.

“Put me down!”

“No! You’re grounded and dying on my watch is against the rules!”

It was, somehow, the most competent rescue Fury had ever experienced.

From then on, Dani followed him everywhere. She sat in on briefings, chewing bubblegum obnoxiously loud. She hacked into S.H.I.E.L.D. files just to draw little ghost doodles on top of agent profiles. She replaced the AI’s voice with her own. Every time the intercom came on, it was her:

“Attention all agents, remember to hydrate or I will personally possess you and make you chug milk.”

She terrorized the Avengers with zero remorse. Steve got glitter-bombed. Clint was stalked by a floating sandwich. Banner’s lab notes were mysteriously replaced with eldritch doodles and “Dani was here” scribbled in the margins. Tony found all his Iron Man suits programmed to play “Ghostbusters” every time they powered on.

“I SWEAR TO GOD, IF I HEAR THAT SONG ONE MORE TIME—”

“Who ya gonna call?” Dani whispered from inside the vents.

Tony screamed.

But in her own completely deranged way, she was loyal. Deadly. Protective.

When some alien parasite tried to mind-control Fury, Dani showed up mid-briefing, opened her mouth, and screamed—a full-on ghost wail that shattered the windows and disintegrated the creature instantly.

Silence.

Everyone stared.

Dani wiped her mouth and grinned. “Oops. Was that loud?”

Fury was on the floor, bleeding from the ears. “You think?”

Later, she brought him noise-canceling earmuffs with skull stickers. “For next time.”

Fury eventually stopped questioning it. He’d wake up and find her floating three inches above his bed.

“Sleep check,” she’d say.

“I am very awake now.”

“Good.”

She haunted meetings, stole alien artifacts to make jewelry, and referred to Maria Hill exclusively as “General Mom.” She threatened to possess Tony’s coffee machine and did it. It only made decaf for three months. He cried.

And somehow, Dani ended up as the unofficial child mascot of S.H.I.E.L.D.

She was terrifying.

She was beloved.

She bit Deadpool once. He cried.

And yet, when Fury got taken by a rogue faction of former S.W.O.R.D. agents trying to expose classified data, the first person to show up wasn’t Steve, or Natasha, or even Carol.

It was Dani.

She burst in mid-interrogation, glowing, floating, and furious. Her eyes blazed green. Her ponytail whipped behind her like a comet trail. She didn’t say anything.

She just started throwing people.

“YOU THINK YOU CAN KIDNAP MY DAD?!” she screamed, hurling a desk at someone’s face. “I live in his walls! I KNOW THINGS!”

“You’re not even related to me!” Fury yelled as she fried a guy with ectoplasmic lightning.

“I TOOK A BLOOD TEST ONLINE AND IT SAID I’M 78% NICK FURY, 22% CHICKEN NUGGET!”

“You WHAT?!”

She ghost-punched the lead agent into the ceiling, caught Fury by the collar, and flew him out of the crumbling compound as everything exploded behind them.

When they landed, she wiped the soot from his coat, then hugged him hard.

He stood there stiffly before awkwardly patting her head.

“You’re insane,” he muttered.

“Thanks, Dad.”

“I’m not your—”

“Too late. I already wrote it in my diary.”

Later, at S.H.I.E.L.D. HQ, Dani threw her feet up on the command table and declared, “This whole place is my haunted house now.”

Nobody argued.

The AI was programmed to greet her.

The agents stepped aside when she passed.

She had a personal couch that she’d painted green and black, and a glowing “NO NERDS” sign that Tony kept trying to steal.

Every so often, she disappeared into the multiverse. “Gotta stretch the legs,” she’d say, then come back two hours later with three infinity stones, a new jacket, and a baby goat.

Fury didn’t ask.

He learned not to ask.

But when the next alien invasion hit—when half of Manhattan lit up with something eldritch and writhing and very not-from-Earth—it wasn’t Thor who responded first.

It was Dani.

Hovering above Times Square, cracking her knuckles, eyes glowing like nuclear fallout.

“Alright, weird space tentacle thing,” she said. “You just messed with the wrong twelve-year-old.”

And from the helicarrier, sipping his bitter coffee, Nick Fury watched the ghost girl he never asked for absolutely wreck an interdimensional horror, cackling like a goblin while civilians cheered.

He sighed.

“God help us all.”

[onsomenewsht]

I've got peace and I've got love

About a surprise for your birthday even if you hate your birthday

》 Alexia Putellas x Reader

》 words count: +1k

》 for anyone who needs to feel celebrated

Birthdays are a complicated matter.

