#instant learning for ai

[britcision]

Thinking about how people keep pushing AI as a “well not everyone can [creative skill]” and I just… I don’t understand how they don’t see the problem with that

Because no one’s born good at drawing, or writing, or building 3D models

The whole point of having creative skills is that you need to learn how to do them. By doing them badly, often for quite a while, until you’ve tried enough things to work out what you like

And being able to word a prompt to an AI to actually get what you want is certainly a skill, and it’s certainly creative, but you’re never going to learn to draw, or write, or whatever else you’re bemoaning if you just want to push a button and get a result

And sure, it’s not like we’re going to completely run out of creatives; people with moral fibre are still going to avoid using the blatant theft that is generative AI, and will still be actually creating their own things and building skills

But if you advertise your AI and intentionally sell it to people as “hey don’t learn to draw you can just poke this button and say it’s close enough”… you’re actively discouraging people from actually trying anything

Your first attempts at any art aren’t going to look like a master’s. You’re going to be unsatisfied with your own skills over and over again, usually right before you make a drastic improvement

That’s just how creation works

And giving up and trying to make an AI do it for you instead of keeping trying and actually learning and building new skills is going to kill a lot of peoples’ creativity

It’s okay if you can’t draw as well as you’d like to. It’s okay if you can’t write a beautiful novel on the first try, or even the little oneshot you really want.

You’re going to make a lot of things that are bad, and a lot of things that are meh, and a lot of things you’ll be embarrassed you made in another ten years. Because you need to make all of those things before you can make something great, and because you need to understand that everything you think was bad and meh was pretty damn good for a beginner, and some of it will be great, and in another fifteen years you’ll see that too.

You will not become a better artist by switching to AI because it’s “easier”. You will not become a better writer by writing prompts instead of stories.

Every time you’re tempted because “the AI’s will look better than anything I make”, you are the only reason that statement is true. You might redraw your old pieces every year just to see how far you’ve come, or bury them never to be seen again, but you’re the only person limiting your creativity.

People make art with typewriters, and by throwing things at a canvas, and write single scenes and cracky one shots and snippets and round robins

Trust me, every artist you’ve ever admired knows exactly how hard, and frustrating, and time consuming it is to try and get an image from your brain into the outside world. And how many times you want to give up, or feel like you failed.

Your favourite artist has trashed a thousand pieces you would love to have seen because they weren’t good enough, or didn’t work out the way they wanted

(Yes, artists, the WIP folder gathering dust counts unless you go work on it right now)

A lot of creative efforts don’t see the light of day, and every single one goes into every single piece that does get shared

I’d love to be better at drawing! To be faster, have a better grasp at proportions and perspective and honestly to have more patience for shading and such instead of just grabbing the blur tool because it’s close enough

But those skills are underdeveloped, and are going to stay that way because the time it’d take to get good at drawing would be time I could spend writing, and that is where the demons in my soul got their hooks in first

So now, after twenty years of near-continuous work, I can write very quickly, very fluidly, and damn well… and don’t have the patience or time to try and push the same inspirations into a medium I’m less good at

(I do occasionally become possessed by an image strongly enough that I draw it anyway. I do this knowing going in that it’s going to be far from perfect, but it’ll be the best I’ve got right now)

(Also reading art tutorials and tips from great artists for 20 years does also help even if you don’t practice and I have the doodles to prove it)

And if I want a visual reference for a character… I use HeroForge to make one myself, because there are a billion creative tools that offer so much more control than just “prompt an AI until it works”

They’re not perfect, but they’re the best I can do

And if I keep doing it, and keep building those skills, that best is gonna get better and better

I’m getting better at drawing the more I give in to moments of inspiration

It’s going to take much longer, since I’m not doing it every single day (every year is still questionable), but it’ll still happen as I keep doing it

The only thing stopping everyone else from doing exactly the same is the refusal to try… and giving up on themselves and just using AI instead of trying something different

[phagodyke]

weekend melancholy is starting to kick in >~<

[agdab]

the overall use of things like a.i. and chatgpt that do the work for you pisses me off. not explicitly because its bad for your brain and not great for the enviornment, though i dont like those one bit, but because i did not spend almost two decades perfecting my fucking typing, to 80 words per minute, where i dont even need to look at the keyboard as i type, to let all that skill fall to the wayside to type a sentence into a machine i probably pay a subscription to use do it for me. its just never gonna fucking happen

[hanavbara]

support HUMAN artists, not AI‼️

AI generated images are NOT art. art is CREATED, not GENERATED.

this is not just about taking jobs from artists (which is already a huge deal), it’s also about devaluing art itself, turning it into mass-produced, empty and soulless content. it’s heartbreaking to see AI stealing from real artists: from Studio Ghibli to smaller creators like us.

