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sunarryn · 7 hours ago

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DP X Marvel #32

It all began when Dr. Jasmine Fenton—Jazz, to the brave and traumatized—walked into the Avengers Compound in five-inch block heels, a blood-red blazer, and a clipboard with everyone’s most damning psychological profiles printed in 12-point Times New Roman. She had been hired because, quote, “the last six therapists either quit, cried, or developed their own hero complexes.” SHIELD had gone through the best and brightest the world had to offer. They even tried a Wakandan empathy AI once. It cried. The AI cried.

So when Jazz Fenton walked in, armed with a dual PhD in clinical psychology and trauma therapy, the last thing they expected was that she’d personally know what hero trauma looked like. But she did. Her baby brother was a half-ghost interdimensional guardian who once got hit by a nuke and walked it off. Her parents were mad scientists who tried to dissect him. And her godfather was an immortal corporate vampire with a crown kink and a habit of kidnapping. She had seen things. She understood. And more importantly, she didn’t care. She wasn’t here to coddle them.

“Dr. Fenton,” Steve Rogers greeted politely that first morning.

“Please, call me Jazz,” she said with a smile that made even Natasha lower her coffee. “Or Doctor Fenton if you’re about to lie to me.”

Tony Stark made the mistake of raising an eyebrow. “Oh? What are you gonna do, psychoanalyze me into submission?”

She flipped to his file. “‘Severe abandonment issues, destructive self-worth tendencies, martyr complex buried under layers of narcissistic deflection, sleeps three hours a night, probably cries in the shower—’”

“I don’t cry in the shower!”

“That is because you don’t shower, Mr. Stark.”

That shut him up.

From that day onward, fear fell over the Avengers Compound like a thick, fragrant fog of anxiety. Jazz was everywhere. One moment she was on the roof with Clint discussing his grief over Budapest, the next she was in the lab with Bruce making him cry, and the moment after that she had Loki in handcuffs—not because he was arrested, but because he asked for them.

“I just think maybe I’m too attached to the idea of being hated,” Loki muttered, slouched on the therapy couch.

“You are,” Jazz replied, checking her notes. “You’re addicted to conflict because you’ve built your identity on being an outsider. Every time you’re offered genuine affection, you self-sabotage. You’re not a villain, you’re just a lonely youngest child.”

“I—” Loki blinked. “That is horrifically accurate. And incredibly offensive.”

“Cry harder, Sparklehorn.”

Thor, meanwhile, loved her. Adored her. Followed her around like an emotional support golden retriever with lightning powers. He kept trying to give her things—golden goblets, fur cloaks, an entire goat—until one day she casually picked up Mjolnir while fixing a crooked painting and everyone screamed.

“How the fuck—” Sam Wilson shouted.

“Why can she do that?” Peter Parker asked from the ceiling.

“Therapists shouldn’t be worthy!” Tony wailed. “It’s not natural!”

Jazz shrugged and handed the hammer back to Thor. “I was forged in the fires of Midwestern neglect and ghost radiation. You think Odin can break me? Try surviving your brother getting publicly disemboweled by a government robot while your parents take notes.”

She had no chill. None. She was the only person who called Wanda out on her grief projection, made Bucky talk about his repressed ballet skills, and forced Steve to draw a family tree so she could scream “YOUR ENTIRE FRIEND GROUP IS CODEPENDENT.”

“Group therapy!” she declared one Tuesday.

“No,” said literally everyone.

“Too bad. Show up or I will personally guilt you in front of the media using your own trauma receipts.”

And they did. They came. They came because they were afraid.

Tony sat with arms crossed. “This is stupid.”

“Tell that to your inner child.”

“I don’t have one.”

“Exactly.”

Clint sighed. “This is worse than Budapest.”

“Everything is worse than Budapest,” Natasha replied.

Wanda blinked slowly. “I think I just astrally projected my own anxiety. It’s hovering above me like a raincloud.”

Jazz didn’t even blink. “Let it hover. Let it watch you cry. Maybe it’ll finally grow up.”