You don’t hate them, no one really does.

People should be loved loudly, their mere presence on Earth should be reason enough to celebrate them.

You care about your family and your friends, baking cakes and inflating balloons and dressing up for a themed party are not a problem - you’re the first one to arrive and the last to leave.

Celebrating your birthday though? Hell, no.

For most, it doesn’t make sense.

A day in a whole year when anyone is entitled to be under the biggest spotlight, getting gifts and all the wanted attention. Yet, you’d rather hide in the remotest corner of the planet than hear someone sing “happy birthday” to you.

Despite the insistence and the repeated attempts over the years, your mother has finally accepted that you don’t want to make a big deal out of it. Your best friend has accepted that you’ll avoid a surprise party like the plague. Everyone who knows you, knows it.

Alexia included.

At least she knows now, after last year.

The two of you got together just shy of three months before your birthday. Bless her good heart, she thought a surprise ambush might be appreciated.

She’s not going to make the same mistake twice in a row, but she wants to do something.

“You told me she hates birthdays”, Alba points out, a bit confused, sipping her coffee as if her sister isn’t in the middle of an inconclusive rant.

“She hates her own, not birthdays in general”

“I still think you should just buy her a nice present, wish her a happy birthday and move on like she asked you to do”

“It seems so, I don’t know, incomplete?”, the blonde tries to explain, “How do I make sure I show how much I appreciate her if I can’t celebrate her?”

“You better celebrate her every day, not just on the birthday–”

“I do it, idiot!”

Alexia is quick in her jab, but thankfully the younger girl is used to her attitude by now.

Cup saved from any spill, Alba barely has enough patience to give another, simple pearl of wisdom, “So do it like any other day, but, you know, on her birthday”

It’s good advice, even if she’d never admit it.

Alexia spends most of her day off plotting, her free time during the week before your birthday completely taken over by careful planning and prep.

You can tell immediately that something is off, but you let it slide because she’s cute when she’s on a mission, and you don’t really want to spoil her fun.

At the stroke of midnight, like a mischievous fairy godmother, your best friend calls you to sing a personalized rendition of “Die, Die My Darling” like every year since you’re sixteen and think you’re oh-so-funny.

Your mother sends a present from the entire family, along with a picture of a cake you’re not going to eat but you’re glad they’ll enjoy in your name. Alexia’s mother and sister send flowers, and you have to reassure your girlfriend that it’s a genuinely appreciated sentiment.

Said girlfriend kisses you for every year spent on this Earth and then moves on, as if nothing happened. As if nothing is going to happen.

It’s suspicious, really suspicious.

The day passes by without any major incident.

At work just a few colleagues know it’s your birthday, they politely hand you a card with bad jokes written all over it. You mindlessly send the same three reactions at every text message, nonetheless appreciating everyone who remembered and took the time to wish you a happy birthday. A kind waitress adds a slice of dessert as you pick up take-out at your favourite Mexican place, probably prompted by Alexia when she ordered over the phone and sent you to the restaurant.

Guard down, you open the door to your girlfriend’s apartment, still not connecting the dots.

Thank the goddesses and gods above for that nice waitress, because what you find inside is definitely a first and the food wouldn’t have survived the surprise if not for the well-secured package.

Soft music - that, to your shame, you only realise too late is your favorite record - resonates through the room, which is filled with dozens of floating balloons reaching the ceiling.

You take a few tentative steps inside, noticing pictures carefully tied to each string with numbers scribbled on the corners.

Snaps of the past year, memories so simple in their significance you sometimes fail to give a good measure of. Dinners out with friends, an unflattering portrait of an early morning during the summer, the first time holding your niece. You linger over a photo of you and Alexia talking on Mapi’s couch, neither of you looking at the camera, as it’s clear you had eyes only for each other.

“I’ve never seen this one”, you whisper, emotion thick in your voice.

Your girlfriend is leaning on the further wall of the entrance, a confident stance failing to hide a note of nervousness. The way her hands are buried in the pocket of old sweatpants and her eyes are studying every single macro-expression shifting on your face are a clear tell for you.

"Ingrid sent it to me some times ago”

“It’s beautiful”

“It is”, she agrees easily, still not daring to come closer.

Alexia’s gaze drops as soon as you notice there’s a handwritten message on the back of every photo, her cheeks flushing slightly.

