#I love these traumatized robots

[thebrokenmechanicalpencil]

Deep Within Pt 3

( @quibble-auk oh look I didn't abandon this!!! I missed writing for your girl, her insanity is so fun.)

Tw. eh. Sunrazor.

-

Sunrazor was not enjoying herself. The cybertronian sun ached and burnt as she made her way across the barren city. Large and imposing she made quite the figure to be traipsing amongst the dead buildings. Hard face in a scowl and thick shoulders tense, the war machination stalked.

It wasn't the first time she had walked these paths, probably fifty times now her feet had traced them. With a party of a couple soldiers she had been roaming in search of useful supplies and equipment, for two weeks now? Yes, her hud answered as her outer armor groaned from the utter heat.

Two weeks Sunrazor had been here babysitting the military personnel, for two weeks she’s been having to answer to the most rotgutted general she had ever bowed her helm to.

If Sunrazor had her way, she thought as she scanned the red horizon that was shivering and worming from the heat, she’d have killed him by now.

Frowning slightly, her engine snarled at how much she truly did want to crush that bug beneath her boot. Sunrazor slowly dug said boot into the rust speckled ground, the force of it denting the old building she stood upon. A sad and unsuitable replacement.

Innertoil was a short old rustbucket from another age, who treated Sunrazor like some low rank enlisted mech. She of course obeyed with practiced ease, but her temper was getting especially short recently. Heat surged in her chest, a rage that she had been quelling for months now. Only allowing to deliciously consume her when out on the battlefield. 

Now the flimsy spined excuse for a general, had her doing recon.

Her fists clenched, straining the joints from the force her anger shoved through them.

Sunrazor was not a scout. She was not a low rank grunt made to be shoved out to see if he comes back with holes. Yes she could do it, rather well for a mech of her size.

But the gall.

Another time, she’d kill him later. Sunrazor began her descent towards her destination. Accidents happen, and the same general never stayed on the base he built. Mechs like him get cocky, and need to be removed. Sunrazor felt a smile twist her lips at the thought as she reached stable ground once more.

Cocky dogs get put down. 

Anger seemingly soothed at the mental image of brutally rending the general apart, Sunrazor continued.

In about half an hour, the object of her hike sat within view.

An old tower, not the tallest, but still standing.

Might have been a communication tower back in the old world, she thought dismissively, scanning it for abnormalities.

Today the only reason Sunrazor paid the structure any mind was because of a seeker’s report including it. Heat rising and making her already threadbare nerves crackle she started for the base of the tower. The report came from a seeker scout who continued his patrol beyond conscripted time to investigate a “weird” warm signal in his periphery.

It would not have been taken seriously if not for the patrol happening past sundown. Hot spots occurred during the day and the warm signatures could reappear during nightfall due to the longer cool down time. That’s why Sunrazor was rather peeved at the prospect of being sent out to investigate a stupid mistake made by a young bird who was probably lacking a normal amount of processing power.

Then the seeker mentioned the location of the hotspot.

On an outer ledge. Where those thin metal slabs should cool far faster than the tower itself. Not hold heat. In one spot. For an extended period of time.

That means they may have a problem. Sunrazor was meant to take care of problems. Hence her presence.

Her senses flared out in a wave along the tower’s base, searching and tuned for any movement. The seeker also mentioned the heat signature seemingly being under the ledge, only to be gone when investigated. Which pointed to either a very slow cool down of the metal.

Or a spy with a death wish jumped.

She searched the sides with soft growls of frustration, when no sign of anything showing magnets or of climbing gear showed itself past the abused hide.

Her temper rumbled with every step. From the sun beating down on her, from the completely  beaten and scraped outer shell of the tower, which hid any and all marks of a climb.

She ran a check to see if any of the panels could have been removed and somehow a bot could have run along the inside. Which itself was suicidal, this tower was decrepid and only a fool would assume it could hold his weight from the inner framing.

It was thin, and too frail for a mech with that large of a heat signature to have scaled, even if his engine was on the edge of overheating to make such heat anyway. 

Unless. 

 She felt her eyebrows raise, glancing at the horizon. Sunrazor tucked the thought neatly away, no harm in holding it. 