personally, we started our art journey by reinterpreting what we love: music, TV series, anime and transforming it into our vision inspired by the 90’s anime that we grew up with. when we create our illustrations, we try to capture the emotion and love we feel for the subject, aiming to tell a story with each drawing. ever since AI was created, we have had many people asking if our art is AI generated. honestly, it’s heartbreaking every single time. for us, art is a deeply human experience that we’ve been dedicating ourselves to for seven years. creating from nothing takes dedication, skill, and an emotional investment that, in our opinion, AI simply can’t capture.

you’ve probably seen your feed flooded with AI generated images in a “Studio Ghibli style”. trends like these reinforce the idea that art can be easily replicated and devalued. the future of artists is more uncertain than ever. we don’t know if in a few years we’ll still be able to make a living from this, since many companies are adopting the mindset of “why should i pay someone for their well-earned work when a machine can do it for free in an instant?” that mindset is the real problem: the way society is starting to perceive art.

art is essential to human life. many people realized this during the pandemic: what would we do without music, movies, books, that bring us comfort? art is more than just the final product. it’s about the process, struggles, and personal growth that comes with it. when you create, you grow, learn, and challenge yourself. AI erases that, replacing it with instant and shallow replication. real art brings people together, evoking emotions and reminding us of what it means to be human.

relying on AI to make art isn’t innovation, it’s avoiding the challenge of creating something meaningful. AI tools like these are being pushed as "the future," but what does that say about us? replacing human artistry with shallow, mass-produced content takes away humanity from art, do we really want to be part of a world where art is just another disposable product? what value do we place on creativity?

if you’ve made it this far, it means you care about these issues. let’s raise our voices together and speak up. don’t consume AI generated images. value and respect creativity. SUPPORT REAL HUMAN ARTISTS.

[hackfixation]

i have an idea for a video essay about how Ai Artists and Cheaters in video games are basically the same people different fonts

[derinthescarletpescatarian]

what’s the story about the generative power model and water consumption? /gen

There's this myth going around about generative AI consuming truly ridiculous amount of power and water. You'll see people say shit like "generating one image is like just pouring a whole cup of water out into the Sahara!" and bullshit like that, and it's just... not true. The actual truth is that supercomputers, which do a lot of stuff, use a lot of power, and at one point someone released an estimate of how much power some supercomputers were using and people went "oh, that supercomputer must only do AI! All generative AI uses this much power!" and then just... made shit up re: how making an image sucks up a huge chunk of the power grid or something. Which makes no sense because I'm given to understand that many of these models can run on your home computer. (I don't use them so I don't know the details, but I'm told by users that you can download them and generate images locally.) Using these models uses far less power than, say, online gaming. Or using Tumblr. But nobody ever talks about how evil those things are because of their power generation. I wonder why.

To be clear, I don't like generative AI. I'm sure it's got uses in research and stuff but on the consumer side, every effect I've seen of it is bad. Its implementation in products that I use has always made those products worse. The books it writes and flood the market with are incoherent nonsense at best and dangerous at worst (let's not forget that mushroom foraging guide). It's turned the usability of search engines from "rapidly declining, but still usable if you can get past the ads" into "almost one hundred per cent useless now, actually not worth the effort to de-bullshittify your search results", especially if you're looking for images. It's a tool for doing bullshit that people were already doing much easier and faster, thus massively increasing the amount of bullshit. The only consumer-useful uses I've seen of it as a consumer are niche art projects, usually projects that explore the limits of the tool itself like that one poetry book or the Infinite Art Machine; overall I'd say its impact at the Casual Random Person (me) level has been overwhelmingly negative. Also, the fact that so much AI turns out to be underpaid people in a warehouse in some country with no minimum wage and terrible labour protections is... not great. And the fact that it's often used as an excuse to try to find ways to underpay professionals ("you don't have to write it, just clean up what the AI came up with!") is also not great.

But there are real labour and product quality concerns with generative AI, and there's hysterical bullshit. And the whole "AI is magically destroying the planet via climate change but my four hour twitch streaming sesh isn't" thing is hysterical bullshit. The instant I see somebody make this stupid claim I put them in the same mental bucket as somebody complaining about AI not being "real art" -- a hatemobber hopping on the hype train of a new thing to hate and feel like an enlightened activist about when they haven't bothered to learn a fucking thing about the issue. And I just count my blessings that they fell in with this group instead of becoming a flat earther or something.

[nb-marceline]

i hope some a list celebrity sues the shit out of these ai image generation companies bc the amount of deepfakes i keep seeing on twitter is stomach churning

[charliegyrth]

Hello from Charlie Gyrth!

A Brief Introduction (and Links!)