You take the time to read each one attentively, smiling at her thoughtfulness and the care she put into all the moments chosen. People and occasions that hold meaning for you, no matter how big or small. You feel love in every single one.

“You put a lot of thought into this”

“I had to sacrifice a couple of good ones”, she mumbles, almost upset with herself.

The commitment to matching the number of pictures to your age it’s impressive, you have to admit.

A burst of laughter fills the entire apartment, Alexia finally meeting your gaze and taking in how moved you’re by her surprise.

The fear of overstepping had been like an annoying voice, whispering in her ear as she scribbled on the back of the photos or tried to wrap gifts without running out of patience or tape.

“Do you like it?”, her doubt creeping in her voice.

“I don’t hate it”, you joke, still eager to ease her worries, “No one has ever put this much thought or effort into– I don’t know, celebrating my birthday, I guess”

“You deserve to be celebrated”

You take the few steps to fill the gap between you two, food forgotten somewhere behind, and throw yourself into her already open arms.

“Thank you”

“I love you”

The kiss you share is a clear enough answer. Sometimes, it’s not even necessary to spell it out - action speaks louder than words, they say. She holds you for as long as you need, music still playing softly in the background.

“Is this a good moment to mention that you have to open as many presents as you have in years?”

“Alexia!”

[miniwheat77]

Triple Threat. (Keegan, König, & Ghost X Reader.)

!CW! NSFW, Smut, unprotected p in v sex, double penetration, Sex Pollen, drugs, death, violence, poorly translated German, (sorry if I missed any.)

It’s been a long day.

You’ve been walking for miles behind the trio of masked men. You aren’t even sure why you were sent on this mission, considering the three men in front of you were the strongest. Physically and Mentally. They’re all skilled, more skilled than you’ll ever be. But you obey orders and even though you’re pointless to be here, you’re still enjoying yourself. König thought you’d be useful, you can’t argue there.

You’re lagging behind a bit, listening to everything going on. You’ve got a clear idea of how this mission is supposed to go. Capture the target, see what he knows, leave no survivors.

After a couple bomb threats from this person with the target of the base you all stayed on, you had no choice but to do this. You were getting too close to his operation and he was getting desperate. Which means whatever he has going on, is not good. You’d been walking a few miles, it’s where you were dropped off. You were closing in on the building he was in. It was all dense jungle around it. Nowhere to run.

As you approached the building, you noticed quite a few men outside. They were loading up a truck with crates of something. None of you had any kind of idea what it could be. “Keegan and Ghost, you two go ahead. You’re the quietest.” You nod. They give you nods of their own before splitting off into their own directions. “I’m going to go around, see if I can’t get a clear shot of some on the other side.” You mumble to König. He tilts his head. “Be safe, schatz.” You smile, “always.”

You make your way around, not having any idea of what awaits you ahead.

König watches through his scope, not sure why he’s out here when he did better with close combat, but nevertheless he kept quiet and stayed hidden. He watched Ghost and Keegan zero in.

“Y/N, how’s it looking?” He says into his radio.

He receives nothing but silence.

“Y/N? Do you copy?”

After another few minutes of silence, he begins to panic.

“Y/N isn’t responding, she circled around to get a better view, verrücktes Mädchen.” He mumbles the rest as he releases the button on his radio. “Shit. We have to get inside.” Ghost calls back.

“Keegan, do you copy?”

Ghost calls.

Goosebumps rise on his skin when he gets nothing in return. He’s breathing hard, resting up against a door. “Keegan?” He asks again. He sighs. “König. Keegan isn’t answering either.”

He takes in a deep breath, trying to calm himself. He’s surprised when König doesn’t call back.

“König?”

Silence.

“God damnit.“ he breathes, taken by surprise when a dart is being shot into his neck. “What the f-“

That’s the last he remembers.

Slowly, one by one, they’re waking up. They’re on their knees with their hands tied behind their backs. They’ve killed most of the threats, but there’s still one. “Rise and shine.” He smiles. Their vision is blurry but they can hear you whimpering. When they fully register what’s going on, they start to panic. You’re strapped to a chair, fully naked. You’ve got a cloth tied around your mouth. “What the fuck is going on?” Keegan yells. “Ah, so you can talk.” The man smiles. He’s breathing hard, fighting against his restraints. He runs a knife over your chest and you close your eyes tightly, breathing heavily. “Deep breaths darling. Yeah, that’s it.” He chuckles.

König’s eyes darken. He wants to rip this man’s head off for touching you.