Civil War? Canceled.

No one dared fight each other under Jazz’s watch. When tensions began rising between Tony and Steve over the Sokovia Accords, she locked them in a soundproof room with juice boxes and didn’t let them out until they hugged it out like the emotionally repressed golden retrievers they were.

“I will tranquilize you both,” she warned through the door. “I have the darts and the upper body strength. Don’t tempt me.”

They made up within the hour.

At one point, Nick Fury tried to get involved. He barged into one of Jazz’s sessions like he still ran SHIELD.

“What the hell kind of therapy involves throwing knives at a target while crying?” he demanded.

Jazz, unfazed, handed him a stress knife. “Want to try?”

He did. And then immediately rebooked weekly appointments.

By week four, the compound was transformed. Hulk was journaling. Peter was actually doing his homework. Wanda was learning healthy coping mechanisms that didn’t involve mind-controlling entire suburbs. Clint and Natasha were having pillow talks about emotional vulnerability. Even Loki was crocheting.

“Do you know what I’ve done?” he whispered as he stitched a duck.

“I’ve read your file,” Jazz said. “And your Tumblr tag. You’re not special.”

“I am special—”

“You’re traumatized, sweetie.”

Meanwhile, Tony—still deeply suspicious—began following her around trying to find proof she was a Hydra sleeper agent. What he found instead was her absolutely unhinged family.

“You’re related to who?” he asked over coffee one morning.

Jazz sighed. “My little brother is Danny Phantom, ghost-powered superhero and part-time physics major. My godfather is Vlad Masters, ex-billionaire and full-time supervillain with a complex. My parents are Jack and Maddie Fenton.”

Tony blinked. “The guys who duct-taped a rocket to a lawnmower and called it science?”

“The very same.”

“No wonder you’re like this.”

Jazz nodded. “Exactly. I was forged in chaos and trauma. Now I’m here to fix you.”

“I don’t want to be fixed.”

“Too bad. I’ve already started rebuilding your psyche.”

“What does that mean—”

“Check your inner monologue. Notice how it’s stopped calling you a worthless meat puppet?”

Tony screamed.

Even Doctor Strange, who allegedly had the answers to the universe, found himself in a corner drinking tea and rethinking the way he suppressed his emotions with sarcasm and facial hair.

“You’re not mystical, Stephen,” Jazz told him. “You’re just emotionally constipated.”

“I literally astral project.”

“Cool. Now try emotional projection. Maybe apologize to Wong.”

“…Wong is asleep.”

“Wake him up.”

By month two, even the press noticed. The Avengers were glowing. Smiling. Making eye contact during press conferences instead of brooding like middle school theater kids.

“What changed?” a reporter asked.

Tony grabbed the mic. “Her name is Jazz Fenton and she scares the hell out of us.”

Steve nodded solemnly. “She made me cry six times in one session. I told her about my dad.”

“She made me draw my feelings,” Clint added.

“I finally cried about Pietro,” Wanda whispered. “In public. It felt amazing. I think I vomited emotions.”

“Dr. Fenton helped me write a song about my grief,” Thor said proudly. “It’s a power ballad. With goats.”

And then came the incident.

The one time the Avengers tried to disobey her. Sam and Bucky had been arguing again. Loudly. And somewhere in the chaos, someone dared say, “It’s not like Jazz can stop us.”

Wrong.

So, so wrong.

Jazz calmly walked into the sparring room, confiscated Bucky’s knife mid-twirl, took Sam’s wings with one hand, and sat both men down with the force of divine intervention.

“You two,” she said in a voice that made the walls tremble, “are not enemies. You are trauma-bonded enemies-to-friends-to-exes-to-besties. You are a trope. You are a fanfiction tag. You are not about to regress into kindergarten slap fights because one of you forgot the others’ favorite breakfast order.”

“…He forgot my birthday,” Sam muttered.

“Because he has memory trauma! You have it too! You both need to go on a spa day and cry it out in a hot tub like normal people.”