Hello, Tumblr! My name’s Charlie. I’ve been writing (and reading) gainer fiction for years, and I finally have the confidence to start posting. My goal is to publish one story or chapter every day for the rest of 2025.

Here’s what I have so far:

Today's Story:

A Roommate Makes You Fat

Long Stories:

Fat Passengers - 3 parts (ebook) Fat for a Day - 3 parts (ebook) Nightly Feedings - 4 parts (ebook) A Milkshake a Day - 4 parts (ebook) Adiposexual - 5 parts (ebook) My Former Best Friend - 5 parts (ebook) Go with the Flow - 9 parts (ebook) Fatter for the Wedding - 12 parts (ebook) Alex Gets Soft - 22 parts (ebook)

Short Stories:

Are You Happy? Back from the Oil Rig Big Fat Crush on My Doctor Big Fat Principal Changing My Body for You Chicken Shack Fatties Cody Comes Back Fat Farm Boys Fat Felix Tries Ozempic A Fat Guy Learns to Love Himself Fattened in a Hotel Fattening the Actor Fattening the ICE Agents Fit to Fat to Fit: What Could Go Wrong? Getting Fat for TV Good Memories Hangry Halloween Before and After How to Be a Fat American How to Be an Alpha Improving Myself James Goes to the Gym Lardy Johnson's Livestream Larry the Model Liam's Sweet Tooth Mark Wears the Pants Marriage Body Mukbang Mikey My Best Friend Comes Back My Boyfriend's Moobs Scooter Search History Three Roommates Tiny Tim and Small Sam Two Fat Guys on a Blind Date Two Fit Foodies Unrecognizably Fat Unspoken What Happened to the Hot Swimmer? What a Show-Off! The Writer's Retreat

Fantasy/Sci-Fi Stories:

Darren's Birthday Surprise Fattened by Donuts Final Destination: Obesity King Kong and the Blob Metabolism Blockers The Muscle Trade (in progress) One Pound a Week Sliding Doors, Changing Waistlines

"You" Stories:

Fat Coma Feeding You in Public Four Thanksgivings I Really Want You to Like Me My Food Is Your Food The Summer You Got Fat A Vibrator Makes You Fat Why Do You Want Me to Feed You?! You Peaked in High School You Ruin Your Perfect Body Your Little Guy Your Wonderful Boyfriend

Two-Part Stories:

After the Fattening Big Henry Fat Blind Date Fat Camp Reunion Giving In Hey, Chubs! The Hottest Guy in Town I'm Too Cold I'm Too Fat for My In-Laws The Lottery Winner My Little Meatball Speedos

And here’s a bit about me:

I love writing about positive, supportive male couples who embrace the joys of gaining, feeding, encouraging, stuffing, and belly play. I don’t write about force-feeding (unless it’s consensual) or revenge fattening. I read those kinds of stories sometimes, but as a writer, I want to explore the healthier sides to gaining.

I find fat beautiful, so I kind of get lost in describing it sometimes. I love the sheer variety of plus-sized body types, so I try to reflect that in my stories. Not every fat guy is destined to grow a big, round beer gut (although those are great, of course).

I typically stay away from magical plots or instant weight gain. That usually doesn’t do it for me.

I will never use AI in my writing. I like creating these stories myself. (I have a day job as a full-time writer/editor, so this stuff is sort of a release for me.)

I try to be realistic with how quickly my characters gain, but sometimes I get a little ahead of myself and stretch reality. Just go with it.

I've started to publish some of these stories as ebooks. They will always be available for free on Tumblr, but one of my goals in life is to make gainer fiction more accepted in the literary world. We need to get more of this stuff out there. I don't expect gainer fiction to ever become mainstream, but there's no reason why it isn't as mainstream as, say, werewolf shifter erotica or other niche subgenres.

Probably not important, but I'm a redhead, so if you're wondering why there's an overrepresentation of red-haired characters in my stories, now you know.

I’m a gainer in my personal life, but I’m terrible at it. I always get up to about 210 or so and then chicken out. These stories are a way to help me process some of those feelings so that I can eventually have the confidence to keep going. We’ll see. (196 as of today!)

And I think that’s about it. Thanks so much for checking out my Tumblr! And happy eating!