“Your precious girl here is infected now. Well… all of you are.” He chuckles. “This little dart here. Holds 1 Milliliter of the sweetest drug you can get your hands on.” He holds up the little dart. “I prescribe about 1/4 of that for my very special clients. You’re all infected with enough of this to kill a horse.” He laughs. “What the hell is it?” Ghost seethes. “Oh? You don’t know?” He smirks. “It’s a sex drug. A bit like the over the counter ones you can buy, but on steroids. When you take a little bit, you get aroused, you produce pheromones that attract people, makes sex intense. But when you take in more than the recommended amount..” he clicks his tongue.

“Heart rate picks up. Blood pressure rises. Keeps rising and rising until it bottoms out. You’ll either die of a heart attack or your heart will just give out.” He laughs. “So.. your girl here. She was infected first. Which means she’s going to die first, and you’re all going to watch her squirm. She’s going to beg for relief, beg for anything you’ll give her. But you’re stuck.” He laughs. “The only way she’ll feel better is if she gets fucked enough.” He laughs. He sits down in a chair, writing something down. “Ich werde dich töten.” König seethes. Looking up at him through his mask. “What was that big guy? Hm?” He laughs. He stands up once more. “You know what, I’ve got an idea. How about we get rid of the ridiculous costumes, show your real faces!” He claps his hands together. He starts with König, pulling off his hood. He glares up at him. Next was Ghost, he tugs his balaclava off. Ghost sends him a death stare. Next was Keegan, who had a smile on his face. “What are you smiling at?” He crouches down. “Just think your head is going to look perfect on a stick.” He spits in his face. He growls. “Whatever. Pay close attention to your little girlfriend, she’s going to start begging soon enough.” He mumbles. “She’s actually really sexy, might give her a go before her heart explodes.” He grips his dick through his jeans and that’s when König tugs at the ropes, feeling them start to give away. You whimper out, shifting in your chair. “Yeah, there we go.” He chuckles, sitting back down. He goes back to writing something down, and you squirming on the chair doesn’t help the situation at all. You’re rubbing your thighs together, raising your hips. You’re rutting them down into the chair for any sort of relief. As the time goes on, the worse it gets. Pretty soon, all three men are trying to ignore the tightening in their pants, shifting uncomfortably, trying hard to get out of their restraints.

“Awe. Look at you.” The man smiles. “Soaking the chair.” He chuckles. He runs his fingertips up your thigh and you flinch. “Stop.” Ghost growls. “Nah, I think it’s time I take her for a test drive.” He smiles. König rips through the ropes, the man freezes when he hears the click of a gun.

“Turn around.” He growls. “Woah… take it easy big guy. I was only joking.”

“Ich habe einen Witz für dich.” He smiles. “What?” He asks. Just then, König pulls the trigger. He hits the man right between the eyes. He falls backward, blood pouring from his head. König cuts the ropes off of Ghost and motions for him to free Keegan. König rushes to get to you. “You okay?” He asks. “No-“ you shiver. He kneels down, freeing you from the chair. “I know, it’s hard. But you have to fight it.” Ghost mumbles. “Are you hurt? Did he touch you?” He asks. You shake your head. “No.” You grit your teeth. “Where are your clothes?”

“I don’t know, it’s too hot anyways.” You pant. Your skin is hot to the touch. Keegan stands behind you, brushing your hair away from you to look at you. You’re completely clear aside from a tiny puncture mark from the dart. “The… the only way-“ you grit your teeth, closing your eyes. “The only way is to have sex, I can feel my heart beating out of my chest.” You whine. “I feel it too.” Keegan mutters. Ghost looks down. Agreeing silently. König nods his head. “So what do we do?” Keegan asks.

“We do what we have to.” Ghost mumbles. You nod your head.

The more aroused the three men get, the better they seem to smell. They’re attracting you so much. You bend over, crying out. “You okay?” Keegan kneels by you. “Can’t take it anymore.” You look up at him. Tears streaming from your eyes. “Cmon.” He mumbles, sliding his arm under the bend of your knees and your back. He lifts you up. “We’ve got to find a room or something. If we’re going to do this we have to start now.” Keegan mumbles. They nod. They quickly move through the building, Ghost first, König next, and than Keegan with you. They move in a line, just in case there’s more men they don’t know about. You whine into Keegan’s shoulder. Propping yourself up onto him. “Y/N- what are you doing?” He mumbles. “Need it- need it so bad Keegan.” You mewl. You grip onto him, wiggling out of his grasp so that you’ve got your legs wrapped around his waist. You attack his neck with your teeth, grinding your hips into him.