She looked up at the ledge in which the seeker swore the signature had been perched. Her brim of her helm being useful against the harsh light, she squinted and huffed angrily as her optics failed to focus.

Readjusting her internal lenses, her optics focused on the ledge. Sunrazor decided if she found nothing on this wild waste of her time, that seeker was going to suffer. Badly. 

Grooves in the metal. A broken support.

Sunrazor blinked in surprise, looking again as she felt herself begin to grin, hopeful excitement rising. 

She traced her bloody optics along the edge of the ledge in, down the snapped support. Halfway down, oh he had been so close. She smirked.

Sunrazor tracked the angle of the fall, walking slightly in a predatory fashion as her programs roared. 

Down, down and right above her helm.

Claw marks.

“Oh you sweet little thing,” With the gentleness of a lover the mech ran her fingers ever so softly along the grooves. Thin and sharp, depth correlating with the angles and fall distances perfectly. Anyone who hadn’t known what to be looking for would have lost them in the cracked brutalized skin of the tower. 

“You almost didn’t make that catch did you?”

Any farther and the maker of those marks would have been killed on impact. She would be standing above a corpse.

Deep within her, programs thrummed excitedly. Calling on every moment and feeling she had filed away to support her growing feverish thought.

She shushed it and almost reluctantly looked away from the grooves, hoping to follow the trail.

Down maybe another foot, then they ended. Sunrazor smiled cruelly as she ran a thumb along where they had removed themself from the wall, and along the edges of the crack stowed as if ashamed, was the faint traces of yellow.

Sunrazor grinned, running her rough thumb fondly over the stain.

She stood and rolled her shoulders, smiling warmly.

"Sunrazor to base."

:Sunrazor acknowledged, report.:

“Designated sight area is clear, I want that seeker who falsely reported in the upper loading area for my return.”

(Prev)

[trauma-bot]

sin eater

[mythicalmoonfrog]

I haven't seen anyone discuss this but it's a small detail I've always noticed when watching Murder Drones.

This has only happened twice in the show but N and V both do it on separate occasions. They both swap to there disassembly drone claw hand and look at it with this look on their face, like there questioning and pondering what they are or what they have become

N does it in episode 2: right after he's woken up and fallen after he's had that dream flashback of the manor and Cyn

It happens with V in episode 4: when she's on the bus after everything that happened at the camp with Uzi and her solver stuff going on.

It's even worse knowing that N was out of the dark and had his memories all messed up so he was in the dark questioning what he is but then representing it like two seconds later of existential thoughts, trauma, and confusion. And that was only the beginning of it (staring in the show before anything else happened and before the memories got recovered)

And then V DID know what was going on because she had her memories of the past and now forced to be a thing she never even asked to be in the first place. But the absolute solver didn't care about that or who it negatively effected or hurt in the process of whatever it wanted to do, now didn't it?

But anyways, they both look so... Sad in these moments and they go by so quickly in the show but they feel so important.. everytime I see theses moments I just pause, think and analyze, then just feel so sad for them and what they were going through, all there different struggles and issues that they had as the show was going on. I'm really disappointed that no one has really noticed these two identical acts of body language in these moments from these two and analyze it like I have or in their own way but hey that's why I'm here saying this so more people can see and think about it :3

[sillyfriendssharingablog]

you guys wont believe what my faggot ass got into

youre right. Evangelion AU

[b-303]

Sir sir please one singular lick of those biolights-

[bannock-freak]

everytime i see an nge x saiki k crossover it deals me -70 in psychic damage, my hitpoints are blinking out in the red yall

[welcometoteyvat]

sosososososososo in love with lynette

her moveset her idles her voicelines characterization it's everything to me

[spring-lxcked]

@nineliabilityrisk asked: ❝ " ... i haven't been getting much sleep . " from henry [ i'm insane about them as per usual ] ❞ ( my wip fics starters, pt. ii )

"It sounds like you're no better than me," came an easy reply, a seemingly snide statement softened by his hands resting on Henry's shoulders. He was standing behind his business partner's chair, thumbs rolling down into muscles. One part easing tense muscles, one part finding an excuse to touch. ( Always. ) "I suppose it's my turn to do the scolding. Get some rest." A sharp smile accompanied the words, amusement seeping into his tone just enough. Usually it was Henry saying these things to him—despite not being aware of how many hours William truly spent working. His fingers shifted higher, thumbs working into the nape of Henry's neck. Even sight unseen, his expression warmed, smile taking on something gentler. "Come home with me." Word choice was intentional—not manipulative but perhaps presumptuous. Had built his perfect family to society's standards once, and now attempted it to his own liking. A house made less empty by Henry's presence—a very wanted presence, if a dangerous one. Adults do not overlook what rebellious teenagers do.