[urdreamydoodles]

MARVEL COMICS CHARACTERS X FEM!READER

You are clumsy and hurt yourself all the time

Characters: Peter Parker, Tony Stark, Steve Rogers, Thor, Loki, Clint Barton, Natasha Romanoff, Bucky Barnes, Matthew Murdock, Frank Castle, Bullseye, Marc Spector, Taskmaster, Johnny Storm, Reed Richards, Ben Grimm, Susan Storm, Felicia Hardy, Stephen Strange, Namor, Johnny Blaze, Eddie Brock / Venom, T'Challa, Elektra Natchios, Muse, Victor von Doom, Peter Quill & Nova

Peter Parker (Spider-Man)

- Peter notices before you do. His eyes are sharp, trained to pick up the smallest of changes, the faintest of shadows blooming beneath your skin. He doesn't just see the bruises; he maps them, cataloging each one like constellations he wishes he could erase from your body. Every time he catches you wincing, biting your lip to muffle a yelp after knocking into yet another corner, he sighs. "Again?" he teases, but there's worry threading through his voice, twisting between the syllables like spider silk.

- He starts to hover, though he tries not to. It's instinctive—he's always been the protector, the boy who runs into burning buildings without thinking twice. But with you, it's different. It’s not just about keeping you safe; it’s about keeping you whole, unmarked by the world’s cruelty—or your own clumsiness. So he starts catching you before you fall, pulling you out of the way just in time, reaching out without thinking. Sometimes, you swear he moves before the accident even happens, like he's learned the rhythm of your missteps, predicting the inevitable before it can bruise you.

- When you do get hurt (because of course you do), Peter is relentless in his care. He’s crouched in front of you in an instant, thumb tracing the new bruise with reverence, an almost desperate tenderness in his touch. "You're gonna be the death of me," he mutters, but his hands are so impossibly gentle as he presses a cool compress to your skin. His lips ghost over the hurt, as if he can will it away with a kiss. Sometimes, you wonder if he wishes he could wrap you in webbing, cocoon you in safety so that the world—and your own two feet—could never touch you again.

- He starts making excuses for why he needs to hold your hand. "Crowded street," he'll say, even when it's not. "Slippery floor," even when it's bone-dry. The truth is, he just wants to anchor you, to be the tether that keeps you upright, steady. And when you trip anyway—because, of course, you do—he laughs, shaking his head as he catches you. "You just like falling for me, don't you?"

- But late at night, when you're half-asleep and curled against him, he traces over your skin like it's something sacred. His fingers brush against every fading bruise, every place you've been hurt, and he whispers, "Wish I could take these for you." His voice is raw, aching with the helplessness of loving someone breakable. And you, tangled in the warmth of him, only smile. Because you know that, in every way that matters, Peter has already caught you.

Tony Stark (Iron Man)

- Tony notices, but not in the way you expect. He doesn’t gasp or fuss the first time he sees you sporting a fresh bruise on your knee. Instead, he raises an eyebrow, tilting his head as if considering a puzzle. "So, what was it this time? Rogue chair leg? Malicious doorframe? Did a coffee table rise against you in rebellion?"

- But beneath the teasing, there's a flicker of something deeper. A calculation, a quiet kind of concern buried beneath the bravado. Tony doesn’t do helplessness well. He can build suits that defy physics, craft weapons that could level cities—but he can't seem to keep you from bruising yourself on the furniture. It frustrates him, gnaws at the edges of his mind, so he does what Tony Stark does best: he finds a solution.

- At first, it’s little things. He adjusts the lighting in your shared spaces, claiming it’s for "ambience" but really so you can see obstacles better. Then come the AI sensors in the furniture, making tables shift slightly if you’re about to walk into them. At one point, you find yourself nearly colliding with a moving bookshelf that, at the last second, scoots out of your way. "What the hell?" you gasp. Tony only grins. "Self-adjusting furniture. Stark tech. You’re welcome."

- But for all his technological fixes, it’s his hands that surprise you the most. Because Tony, for all his arrogance, is delicate with you. When you come to him with a fresh injury, he tuts, shaking his head dramatically—but his touch is careful, reverent. He traces over the bruises like he’s memorizing them, pressing a kiss against each one as if sealing them with something stronger than science. "Y'know," he murmurs against your skin, "if you wanted my attention, there were easier ways than body-slamming a desk."

- And at night, when you think he’s asleep, you feel his fingers drifting over your skin, tracing every hurt like he’s trying to rewire you, make you something invincible. He’s never been good at loving things that break, but with you, he’s learning that maybe some things—some people—are worth protecting, even if he can’t build them indestructible.

Steve Rogers (Captain America)

- Steve doesn't laugh. Not at first. The first time he sees you stumble, his reflexes kick in before his brain does, hands catching your waist before you hit the ground. "Careful," he says, voice steeped in quiet concern, but there’s something else there too—something deeper, a weight that lingers in his gaze.

- You realize quickly that Steve doesn't see bruises as just bruises. To him, every mark on your skin is a reminder of fragility, of the world’s ability to harm. He carries the weight of lost battles, of friends who weren’t fast enough, strong enough, and something in him aches at the thought of you being hurt—even by something as simple as a misplaced step.