And they did.

They actually did.

The day Jazz left for a conference—just one day—the entire compound fell into shambles. Loki started monologuing again, Peter accidentally built a sentient AI who wrote poetry about death, Wanda started glowing red again, and Tony tried to weaponize emotional damage via sarcastic limericks.

The moment she came back, they all lined up like chastised children.

“What did I say about emotionally projecting without supervision?” she asked.

“Don’t do it,” they chorused.

“And?”

Peter sniffled. “We missed you.”

“Damn right you did.”

Jazz smiled, terrifying and fond, and flipped her clipboard. “Now. Who wants to talk about their mother?”

And the Avengers, Earth’s Mightiest Heroes, sat down.

Because nothing—not Chitauri, not Ultron, not even Thanos—was scarier than the therapist who could lift Mjolnir and your deepest childhood wound in the same breath.

Dr. Jasmine Fenton was the real hero. And everyone knew it.

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nightlyrequiem · 8 hours ago

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Pen Pal

Bored and lonely you discover the world of prison pen pals and take on a recently convicted drug lord as yours.

AO3 w.c- 3,783 A/N- I'm not sure where I was going with this tbh. Just a fun little exercise I think. Also I wasn't going to proofread but I'm glad I did because there were so many grammatical errors 💀

Tags/Warnings- Inmate!Valeria, Friendship, Implied Developing Feelings, Open Ending, Prison, Post-Modern Warfare II

Beep.

You slide a can of soup across the scanner. It's dented at the edge and has an ugly yellow 'Half Off!' sticker falling off of the side.

Beep.

You work efficiently. Zoned out and scanning on autopilot, almost lulled into a trance by the robotic beeping of the other scanners around you. It's a scorching summer day and the AC is on full blast. Chilling you through your thin work uniform and sending your skin puckering with goosebumps.

Beep.

You scan the last item, a bag of whole grain bread and plaster a half-dead customer-service smile on your face.

"Thank you for shopping with us today, do you have a points account with us?" You ask. The man's face twitches with annoyance. He was probably bothered about signing up while he was shopping and you long to tell him that you hate it too, but you'll get into trouble if you don't ask.

"No." He replies, moving to start bagging up his groceries.

"Would you like to sign up for one? You can get forty-"

"I'm good, thanks." He interrupts you. The man bags his items and hurries off, leaving your till empty.

You sigh and lean against the counter. Resting your head on your hand. You feel exhausted. And not from the kind that can be fixed with a full, uninterrupted eight hours of sleep. (Not that you're getting that either.) It's the kind that seeps into your very bones and infects your blood like a disease. You can't believe you have at least fifty more years of this before you can retire. Muffled laughter to your right draws your attention and you glance over. Seeing two of your coworkers, Adrienna and Catalina, deep in conversation.

"I just can't believe he was actually a woman this entire time!" Adrianna says. Catalina nods eagerly.

"No, I know, I was shocked. Obviously, women can be evil and powerful or whatever, I just never thought about it much." Catalina replies.

"Are you guys talking about El Sin Nombre?" You ask, wanting to join in. "Did you know she was a part of the special forces for a while?" You look at the two women expectantly, but it seems they're too engrossed in each other to have heard you. Embarrassed, you awkwardly scratch your arm and glance around, wondering if anyone saw you getting ignored.

Las Almas was being terrorized by a faceless individual going by El Sin Nombre. Essentially the boogeyman. Nobody knew what he looked like or who he was, but everyone knew of his cutthroat cruelty. He popped up overnight like a pimple right after the death of the previous reigning drug lord, La Araña and his son. El Sin Nombre was bigger and badder. Had more men, more fire power, more control over the government. You still remember the events that led to her getting caught.

Foreign military had rolled in like they owned the place. Making everyone uncomfortable, almost as much as violent armed men that used to patrol the streets did. In a matter of days chaos erupted and the little quiet town of Las Almas was sent into a state of emergency. Especially when one of the militia groups went rogue and started raiding homes and illegally interrogating and accusing citizens of being involved in the cartel. You remember how scared you felt when you locked yourself down in your little apartment. Having to listen to the angry shouting outside and gunfire.