“Shit- Y/N. We’re almost there. You have to stop-“ he grits his teeth, Ghost and König glance back at you, seeing you attacking Keegan. Your desperation has them aching.

“In here.” Ghost holds open the door, locking it behind you and propping a chair up on it just in case. It’s a bedroom, at last. “Ah- you’ve got to let go sweetheart.” Keegan groans. “No, please. I need it. Need it so bad.” You whine. Grinding your hips into him more. “I know, we’re going to help you. Just… for one second baby.” He breathes. You let go of him and he lowers you onto the bed. “Fuck..” he growls. Noticing the way you’ve soaked the front of him. The three men are standing at the edge of the bed, staring down at you. Like you’re the finest meal they’ve ever laid their eyes on. Keegan is first to break, reaching for his belt. Your pupils are blown out as you watch his hands move to unbuckle it. The other two follow his movements. You bite your lip, body shivering at the thought of what’s about to happen. You can’t help yourself, reaching between your legs to stimulate the sensitive nub that awaits any kind of relief it can get. A mewl leaves your lips and you tilt your head back. “She’s going to have to get used to me, I’ll go last.” König nods. They all silently agree. He’s right, he’s the biggest of the three. After admiring the way you touch yourself, they can’t anymore.

Keegan reaches out, grasping your hips and pulling you to the edge of the bed. “Poor girl. Just soaking..” he breathes. He rubs the tip of his cock over your aching hole, a whine leaving your lips as you raise your hips into him. He moves his hips forward, the tip of his cock pushing through your wet folds. You want to cry when he fills you up. The relief you feel is incredible. You can feel more tears welling up in your eyes as he starts to thrust himself inside of you.

The squelch from your wet pussy is the only thing they can hear besides your whines. You squirm around, the way he feels is almost too much. “Ah- you’re gripping me so tight.” He breathes. “Hold on.” Ghost mumbles. He lifts you up off of the bed, apologizing at the loss you feel from Keegan exiting you. You straddle him. “You wet enough from her?” He asks. Keegan nods his head. “Y-yeah. Fuck.” He groans. He’s never done anything like this before, nothing like he’s about to do. Ghost lines his cock up with your pussy, and you sink down onto him with a gasp. Clutching his shoulders. “There you go, now relax for Keegan alright?” You nod your head. You feel Keegan’s tip aligning with your ass. You’d be worried. If it weren’t for the drug, you’d be modest and shy away from what they’re doing. But as he fills your ass to the hilt with ease, the fullness you feel. You can’t even think straight anymore.

The pleasure you feel from them has you on cloud 9. Vision blurring, you can barely make a sound. Your lips are parted, eyes are blown wide as they start to move into you. A chuckle leaves Ghosts lips at your reaction to them.

“She’s feeling good.” He laughs. “Think so.” Keegan chuckles. You rest your head on Ghosts shoulder, turning to look at König. He’s pumping his cock quickly, he’s desperate too. You reach your hand out for him. He moves closer and you take him into your hand, pumping his cock. He gasps out, head tilting back. You can see them, all of them. More than just the color of their eyes. You can see their sharp jawlines, the small scars decorating their faces. You can see the curves of their lips, their stubble that needs to be shaved. You can see and feel all of them, and it’s too much. Your first orgasm is coming fast. Your thighs are shaking, your cheeks are flushed from the warmth moving through you. “I.. I’m so close.” You whimper. Your hand tightens around König and he hisses slightly. “Fuck.” He groans. You clutch Ghost hard with your other hand. “I-“ you freeze up. Body going rigid as you reach your first orgasm. You cry out, soaking Ghost’s thighs with your arousal. “Oh fuck.” He breathes, looking down. “Look at the mess you’ve made of me.” He chuckles. “Ah fuck- I’m gonna cum too!” Keegan pants. He grips your hips hard. Thrusting into you harder. He’s chasing after his high, using you to reach it.

He’s panting hard, moans getting more unsteady by the second. “Oh fuck!” He growls, teeth gritted as he cums. His thrusts are sharp and bruising as he rides out his high, stuttering to a stop against you. You feel full of him, turning to look at him. He grips your throat, kissing you hard as he slides himself from your ass. “Fuck-“ he breathes. He steps away from you for a second.