- So he becomes your shadow. A quiet, steadfast presence at your side, always an arm’s length away. He doesn’t smother, doesn’t hover—but he’s there, a constant, an anchor. When you trip, he catches. When you stumble, he steadies. When you crash into a table, he’s already pressing a gentle hand to your arm, checking for injuries before you can brush it off.

- "You need to be more careful," he tells you, voice soft but firm. You roll your eyes. "Steve, I’ve been like this my whole life." His lips press into a line, but instead of arguing, he takes your hand, thumb sweeping over your knuckles. "Then I’ll just have to keep catching you."

- And he does. Every time. Even in sleep, his arm drapes over your waist, protective even in unconsciousness. You don’t tell him, but you think it’s fitting—because Steve Rogers has always been the one to hold the world together, and now, he holds you.

Thor

- Thor booms with laughter the first time you walk straight into a doorframe. "By the gods, you fight invisible battles, my love!" he declares, pulling you into his chest as if you’ve just won a war. You grumble against him, but he only kisses the top of your head, eyes gleaming with amusement.

- But for all his laughter, Thor is not careless with you. When you trip, his hands are always there, warm and unyielding, lifting you as if you weigh nothing. "The world trembles before you, yet you are felled by a mere step!" he teases, but there is no mockery—only adoration.

- He carries you more often than necessary, sweeping you into his arms at the slightest provocation. "You are too precious for the ground," he says, as if that explains everything. When you protest, he only grins, pressing a kiss to your temple. "Indulge me, my beloved."

- He takes to inspecting your bruises like battle wounds, solemn as he traces them. "A warrior bears their marks with pride," he says. But then, softer, "Though I would gladly take them for you."

- And when he holds you at night, it is as if he cradles the most precious thing in all the realms. Because to Thor, you are not just beautiful. You are his most cherished treasure, and even if you stumble, even if you fall—he will always be there to catch you.

Loki

- Loki watches you with an expression caught between amusement and exasperation, his sharp green eyes tracking the way you stumble through life as though gravity itself is your greatest adversary. He does not rush to catch you—no, he prefers to observe first, to let you flounder, to let the world trip you up just enough to be entertaining but never enough to truly hurt you. “It is almost an art form,” he muses one evening as he traces his fingers over a fresh bruise blooming along your arm. “How you manage to battle furniture and lose so spectacularly.”

- But beneath the teasing, there is something else—something darker, more possessive. Loki is not a man accustomed to powerlessness, and watching you mar yourself on the mundane sends an unfamiliar frustration curling in his chest. He is not mortal, not fragile, and neither should you be. If he could enchant your very skin to be impenetrable, he would. Instead, he does the next best thing—subtle spells woven into your jewelry, charms hidden in the fabric of your clothes. Nothing too obvious, nothing you would notice. Just enough to slow a fall, to dull an impact, to ensure that when you inevitably crash, the world is kinder to you.

- He does not hover, not the way a lesser man might. No, Loki’s interventions are quieter, more insidious. A flick of his fingers when you’re about to knock a glass off the table. A shift in the air that redirects your fall just enough to keep you from truly hurting yourself. He plays it off as coincidence when you point it out, though the smirk curling at the corner of his lips betrays him. “Perhaps Midgard itself has simply decided to stop punishing your carelessness,” he offers smoothly, tilting his head. “Or perhaps, darling, you’ve finally learned some semblance of grace.”

- And yet, for all his feigned indifference, his hands are gentle when they trace over your bruises, long fingers ghosting over each mark as though committing them to memory. “Such delicate skin,” he murmurs, something unreadable flickering in his gaze. You think, sometimes, that he looks at you like a paradox—something fragile and untouchable, something he wants to protect and break in equal measure. He presses his lips to each bruise, his voice silk-soft against your skin. “If only you would let me make you indestructible.”

- At night, when you think he is asleep, he holds you closer than necessary, one arm wrapped around your waist, the other draped possessively over your thigh. His fingers find the bruises even then, absently tracing them, as if even in sleep, he cannot stand the marks of a world that does not know how to handle something as precious as you. And if, in the morning, your injuries fade just a little faster than they should—well. Loki has never been one to play fair.

Clint Barton (Hawkeye)

- Clint takes one look at you, covered in bruises from yet another misadventure with an unassuming coffee table, and snorts. “Jesus, sweetheart,” he says, shaking his head. “It’s like you’re in a fight with the furniture and losing every damn round.” He teases, because that’s what Clint does, but beneath the dry humor, there’s a glint of something softer, something close to concern.

- He’s got quick hands, calloused and steady, and they catch you more often than not. He doesn’t even think about it anymore—it’s instinct, muscle memory, the same reflexes that let him shoot arrows with inhuman precision now redirecting themselves to keeping you upright. Sometimes you don’t even realize you’re falling before he’s got a firm grip on your waist, pulling you against him with a smirk. “I should start charging for this,” he muses. “Professional girlfriend-wrangler. Gotta make a living somehow.”