All of that resulted in the infamous El Sin Nombre being apprehended and arrested. Her identity being revealed to the public days later as Valeria Garza, a former Mexican Special Forces officer. Previously dishonorably discharged for killing hostages in some mission years and years ago. You had seen her picture on the news. Of her being led into the maximum security prison on the outskirts of the city. Privately, you thought her to be a good looking woman. Short dark hair, tan skin, and a face matured by age. Severe dark brown eyes narrowed defiantly. She exuded confidence and power, even in her mugshot.

But that's the last time anything excited has happened in Las Almas. You sigh and flick a dust ball off your register. That, and the recent break up you went through. Though even that was hardly interesting. Just two people who decided they were no longer compatible anymore. But you still miss them. Life is so lonely, even when you're surrounded by other people.

Six hours feels more like six days. But finally, you get to clock out and go home. Enjoying a warm, safe walk back to your apartment. Once inside however, you're less eager. It's quiet and empty inside your home. The only thing waiting for you being a sink full of dishes and a frozen TV dinner in the freezer. You change into shorts and a t-shirt and chuck your uniform into a corner. You pause by the sink and ultimately decide that it can sit for a few more hours. You treat yourself to computer time instead.

Having no social life, you spend most of your time scouring the internet for entertainment and communities you could squeeze yourself into. But even people on the internet fall into exclusive cliques. Your posts go ignored and you're too shy to even try using discord. So you content yourself with lurking instead. Your guilty pleasure is Reddit. You like reading other people's stories and discussions. You can pretend you're the jury passing on judgement though you rarely ever engage past upvoting or downvoting.

While you're scrolling through various different posts, one catches your eye and you click on it to read more. It's someone talking about their prisoner pen pal. Sharing some funny excerpt from one of their letters. The seed of an idea starts forming in your mind. You do some cautious research and find that there's a whole community surrounding the art of writing incarcerated people. Curiously, you do some deeper digging. Finding official websites with inmate's profiles. It's encouraged for them to stay in contact with the outside world. Something to do with helping with rehabilitation or something.

You look up all the female prisoners located in Las Alms. Browsing through an official government website. A familiar picture stops you from your bored scrolling. Dark hair and dark eyes glower at you through your computer screen. Along with a list of her name and public info. Valeria Garza, inmate 9989, and a long, long laundry list of crimes. She's currently being held in a penitentiary. Excitement gathers in your gut. You could send her a letter. Then you frown. Can you send a letter to someone in maximum security prison? You quickly google it and feel relieved to find that you can.

You push your laptop to the side and grab a pen and paper. Giddily writing out an introduction for yourself and asking her about herself. You re-write the letter a few times, the corner of your living room slowly growing with crumpled paper balls. At last, an hour and a half later, you perfect your first letter. Carefully reading it over. Though you're not even that hopeful she'll read it, let alone respond to you, you still grimace at the thought of it reading as awkward. You envelope it, write down the details on the face of it and then set out to hand it over to the post office.

* * *

Weeks pass by without a response, and even though you knew the likelihood of receiving one was low, you still find yourself feeling disappointed. It's probably for the best anyway. You shouldn't be starting up a communication with an infamous drug lord anyhow. You go about your life with ebbing excitement. Carrying out your grocery store shifts with all the enthusiasm of a rock. Life continues as usual. Customers continue to be entitled and borderline incompetent, your coworkers continue to ignore your exitance when they aren't asking you to cover their shifts, and you remain friendless both online and in real life.

But when you check your mailbox and sift through the bills, a certain envelope catches your eye. It's not the formal the kind that comes with bills. It's a letter, you realize with growing excitement. And it came from the Las Almas Penitentiary.