"Is it the dreams?" Speaking generally—not even William Afton was immune to being haunted by his losses. ( Regardless of who was at fault. ) "I'll make tea and we can rest." His fingers combed through Henry's hair, languid movements. "No 'nightmare' can haunt you while I'm there." Part joke, part comfort. Never mind who had caused the nightmares.

[houndsrending]

I thought the new doom patrol was coming out today but it turns out it came out last week and I MISSED IT but good news PEACEMAKERS BACK FOR ONE PANEL AND ONE PAGE AND ITS JUST BIG ROBOTS HE HAS NOW

HES STILL HERE GUYS THERES STILL A CHANCE HE'LL GET TO DO SOMETHING SOON

[wateredwizard]

Fnaf also is a story of taking your plot too far

So this explanation? Pretty good, nice little summary. And then you get into the lore. And you get to The Haunted Metal, known as Remnant.

And then the fun begins

Technically, there aren't any souls in these robots, there are tho many messed up and traumatized memories of murdered kids. The memories get inprinted on metal in some special situations (never explained why). You can take this metal out, divide it, and put in into something else, also, you can mix it like some cursed fucking soup with a goddamn scooper. If a living human gets injected with it, it won't die. Just. Not. And then there are magical discs that emit sounds that cause people to hallucinate specific sights and sounds. These might or might not exist in lore. There is cannonical hell.

None of this was in the trilogy, which btw was all that scott planned out. And then it all started slooowly going downhill from there, with books and sister location beginning the spiral to insanity.

fnaf is such, a fascinating cultural object.

[nikkilbook]

You know, the degree to which I am trying to figure out how the homebrew options and general D&D mechanics of dndbeyond because I genuinely have a hard time keeping track of even just basic game play options without the help of The Robot Friends is kind of funny, given that the end goal in this situation is to allow my 3ft-long magpie artificer made of living jewelry be a cowboy and ride its steampunk slightly-smaller-than-average elk-shaped steel defender into battle to save a town in the Wild West wielding a firearm that it cannot actually aim properly without the aid of said steampunk elk defender friend GIVEN THAT IT HAS NO THUMBS AND ITS WINGS ARE MADE OF KNIVES

[divinepriestesskokomi]

We don't talk enough about how goddamn funny Tighnari is. That man is unphased by everything.

Cyno shows up at his doorstep with a small child who is traumatized, illiterate, terminally ill, has an ancient god sealed away in her body, and asks him to help raise her, and Tighnari's only objection is that he doesn't know how to teach preschool level academics.

He eats a poisonous mushroom, passes out, has a hallucination and just goes "damn that was crazy. Let me write it down for science."

The dudes in charge of the whole country repeatedly beg him to come work for them and he tells them to fuck off.

The second fatui harbinger, said to be as strong as a god, threatens him and he basically tells him to fuck off too.

The traveler gets possessed by god and then comes back to tell him that the sages are building a false god and he's like "Damn that's fucked up. Anyways I gotta go check on my patient."

Dehya and the Traveler basically say "Hey we are helping Cyno overthrow the government" and he's just like bet.

He get's struck by lightning and is just like "Oof. Anyways gotta go check on my patient, good luck fighting a god".

He finds an illegal sentient robot crab and just adopts it and tells the matra not to worry about it.

He passes out from heat exhaustion in the desert and is just like "Damn. I'll need to bring some sunscreen next time".

Finds out Cyno has a long lost brother/cousin and is just like "Cool. Why don't you come over for dinner, meet the family".

The craziest shit can happen to this man and he's just like "Allright why not. This might as well happen" and I love that about him

[justsomuchhacking]

So like another thing about the transgender mecha discourse is like... the mech can be a metaphor for empowerment and an extension of the customizable self, but specifically for transfemmes the metaphor also works in the other direction!