“I think she’s ready for you, König.” Ghost nods. Keegan takes a deep breath, relaxing back into a chair. “Does it feel like it’s worn off?” Ghost asks him. He nods his head. “Yeah. I think it’s only got her so worked up because she’s smaller than us.” He nods. “Probably, never thought about it like that.” You’re rocking your hips into him, desperate for more. “I’ll go make sure the rest is all clear.” Keegan finishes getting dressed. König replaces the chair on the door behind him before making his way back to you. Ghost slides you off of him and you mewl at the emptiness you feel. He chuckles at this, “Relax, just for a second darling.”

“Go to König.” He breathes. You nod your head, König lifts you up into him, swapping places with Ghost. He sits down, lining his cock up with your entrance. “I’m really big sweetheart, so don’t get too eager.” He breathes. “Schau mich an.” He raises your chin and you look him in the eyes. “Keep looking at me.” He presses his forehead to yours. You slowly sink down onto him, thighs shaking slightly. He’s big. You moan out, and he takes the opportunity to kiss you. Once he’s bottoming out in you, you can barely hold yourself up. Ghost has his cock nestled into your ass, like Keegan had. He was already so close. When they start thrusting, you can’t keep quiet. It’s so much, and König adds to it. Circling your clit gently. Sucking your nipples into his mouth. You being stimulated is what helps the l drug wear off. He’d do what he had to.

Ghost has a tight grip on your hips, his thrusts are getting sloppy. He hisses, feeling you tighten slightly around him. He’s right on the edge. He tilts your head back, tugging slightly on your hair. König has one of your nipples between his lips, sucking gently as he rubs your clit. Ghost kisses you hard, his orgasm hitting him like a freight train. It’s by far the best he’s ever had. His body jerks hard as he finishes inside of your ass, pulling away from you completely. You moan at the loss of him, turning to look at him. “I’m going to go help Keegan.” He mumbles. He’s readjusting his cargo pants, buckling his belt. “Be safe.” You whimper. He nods. When he leaves this time, neither you or König are worried about the chair in front of the door. He lifts you up, turning around so that he can lay you on the bed. Smiling when you refuse to let go of him. “Relax, Ich gehe nirgendwohin.” He pushes your hips down into the bed, and looks at you. He’s not sure you’re ready for the force he’s about to use on you, but as desperate as you seem to be, he doesn’t think you’ll mind.

He starts at a fast pace, fucking into you hard. It only takes a few seconds and you’re nearly crying from how rough he is with you. His cock is big and you’ve never taken anything like the three of them ever before. You’ve got a death grip on the blankets beneath you, and you can’t stay quiet. He releases one hand, using it to rub circles into your sensitive nub once more, and that’s when you lose it. You’re sobbing when you finally cum again, raising your hips into him and flinching away from him when he continues his fast pace. “Doing so good for me. So ein gutes Mädchen.” He pants. He leans down to kiss you once more, his high is approaching too. The stimulation he feels is intense, you’re wrapped so tight around him, he just can’t take it anymore.

“Oh yes… yes so close.” He grips your hips hard as he slips over the edge, hips hammering into yours as he cums. You’re sure there will be bruises all over you. “Verdammt, so gut.” He cries. His thrusts halt, and he realizes he’s just filled you up with his cum. He sighs. “Fuck, I’m sorry.” He breathes. You look up at him. Eyes feeling heavy as the arousal finally begins to wear off. You send him a lazy smile. “Don’t be.” You breathe. He slides out of you, groaning as he does so. He takes a second, panting. He’s trying to catch his breath.

He helps you get cleaned up, making sure to clean your skin if the mix of arousal between the four of you.

He wraps you up in a clean blanket. Lifting you up and carrying you back into the room this had all begun. He’s looking around for your clothes but can’t seem to find them. “It’s all clear.” Keegan nods. König nods his head. He places you down in a chair for a moment, picking up his hood and returning it to cover his face. Ghost and Keegan doing the same. “I can’t find her clothes.” König sighs. “I’ve got them.” Keegan nods. He passes them to König and he thanks him. He unwraps the blanket you’re in, helping you get dressed. You’re exhausted and weak, eyes getting heavy as he helps you. “I’ve got a sample of the drug and some paperwork. That’s all we needed right?” Ghost asks. König nods his head. “Yes. All in all this was a successful mission.” He nods. “Jedoch, this stays between us.” He laughs. Ghost and Keegan can’t help but laugh, even you have a tired smile on your lips. “Yes sir.” Keegan laughs.