You hurry inside and slam the door behind you, throwing off your shoes with glee. You plop yourself down on your sofa and tear open the envelope, sliding out the letter inside. The scrawling handwriting is small and neat, but hard to read but it'll take a little more than illegibility to deter you.

'Hello. I was surprised to receive mail from a name I didn't recognize. I had assumed you were a journalist of some kind, but it was refreshing to learn that you are not. It's very sad that you're so desperate for human connection that you're resorting to writing letters to prisoners. I'll entertain you for now. There's not much else to do in here.

The food here is terrible, thank you for asking. I miss warm, home cooked meals. I miss fast food too. No, it's not scary in here. It would be for someone like you I expect. My reputation serves as a Sheild, though there are a few ballsy women who want the recognition that would come with killing me. They'll never be successful, of course. They do make us do work. I'm on janitorial duty. I have the very elating task of scrubbing toilets. With how filthy this place gets you'd think none of these women were ever potty trained. Most of them are just sick freaks who get off on making messes, I'm sure.

It's hard receiving news in here. Even with the contacts I do have. Anything interesting I'm missing out on in the outside world?'

The letter is fairly short, and a little cutting. Her snide comment about you being desperate, in particular. But you're too excited over actually getting a response. It's like being noticed by a celebrity. You re-read it, then grab a pen and paper and start working on your response. At first, you tell her how happy you are to have received a response, but then you realize that'll just earn you more mockery and snide remarks. So you scrap it and start over, trying to seem calmer and more collected. You express your sympathy for her food situation, and for her work situation. There's not much to tell her about the world. Because it hasn't really changed since she was arrested. You tell her as much, wondering if she'll feel relieved or disappointed by that fact.

You're in much brighter spirits after mailing off your letter. So much so that sometimes when you smile at customers and tell them to have a nice day, you actually mean it. Even staying late to cover Catalina's shift doesn't dampen your mood. You do inventory and clean and then walk home. Valeria's letter comes in two weeks later. In the same generic envelope, they give to all the prisoners. You curl up on the sofa and tear it open, a cup of warm tea beside you.

'Your sympathies are appreciated. It's a little disconcerting to hear that nothing has changed. It feels like all the work I did was pointless and I left no impact at all. I'm hoping that my presence is at least still felt on the streets of Las Almas. It would be terribly embarrassing for my efforts to have resulted in nothing changing. And so soon, too. I worked too hard to make Las Almas stronger.

Never mind that though. Aside from your desire to connect with anyone regardless of their quality as a person, I want to know why you chose me. You clearly know who I am and what I did. Are you a hybristophile? The more dangerous the better? You'll be sorely disappointed to find that I'm not receptive to that kind of thing. I have no intentions on entering a relationship. Especially not one borne from some odd fetish.

And to answer your question, yes people have sex in the showers. There's no such thing as shame in here. The water is also always cold. And shoes are a must or else you'll get a fungal infection in your feet. Showering is another thing I miss terribly. I haven't felt clean since I got here. You mentioned that you work at SunTown. How's that treating you? Do you plan on working there forever or do you have better plans for your life?'

You're offended that she thinks you're talking to her because you're weird. And you're hurt that she's brought up your job and the course of your life. As a matter of fact, you don't have any higher plans for your life. You've considered college many, many times but you can't think of anything you'd like enough to invest that time and money into. That being said, you don't want to work at SunTown Grocer for the rest of your life. But you suppose you shouldn't be shocked by her rudeness. Criminals aren't renowned for their manners.

You write her a response. Choosing to be a little abrasive yourself and subtly mocking her own predicament. You tell her you're a free bird going where the wind blows you. Code word for 'I have no direction in my life.' You also deny the hybristophile accusation. And call her presumptuous for assuming you were seeking a romantic relationship from her. You're bored and lonely, and conversing with a criminal kills two birds with one stone. You also have no intentions of trying to court her.