The mech is safe. And it is familiar, and you have gotten used to controlling it. You are told that your highest purpose is violence, but that's not true about you, though it might be true of the mech.

The mech is safe. It is many layers of cold steel and machinery between you and the world. When people see the mech, they see power and strength. But you will have to crawl out of it if you wish to be seen and known by your name, instead of your callsign*.

The mech is safe. It does not take courage to pilot - it takes courage to leave. Anonymous, stoic violence in a shell that is not your body vs the horrifying ordeal of crawling out of a numb pile of metal and hoping people will love the weird-looking girl who is a little unused to socializing. On account of all the mech-piloting.

Anyway if I was going to write transgender mecha fiction the robot would be the closet. War is hell, truth is life, get out of the fucking robot, girl, and live!

Other small things I would include in an anti-war transgender mecha story:

"Why did you stop being a mecha pilot? You were so good at it!"

Patriarchal military industrial complex discovers trans people are just better at using the weird neural mech piloting interface. This plays out as badly as you'd expect.

"cis" pilot who has an unusually high sync with the mecha and the veteran pilots who Definitely Know.

Nothing good ever happens as a result of mecha battles and the reader should start to feel anxious about which beloved character Isn't Going To Be The Same after this one.

This would of course be very difficult to pull off in a way that's like... as fundamentally entertaining as giant robot fights where the giant robot is a metaphor for personal agency and the power of the individual, where a very traumatized trans girl incinerates mecha hitler with a blue-and-pink laser beam she got from self-actualizing. I recognize that my version is harder to make and definitely not for everyone. But I think it should be made. Both should be made!

*historical note here about callsigns - in fiction people choose their own but in the military these are chosen for you by your unit - and if yours is cool it usually means that your unit thinks you're a dweeb. If you try to make people use a callsign you chose for yourself, there is no doubt at all about whether you are a dweeb. So for me a callsign is a terrible stand-in for a true name. Knowing this fact ruins movies, because every Cool Callsign Protagonist makes you think "Iceman? Oh, he definitely got caught masturbating in the walk-in freezer".

[justevelynnnn]

Starved

Summary: Viltrumite!Mark is an eater

Warnings: MDNI🔞, Mentions of cunnilingus, reader is afab, mention of Stockholm syndrome, tiny bit of voyeurism

A/N: I’ve been meaning to put more invincible stuff out but i’m just busy i swear😭

Anyways, I’ve really been wanting to write Viltrumite mark because i literally need him like asap. I’m not the best at writing him tho especially cause this is my first time so sorry abt that.

(Also idk the artist, i tried looking but if anyone finds them let me know!)

As much as you hated him, you loved how he treated you in bed.

Especially, while he ate you out.

The room itself, it was his, was huge and so was the bed. It was bigger than a king size bed on Earth, and it was oddly extremely comfortable and soft.

After this Mark, who wasn’t actually your Mark mind you, literally kidnapped you to make you his wife—very, very long story btw—you had to become accustomed to living here. Viltrum was….intense, but also beautiful, structured and clean. And, so was this guy.

Your Mark on earth was awkward and kind. He hated killing. This one? This guy? He did it like he was blinking, and when he laid eyes on you with that stare you couldn’t put an emotion on you knew it was over. One minute you were running from him and the next you were being carried in space somewhere.

But enough of that.

This Mark was considered royalty here so he could just do….whatever!

Others bowed to him. Conversations hushed when he entered rooms. No one dared to challenge him.

So, that’s why he doesn’t care where, but if he wants to eat you out he will. It doesn’t help that Mark was your ex on earth so you just let him.

The first time was after some weird dinner thing in the dining hall a week after you arrived. You didn’t follow what they were doing well because, well, you were still traumatized from literally everything that happened. Plus, Mark’s hand was on your knee under the table and inched up every other minute.

Everyone left and a viltrumite maid in rags started to clean up, but Mark couldn’t wait anymore so it seemed. His hand left your thigh finally and he stood up slowly. You didn’t move. Part of you was scared for what was to come next. You didn’t expect it when he proceeded to pick you up from your chair and lay you on the long table in front of him and pull your bottoms all the way off.