- But he’s not always fast enough. You take your hits, your bruises, your scrapes, and Clint swears every time he sees a new mark on you. He cups your face in his hands one evening, tilting your chin up so he can inspect the latest damage—a dark bruise along your cheekbone from where you’d misjudged a doorway. His thumb brushes over it, his mouth pressing into a tight line. “Y’know, for someone so damn beautiful, you sure spend a lot of time brawling with inanimate objects.”

- He starts carrying a first-aid kit just for you. Not the standard SHIELD-issued one—this one is filled with little things he knows you’ll need. Cooling gel for the bruises, tiny bandages that come in ridiculous designs (because he knows they’ll make you smile), painkillers for the inevitable aches. He patches you up with a surprising gentleness, his hands rough but careful as he works. “I should just start wrapping you in bubble wrap,” he mutters, shaking his head. “Or at least get you some damn kneepads.”

- And in the quiet hours of the night, when you’re tangled together in bed, he presses absentminded kisses to every bruise, every scrape, every mark. He doesn’t say anything, doesn’t make a big deal out of it—just lets his lips linger against each injury like a silent promise, like a prayer. Because Clint Barton knows better than most that the world is unforgiving, that sometimes you don’t get there in time. But here, now, with you—he can at least make sure someone’s always there to catch you when you fall.

Natasha Romanoff (Black Widow)

- Natasha doesn’t panic when you fall, doesn’t gasp when you hit the ground, doesn’t rush to your side with frantic worry. She simply raises an unimpressed eyebrow as you groan, flat on your back after tripping over absolutely nothing. “You’re unbelievable,” she says, crossing her arms. “A trained assassin would have heard that floor coming.”

- But that doesn’t mean she doesn’t care. She does—deeply, fiercely, in the way only Natasha Romanoff can. She just doesn’t show it in obvious ways. Instead, she adjusts her stride so she’s always close enough to catch you, casually offering an arm when she senses you wobbling. She never draws attention to it, never makes a big deal of it, but you notice. You always notice.

- When you inevitably end up bruised and battered, she clicks her tongue but says nothing, simply sitting beside you with an ice pack in one hand and a knowing smirk on her lips. She presses the cold compress to your skin, her touch deliberate, precise. “You should let me train you,” she muses. “At least teach you how to fall properly.”

- Natasha never coddles, never fusses, but she is always prepared. She has a quiet way of making sure you’re okay—subtle, effortless. When you stand up too quickly and nearly topple over, her hand is already on the small of your back, steadying. When you stumble, she catches you before you even realize you’re falling. It’s instinct to her, the way protecting you has become second nature.

- And at night, when the world is quiet, she pulls you against her, her fingers ghosting over every bruise like a whisper, like a secret. She does not apologize for the world’s cruelty, does not wish you were stronger, does not sigh at your clumsiness. She only holds you tighter, her lips brushing against each mark in silent reverence. Because Natasha Romanoff knows what it means to hurt, to endure, to survive—and if she cannot keep you unbroken, then at the very least, she can be the place you fall.

Bucky Barnes (Winter Soldier)

- Bucky notices before you do. His eyes, trained by war and decades of violence, catch every shift in your body, every wince, every faint hesitation in your step. At first, he thinks it’s something worse—that someone put hands on you, that danger came too close. But then he watches you slam your hip into the corner of the counter, trip over absolutely nothing, and he exhales sharply, rubbing a hand down his face. “You’re killin’ me, doll,” he mutters, but his hands are already on you, steadying, checking.

- He doesn’t hover—not exactly. But suddenly, he’s always there, always within reach. If you stumble, his hands find your waist before you even realize you’re falling. If you misjudge a step, his arm is already around your shoulders, pulling you against his chest with a sigh. “Y’know, most people walk without gettin’ into a fistfight with the air,” he teases, but there’s something softer beneath it, something like worry.

- When you come home with fresh bruises—scattered across your arms, darkening your knees—he’s quiet. Too quiet. He sits you down, metal fingers unnervingly gentle as he rolls up your sleeves, brushing over each mark like he’s memorizing them. “You gotta be more careful,” he murmurs, and there’s something heavy in his voice, something weighted with history. He’s seen too much damage in his life, inflicted too much of it himself. He hates seeing it on you.

- But Bucky Barnes is a man who prepares, who anticipates. He starts keeping a first-aid kit on hand, not that he needs it much—he’s better at easing your pain with his own touch, the press of his lips against your bruises, the warmth of his palm smoothing over sore muscles. He doesn’t say much when he does it, just presses kisses against every darkened patch of skin like he’s willing them away. Sometimes, when he thinks you’re asleep, you hear him whisper, “Wish I could take ‘em for you.”