* * *

You and Valeria exchange letters back and forth over the course of four months. Slowly building an unexpected bond. Her snide comments become less hostile and more teasing, and in turn, you become more confident with your replies. You even open up to her about your life. Things deeper than just you not liking your job. You tell her about your ex, about your coworkers that you want to befriend but can't seem to no matter how hard you try. You also tell her how you're struggling with bills. Everything seems to be raising but your salary.

A week after you send your letter, a black duffel bag filled with five grand mysteriously shows up at your door. You almost choke at the sight of so much money. You know it has something to do with Valeria. and the thought makes you nervous. Her sending you money wasn't your intention when you told her about your financial struggles. You just wanted to vent. She never mentioned if she still had contact with her remaining free cartel cronies, but you suspect she does. This all but confirms it for you. Nothing else would explain the sudden appearance of money right after you complained about. What worries you is it potentially being dirty money. But shamefully, you don't turn it away. Valeria doesn't mention it in her reply letter, and you don't either.

What she does mention, is her desire to see who she's talking to. Something that makes you nervous. You're not sure if you want a drug lord knowing what you look like. But you started it by writing to her in the first place. And she has your address anyway. It really can't get worse than that. What's really making you nervous though, is what she'll think when she sees you. It would be so humiliating if she thought you were ugly and decided to stop talking to you. But you take a picture of yourself anyway. Dressing up casually but also nicely and using the best lighting and angles you can. You land on a nice picture of you by your living room window and print it out. Stuffing it into the envelope alongside your letter. Before you can talk yourself out of it, you walk down to the post office and hand it over.

The wait for her reply feels much longer than usual. There's a heavy fear inside of you that she won't respond at all. Getting ghosted by an inmate would probably be your last straw. But that doesn't happen. Her letter comes in two weeks later like always and you nervously read it.

'You look so much more normal than I was expecting. I'm actually kind of disappointed. I thought you'd be hideous from the way you describe yourself and how other people seem to treat you.

Anyway, I've added your name to the visitors registry. As nice as it is looking forward to your biweekly letters, I'd like to speak to you face to face sometime. It would be nice not having to wait weeks for a reply to a simple question. It would be nice to receive a casual visit for once. Come Thursday at six, we can have a real conversation then.'

Her assessment of your looks should offend you. But somehow being called 'normal looking' by Valeria makes it sound like a compliment. You re-read the last part of her letter multiple times. Wondering if you're seeing things right. She wants to meet you. Well, she's decided that you will meet by the sounds of it. You could just not go, but you know you'll be there after work.

Thursday comes fast and your shift goes by even faster. You're nervous and giddy to meet your pen pal in person. It occurs to you while you're stressing over your outfit that your feelings may have developed past curious. You don't want to dwell on that though. Choosing to ignore the idea completely. There's no future to be had with a convict who's going to spend the rest of her life behind bars.

The drive to the prison isn't too long. You're stopped at the gate and made to show your I.D. The man takes his sweet time to check if you're on the visitors list before finally letting you through. You find a place to park and walk inside, entering the lobby. There are a few people waiting in chairs. Some looking very down. You walk past them to the man at the front desk. He types away at the computer without acknowledging you. You stand there few a few awkward minutes, waiting for him to notice you but when he doesn't you clear your throat.

"Um, hi," You start. He looks at you with a bored expression. "I'm here to visit someone."

"Name?" He says. His voice is as inspired as he looks.

"Mine?" You ask uncertainly.

"Yes. And the prisoner you're here to see." He sighs.

"Oh." You tell him your name. "And I'm here to see Valeria Garza?"

At her name, the man perks up, one thick brow raising.

"... Okay. Go right through there. You'll be searched and then let through to the visitor's area." He tells you, pointing to a doorway to the right. You walk over and let an officer pat you down. you're nervous, like you accidently shoved all kinds of illegal things in your pockets on accident. But you're deemed safe and let through.