König ties your boots, and returns the blanket around you, lifting you up with ease. That was one good thing about the massive man, he was strong. “Let’s get to exfil. We all need to be checked out.” Ghost says. Everyone nods in agreement. You’ve finally fallen asleep and König can’t help but smile.

This was going to be a day to remember.

[drivebypainter]

I redesigned my SVSSS OC as the start of my mission to create a design/reference sheet for all of the SVSSS characters!

(prev design)

Here’s her lore:

The lore behind He Mixin’s arrival:

Shang Qinghua, wasn’t one for extreme superstitions. However, he definitely believed he must have broken a hundred mirrors for him to have the luck he currently had. He was stuck doing paperwork and taxes not only for the entire sect, but the entire northern palace too! Not only that but it was only his first few years as a peak lord and already multiple disasters had happened!

So in order to to minimize any future problems, Shang Qinghua began praying to a god of luck and fortune. Sure it was probably useless and a waste of time, but it felt nice to do it. Soon the prayers turned into little out of the way tasks to increase his luck. The it turned into whole rituals before he sent a letter or before he went on a mission. It seemed to be working too! His paper work seemed easier and people began to turn in their work on time!

However one day it went all wrong. You see, Shang Qinghua in his rush to save a stack of paper from falling off his desk, he stuck his chop sticks straight up- in his bowl of rice! (Bad luck!)

After that once unfortunate moment, everything went wrong again. Taxes grew harder, people began to be late with their reports, and peaks began to have disasters every week!

Desperate to get back his luck, Shang Qinghua begged the little statue of the lucky and fortunate god for help. Shang Qinghua was surprised when the sound of the system suddenly sung in his head with a new mission!

[User01 has gained a new mission with a grand reward of a permanent buff on paperwork and other peakly duties! Does User01 want to accept this mission?]

Extremely excited, Shang Qinghua selected the yes button and immediately forgot about the mission, after the system only gave a vague [great see you in 12 years!]

Over the next 4 years, Shang Qinghua’s luck slowly increased again.. but it never got to the point from before, and in fact any increase of luck was barely appreciated due to his now PAINFUL headaches that he was getting all the time.

On the dawn of the 5th year, Shang Qinghua could no longer take it, and begged the system to end the mission. There was no way he could handle it anymore! The pain was too much!

The system remained silent so Shang Qinghua ran to Mu Qingfang for help. After a quick analysis, Mu Qingfang found the problem, there was something growing next to Shang Qinghua’s brain! Mu Qingfang went to remove the mass and suddenly out popped a whole 5 year old child! Shang Qinghua was horrified- but the child’s birth(?) aligned with the mission… so was this his buff for everything on his peak?

Shang Qinghua decided to name the child He Mixin, (which means “to celebrate superstition”), as a call back to all the silly things Shang Qinghua did in the name of luck!

As He Mixin grew up, Shang Qinghua gave up his superstitions and instead just relied on giving small prayers to the lucky god in thanks. After all, despite its craziness, Shang Qinghua now had his own little ‘good luck charm’.

He Mixin personality/details/how she interacts with others:

He Mixin is a very stubborn and hard worker. She works hard to get things done and to make her baba proud. (thought she’d never tell him that).

She has a lot of anger issues, resulting with dealing with “man-child” peak lords and annoying fellow disciples (and even more annoying fellow head disciples).

She is prone to bouts of impulsivity, as shown by her horrible hair that she did on a day where she wanted to be free of the excruciating heat caused by summer in CQMS.

She is sometimes called the Princess of An Ding, because she is the daughter of SQH and out of all the disciples on An Ding she is rather weak. (though off on her peak she is considered the most physically strong out of her fellow head disciples- despite that strength she is very much not a fighter.)((A Ding disciples have to be sturdy and capable in order to do the amount of physical labor they do)).

HMX doesn’t like a lot of people due to the fact her opinions are usually clouded by the fact she has to deal with their bullshit when she does paperwork.

HMX is lesbian yay.

HMX is friends with Feng Licheng (the Zui Xian head disciple) and Gao Hongxia (the Wan Jian head disciple). The three of them hang out regularly.

HMX was forced to go on play dates with FLC the moment he joined ZXP.

HMX has a huge crush on GHX (GHX is beautiful, kind and competent! AWOOGA!)

HMX is frenemies with Ming Fan because the guy is annoyingly bossy! No other reason! (MF and GHX are friends- HMX is insanely jealous every time they hang out)

HMX hates Yang Yixuan to the bone because the brat is Bai Zhan and Bai Zhan sucks (YYX is a pure baby who never did anything wrong.)