“What-” You gasp. The maid looked up and made eye contact with a glaring Mark. They promptly left.

“I want to taste the sweetness between your legs.” Mark said in his usual nonchalant way. He stood between your now bare legs with a hand under each knee. “I’ve been wanting to since I found you.”

Shock wasn’t even the beginning to describe how you felt then. This guy has only kissed you like once. Now he’s gonna eat you out? On this fancy table? You hardly registered that your bottom half was just completely bare with only the cold air on your skin bringing you back. It was just so sudden but part of you was thrilled. Excited even.

“Um, okay?” You sighed. What’s the use fighting him? “Are we just gonna….like, here? Now?”

Mark just nods once, expression unmoving.

You hate how he just lacks…personality. Sometimes he’s just a statue and it creeps you out with how he moved just so calculated.

He moves down so his head is between your thighs. His hands are pushing your legs apart so you couldn’t move even if you wanted to, and he immediately got to work. It was like he let himself go. Unraveling from a long day of masking as a strong, poker faced warrior. And you were concerned at first that Viltrumites just lick one long stripe each time like fucking robots but no. Nope.

Dare you say this Mark ate you out better than your own?

The way he used his tongue against you, flicking and dipping inside rhythmically had you on the verge of cumming minutes in. He groaned and moaned into you like he never tasted anything better. His nose brushed against your neglected clit every now and then which didn’t help.

You wondered why he avoided it, but quickly learned he was saving it for the end. When you started twitch and tried to move away from him he held you firmly in place and started sucking on your clit, occasionally letting his tongue flick against it as well.

Then you came like never before. You saw stars. You swore you did. And, the worst part was he didn’t even stop. He just kept going, slurping the juices that came out of you as you shook around him.

And then when you were done, gasping for air and still trembling a bit, he just pulled you up off the table and helped you put your skirt back on.

You couldn’t even speak. He just carried on and helped you to his room like nothing happened, his face still wet and all.

After that night he’d just randomly eat you out. You’d be lying if you said you weren’t excited when he started showing those subtle signs of needing you. Whether it was a hand on your knee again or him just never leaving your side. Even the times he’s just….staring into your soul (you did not like those times at all).

It made sense he ate you out like a god, he was one.

You could almost blame the creeping Stockholm syndrome on loving him and how he ate you. The urge to get away from him slipped away with each tender lick of his tongue.

“Your petals has the exact sweetness of a fruit from this planet i conquered once.”, Mark said one night between your legs. “A rare delicacy.”

You almost didn’t fully register what he said because you were lost in your own world of pleasure.

“Is…is that why, ughh~”, you moaned. You could hardly finish a thought because he just didn’t stop for nothing.

“Why what.” He said before returning to sucking on you.

“Is that why-why you like me so, fuck, much?”

He paused like he was thinking about it. Then he shook his head no.

“There is more to why I “like” you.”

You wanted to say more but that was the end of that conversation because he went right back to work. Part of you believed it was stress relief. Another part now went the planet fruit excuse.

Everything else about him was composed. Regal almost.

Untouchable.

He was respected by many Viltrumites here.

But when he was between your legs like this? His hair was a mess. He made many noises you know no one else has heard from him. His eyes would get watery and filled with lust and need.

Not to mention he loved being drenched when he was done with you. One time his face was literally dripping because he got you to squirt on him. He’d always get up too, like it was nothing.

You still didn’t know how to feel about him. He was your kidnapper after all and not to mention he looked and sounded exactly like your ex. It was a complex situation. Even months later you felt conflicted.

But maybe, just maybe, you could get used to this as long as he stayed just as needy to eat you out.

[thesleepyyokai]

Totally is Tessa not lying I swear :)

This is a character sheet I made of Tessa a while back for a fun little passion project. I just loved the concept idea of a partially shattered helmet revealing only a glowing X in the darkness of the helmet. Really eerie stuff that I eat up.

I can't help it. I just really want to make the cylly traumatize the hot robot.

The project is a J centered project. Maybe I will reveal more about it slowly in other posts, that would be really fun. Better than going on a cork board spiral about my hyper fixations about slashy vampy robots.

Unless...

I dunno. I just love drawing these murder bots doing the funny stuff.

[sunarryn]

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.