The room looks like you'd expect it to. One long table stretching from one side of the room to the other. with glass separating the visitors from the prisoners. There are three other people visiting, talking through a phone connected to the table. At the very end, clad in a beige jumpsuit and staring right at you is Valeria. Not wanting her to see how nervous you are, you walk towards her and take a seat in front of her. She looks different in person. Her hair is longer, and she looks tired. But there's still an aura of defiance surrounding her. Her expression is cool and detached. She picks up her phone and you do the same.

"Hi." You say.

"Hello." She replies. She doesn't say more, just blinks at you calmly. You shift in your seat. Is that it? All that anxiety and excitement just for some polite greetings?

"You're better looking in person." She speaks. Your face warms at the compliment. Yeah, you're definitely not harboring just friendly feelings for her.

"Thank you. You look... well." You say.

Valeria scoffs.

"As well as anyone in prison can look, I suppose. I'm certainly overdo for a haircut. I haven't had my hair touching my shoulders in years." She says.

"Oh. Well... it looks nice." You reply, smiling lightly.

Valeria's lips twitch upwards. "I guess it does. How have you been? Still trying to befriend those girls?" She sniffs disdainfully.

"No. They don't want anything to do with me and I'm fine with that." You say. Though you're still kind of sad about it. It's probably not personal but it's hard not to take it that way.

"Good." Valeria shrugs. "They're just a waste of time. Better to surround yourself with good, intelligent friends then to befriend just anyone because they're convenient."

"Intelligent huh?" You say dryly. It sounds like Valeria's referring to herself. She seems almost pleased to be your only real friend.

Valeria leans back in her chair.

"And how have you been financially?" She looks at you closely.

You stare back. "I've been good. Got some help from someone." You reply vaguely. Aware of the guards behind you.

"Good." Valeria nods assuredly. She leans closer and when she speaks again, her voice is lowered conspiratorially. "I'll be getting out soon. I wanted to tell you in person." Your eyes widen.

"They're releasing you already?" You ask quietly. You thought she got life. She smiles knowingly.

"Something like that." She says. "I thought you'd want to know. Seeing as we're such good friends and all." She says it like it's a secret that only the two of you share.

You smile back at her but something twinges in your gut. She makes it sound so sinister. You have a sneaking suspicion that something big is about to happen.

"Oh. Yeah, that's great to hear." You finally respond. "We can actually hang out."

"Mhm." Valeria nods, looking pleased. "It's good to have friends you can count on. Someone unassuming who will have your back."

You shift, feeling unsure now. "Of course. That's what friends do for each other."

"Good. I'm glad you agree." She says calmly. "I'll be seeing you real soon, and there won't be a sheet of plexiglass between us then."

Your time runs out and you stand. Looking at her through the glass. Something in her words tells you that's she's up to no good. And now you're somehow involved whether you want to or not. You just hope your feelings don't cloud your mind from doing the right thing.

#valeria garza #cod mw2 #valeria garza x reader #modern warefare ii #valeria garza x fem!reader #cod mwii #valeria garza cod #cod x reader #valeria garza x you #cod

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nightlysleeper · 5 months ago

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Transformers character lineup. I only did four because I could only do four.

#transformers #generation one #art #digital art #character design #starscream #megatron #bumblebee #optimus prime #this was painful #you have to draw robots when drawing robots #i had to learn to draw robots #when i was little i thought Meghan had the ugliest bowl cut #but know now: he rocked that bob

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imclou · 4 months ago

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can't believe fnaf brought me out of art hibernation man what a turn of events

#my art #clou's art summary #dca fandom #fnaf security breach #art summary 2024 #ayo rant in the tags #like everyone else on this planet my 2024 was tough haha #but it was really good artwise #ngl going back to drawing and being unapologetic about it irl was liberating #fr i met some real irl grinches since going to uni #the kind that make you feel bad about liking stuff other than work #i sorta felt ashamed at first and toned it down to focus solely on work #the fnaf dca worms were too strong though lmao #ngl this fandom is awesome #like #last time i checked what was going on in the arcane fandom and this place is a straight up warzone #also it turns out people work a lot better when they're happy how bizarre #no but really this fandom gave me a good deal of confidence in general :D #like YEA i love robots they're so cool how could anyone not like them #YEA i watch arcane every weekend even though i have mixed feelings about s2 it's a literal work of art #though some irl peps used to make me feel bad about enjoying stuff now whenever i meet one i feel sorry for them instead #especially when you ask them about THEIR hobbies instead and they answer 'idk tiktok?' like bruh #hey you #yeah you #if you're reading this don't feel ashamed of your interests #it's not worth it fr #go crazy have fun #draw that character you like #make a playlist for them #draft that fic you were thinking about