- And at night, when the world is quiet, he wraps you in his arms, tucking you close as if that alone will shield you from harm. His metal arm rests heavy over your hip, protective, unyielding. “You’re gonna give me a heart attack one of these days,” he murmurs into your hair. And you—smiling, safe in the warmth of him—only kiss his jaw and whisper, “Guess you’ll just have to keep catching me, then.”

Matthew Murdock (Daredevil)

- Matt hears it before he sees it—the way you hiss through your teeth when you smack your shin against the table, the sharp inhale when you stub your toe against the doorframe. He tilts his head, amusement curling at the edge of his lips. “Again?” he asks, voice laced with something dangerously close to fondness.

- He doesn’t need sight to know where the bruises bloom. He traces them with careful fingers, mapping your pain like he’s reading scripture. His touch is featherlight, reverent. “You keep this up, I’m gonna start thinking the furniture has a vendetta against you,” he murmurs, lips grazing over each sore spot in silent absolution.

- He tries not to be overbearing, but he’s always listening, always attuned to the way your heartbeat stutters when you nearly fall. His reflexes are faster than yours will ever be—so when you trip, his arms are already there, catching you with effortless ease. “You’ve got to stop tempting gravity,” he teases, even as he steadies you against his chest.

- But there’s a weight to his concern, something deeper than amusement. He’s spent too much of his life in pain, too much time enduring wounds that never quite healed right. He doesn’t want that for you. So he starts reaching for you more, keeping you close, a hand resting at the small of your back whenever you walk together, his grip firm when he senses the inevitable stumble.

- And at night, when you’re curled against him, he skims his fingers over your skin, cataloging every mark, every faint ache. “You take too many hits,” he murmurs, voice thick with something unspoken. You laugh softly, pressing your face into the crook of his neck. “So do you.” He huffs out a breath, pulling you impossibly closer. “Guess that makes two of us.”

Frank Castle (Punisher)

- Frank notices everything. The first time he sees you flinch after knocking into a table, he frowns. The first time he spots a fresh bruise blooming across your arm, his jaw tightens. His first instinct—always, always—is violence. “Who did that?” he demands, voice low, dangerous. And when you tell him it was just a doorframe, just another misstep, he exhales hard, dragging a hand down his face. “Jesus Christ, sweetheart.”

- He’s not soft, not in the way other men might be. He doesn’t coo over your bruises, doesn’t pepper you with gentle reassurances. But he is there, solid and unwavering. If you trip, his hands are on you before you hit the ground. If you stumble, he pulls you upright with an exasperated sigh. “Gonna wrap you in goddamn bubble wrap,” he mutters, shaking his head.

- He doesn’t say it outright, but his actions betray him. He starts clearing the apartment, making sure nothing sharp or precarious is within your usual walking path. He makes you wear his jacket when it’s cold, grumbling about how “it’ll keep you warm” but really thinking about how it might cushion the inevitable next fall.

- When you come home with fresh bruises, he just exhales sharply, shaking his head. “C’mere,” he mutters, dragging you onto the couch. He’s rough around the edges, but his hands are steady as he presses an ice pack against your shin, his thumb tracing absent patterns against your knee. He doesn’t say much, just sits there with you, brows furrowed, jaw tight. You know he’s thinking about how much he hates this—how much he hates seeing you hurt, even in the smallest ways.

- At night, when the world is quiet and his guard is finally down, he pulls you into him, tucking you beneath his chin. His arms are heavy, unyielding, caging you against the steady rhythm of his heartbeat. “Gotta stop gettin’ hurt,” he mutters, voice gruff, tired. You smile against his skin, pressing a kiss to his collarbone. “Guess that means you’ll just have to keep catching me.” And Frank—haunted, weary, unbreakable—only holds you tighter.

Bullseye (Lester)

- Bullseye watches you trip over your own feet like it’s the greatest tragedy he’s ever witnessed. “You’re kidding me, right?” he drawls, arms crossed, head tilted. “That was a flat surface.” He doesn’t get it—how someone can be so inherently uncoordinated, so effortlessly doomed to collide with the world. He was born to hit every mark, to never miss, to control his body like it’s an extension of his will. And you? You can’t even walk across a room without making it a goddamn spectacle.

- He teases you relentlessly. “You’re gonna give me an aneurysm,” he mutters as you walk straight into the edge of a table, recoiling with a hiss. He crouches in front of you, fingers lazily tilting your chin up so he can inspect the damage. A bruise is already forming, shadowing your delicate skin, and for a brief second—just a flicker—something darkens in his gaze. He brushes his thumb over the mark, contemplative, before grinning. “Y’know, most people get bruises from fights. You? You look like you went ten rounds with a door and lost.”