HMX’s relationship with SQH is sorta like begrudging father/daughter type deal. HMX wants, but then also doesn’t want, a father, and SQH doesn’t know how to deal with children LOL.

MBJ was shocked the first time he met HMX- “WHAT DO YOU MEAN YOU HAD A KID POP OUT OF YOUR HEAD???”

HMX was taught embroidery by SQH and now regularly does little embroidery projects on either her own clothes or on little scraps of paper.

Both Feng Licheng and Gao Hongxia belong to @sillygoofyqueer

[everytimewetouch-dot-mp3]

christ more dragon god sy yapping:

all those b-points he got from finishing that first quest? gone. my mans got like 100 every time he blessed a new generation of peak lords, plus the 500 he got from finishing that first main quest {From the Ground Up}, plus whatever he got from fighting off all those beasties who tried to kill his little cultivators way back when.

but when he unlocks his human form, he does not unlock clothes, and he has to buy them from the system store! truly unfair! he looks pretty similar to how he looked in his first life, just a little less sickly. he also has to buy a sword from the system, which is frankly bullshit. but lanrui is a lovely sword—an almost pearlescent sheen to the blade, with peach blossoms inlaid in the hilt and a dragon scale sheath that…it’s almost certainly made from his scales, actually. weird. after buying everything he needs from the bullshit system’s scam shop, he’s left with about 150 B-points.

after his magical girl transformation from gigantic dragon god to gangly human wrapped in way too many layers of sumptuous green and blue silks, shen yuan is sent off the mountain on a couple of missions from the system. pop into the demon realm to slay this evil, fend off these fierce corpses attacking this little town—tutorial shit. it’s weird having such a small body again after six (or seven hundred???? he’s not thinking about the enormity of time right now) years as a gigantic dragon. his steps feel a thousand times lighter, and the first time he tries to pick a fruit from a tree, he kind of explodes it with spiritual energy. the tutorial is, unfortunately, necessary.

the system is almost helpful when it shares his stats and all his cool dragon skills. his official name here is lord canglong, but honestly it would be so hard to explore this world if people were falling all over themselves when they heard his names. did dragon gods get personal names before courtesy too? fighting with the system gets him a corny, half-assed compromise.

he still gets to be shen yuan, but while his first life’s yuan was 垣 yuán (wall), in his second life it’s 愿 yuàn (desire, hope), and the shen he has is… very transparently ���, shén (god, deity). he’s got stupid amounts of spiritual energy, he doesn’t need to eat or drink, and sometimes plants bloom around him since he’s the also kind of the god of springtime?

right when he gets excited thinking about how he’s a god!! (the dragon god in PIDW!! that bastardization of qinglong that airplane wrote who never did shit to defend the realms until his mountain was being destroyed by binghe merging them!!) the system butts in to remind him that there are limitations. he can’t kill humans except in certain circumstances or else he’ll be punished, which—fine, he didn’t plan to go around murdering people anyway? his dragon form will be locked whenever he’s not on canglong peak (bullshit!! what kind of half assed nerfing—) and there’s a permanent penalty on his account, [Dragon Ex Machina], that threatens to penalize him if he uses his dragon god powers to bully the plot into going his way.

so what’s the point of being a dragon god, then!?!??!?!

he spends days bickering debating with the system while he learns to use his sword and qi without exploding whatever he touches, but the system refuses to budge. if he tries to bully the plot too much, he’ll be punished. it’s bullshit, but so is this whole novel he’s found himself in, so…

shen yuan is ready to spend a few more days acclimating before he gets a game plan together but that flies out the window when something starts burning at the back of his mind, screaming that something’s wrong, something is in danger, part of his territory is threatened. he hasn’t felt that since the last demon invasion, and before he can stop himself, he’s mounted lanrui and darted off toward that feeling that something is wrong, wrong, wrong.

he ends up having blown in a wall of qing jing’s discipline hall, the tail of shen qingqiu’s whip caught in his fist (and fuck, that hurt to catch!!! his hand is definitely bleeding) as he stares down the man who was really just about to start whipping a child. a couple of disciples have gone white; a couple others have fallen over. the only ones in the room unaffected are shen yuan, luo binghe whose eyes are wide as he gazes up at him, and fucking scum villain extraordinaire, shen qingqiu. and the scum villain’s first words to him, lord canglong, dragon god of qing jing peak???

“move, or i’ll beat you too.”