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local-diavolo-anon · 8 months ago

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i'm back!

ok so 2/3 days ago i found this youtube video where op turned Springtrap (or well, William Afton) into a fully build DnD character, and if i say so myself: things got out of hand fast

so here is my take on DnD Springtrap and specifically on that build (adding more infos under the cut for who is interested, i suggest to watch the video first)

starting with saying that unless you're playing in a scifi setting, this build is either not for you or to be modified, since in later levels spells are heavily centered around technomagic and electronic devices; personally when i will play him i will probably tinker around with the chosen spells and cantrips to make him less violently niche and/or more versatile

which kinda saddens me because it takes away not little of the characterization but, given most dnd stories take place in a medieval fantasy or high fantasy setting, a cantrip like On/Off or a spell like Remote Access are NOT particularly useful; so i will go for more psychic damage or necromancy oriented abilities, maybe i might take more than just 4 levels in artificier as well (especially given that again, all of those warlock spells at later levels are all technology oriented) but i need to see what those offer

however it is a kinda tank-y build given that with a shield on you can get up to a 27 of Ac, so even with low damage and not much hp you would not struggle too much to stay alive, and i like that!

as for the character himself, i put too much effort into my interpretation not to share it, so if anyone wants to play this guy as well, i fabricated a possible backstory that might come useful:

The character goes by the name "Dave Miller" (or whatever variant you want to use), and was originally a human artificier who created constructs for a living, mainly with the goal of offering aid to who needed it for whatever reason.

There however he ran into an issue, that being that a robot need a power source, and his own heart and lungs could not sustain a whole robot by themselves.

After losing part of his family to some kind of accident he became terrified of death, so with age he started replacing his own body parts with machinery to delay his last days (which made him a cyborg), until the point where he was very very close to become just a robot.

(This part may or may not involve a pact with a deity of death, this entirely depends on how you want to play him but it would make sense since the build is an artificier/warlock hybrid)

Through particular and very much not illegal experiments tied to necromancy he discovered that the life force of a living being could be shared, and used as a form of fuel. (possibly: age lived of the creature used= amount of extra months you get)

Here comes the second problem: this only worked with intelligent creatures, and more specifically, it worked best with creatures of your own race, which meant that he either went around murdering people or he found another solution. Non same-race creatures worked as well but not as good and there were not easy to find in the middle of a city and with a shop tied to your name.

And here is where and WHY he'd join a party of adventurers: after some time, his reserves or fuel were running VERY thin, and running into a group of adventurers was a god sent because by joining their party he essentially got a free pass to kill whoever he wanted, and reduce them to a dried raisin after sucking some life force out of them. Doing so you learn that the mowe powerful the creature is, the more energy it produces as well.

Your goal, that you as the player are following, when role-ing your character? essentially slay whatever powerful BBEG your Dm throws at you and suck all of that juicy fuel out of them, so that you can return to your little shop in the middle of the capital and return to create and sell whatever weird construct, doll, or robot comes to your mind for another few decades undisturbed.

And this is it. I think this might be a good backstory that could fit pretty much any setting you want to play this guy into, be it classic dnd or some scifi futuristic thing.

of course you don't NEED to use this one line per line, make up your own without looking back if you don't like it lol, dnd is the "make up shit and have fun" game after all!

Edit: also no his outfit makes no sense, i just went with vibes and decided a tanktop dress shirt, a twin tailed gilet and suspenders OVER said gilet was a good choice.

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