- But the thing is, Bullseye doesn’t like seeing you hurt—not like this. He’s a man who thrives on violence, who carves his love in blood and broken bodies, but this? This is just the world battering you around, and it pisses him off. He starts standing closer, walking behind you with a hand hovering at your back, catching you before you can even process that you’re falling. He makes a show of rolling his eyes every time, but his grip is firm, his hands steady. “You should not be this much work,” he grumbles, right before setting you back on your feet like it’s nothing.

- The first time you cut yourself on something mundane—a knife, the sharp edge of a cabinet—he reacts badly. His jaw clenches, his hands flex, and for a second, you think he might kill the inanimate object responsible. “Okay, that’s it,” he mutters, dragging you to sit down. He cleans the wound with the kind of skill that suggests he’s done this a thousand times before (he has, just not for someone he cares about). He presses a bandage over your skin, shaking his head. “You’re a menace, babe. An absolute disaster.”

- At night, when he thinks you’re asleep, his fingers trace over every bruise, every scrape, cataloging them like they’re personal offenses. His body is a weapon, built for precision, and here you are—this thing he doesn’t quite know how to protect. He scowls in the dark, arms tightening around you. The world doesn’t get to hurt what’s his. If it does? Well. He might just have to start fighting gravity itself.

Marc Spector (Moon Knight)

- Marc watches you trip over your own feet with a kind of exhausted patience. “Again?” he sighs as you collide with yet another piece of furniture. He doesn’t get mad, doesn’t tease—he just pinches the bridge of his nose like a man trying very hard to accept the absurdity of his reality. “You’re a walking hazard.” But his hands are already on you, steadying, checking, making sure you’re not hurt.

- He starts anticipating your disasters before they happen. A shift in your balance, a misstep, a doorframe you will forget to account for—he’s already moving before you even realize you’re about to fall. His reflexes are freakishly fast, and it’s almost irritating how easily he catches you, setting you back on your feet like nothing happened. “You doin’ this on purpose?” he mutters, tilting his head. “Tryin’ to give me a heart attack?”

- When you come home with fresh bruises, Marc doesn’t say anything at first. He just looks at you—eyes dark, expression unreadable. Then, quietly, he sits you down and rolls up your sleeves, brushing his fingers over the marks like he’s trying to commit them to memory. He’s a man who knows pain, who lives in it, and something about seeing it on you makes his chest go tight. “You gotta be more careful,” he murmurs, voice low, almost pleading.

- He starts carrying first-aid supplies specifically for you. “It’s not paranoia,” he insists as he bandages a fresh scrape on your elbow. “It’s preparedness.” He takes care of you with the same clinical efficiency he applies to himself—focused, practiced, no wasted movements. But there’s a softness in the way his hands linger, the way he cups your face afterward, pressing his lips to your forehead like he’s trying to will the world into being gentler with you.

- And at night, when his demons creep in, when sleep is a thing that eludes him, he watches over you. His fingers brush over every bruise, every cut, and he exhales sharply, wrapping himself around you like a shield. “You’re not allowed to get hurt,” he mutters against your hair. “Not on my watch.” And even though you know it’s impossible—you are impossible—you let him hold you like he can keep you safe from everything. Even yourself.

Taskmaster (Tony Masters)

- Taskmaster watches you trip over nothing and just stares. “Are you—” He gestures vaguely at you, expression unreadable behind his mask. “Do you want to be a liability?” His whole thing is mastering movement, precision, efficiency—and you? You are chaos incarnate. A living, breathing contradiction to everything he stands for. It offends him on a fundamental level.

- He makes it his mission to “fix” you. Not because he’s particularly sentimental—just because he cannot handle watching you get defeated by furniture on a daily basis. “Alright, sweetheart,” he drawls, arms crossed. “Time for some goddamn coordination training.” And you try, you really do, but it turns out even Taskmaster can’t overwrite whatever curse makes you a constant disaster. He watches you attempt a basic balance drill, sees you immediately wipe out, and just rubs his temples. “Hopeless. You’re hopeless.”

- But despite his endless frustration, he starts catching you without even thinking about it. His body reacts before his brain does—an automatic reflex, like blocking a punch. One second you’re mid-fall, the next you’re in his arms, blinking up at him. He doesn’t say anything, just sets you down and shakes his head. “You owe me,” he mutters, but the way his hands linger at your waist suggests he doesn’t actually mind.

- The first time he sees a particularly nasty bruise along your ribs, something shifts. He’s seen all kinds of injuries—inflicted most of them himself—but something about seeing you marked up like this makes his fingers twitch. He drags his gloved hand over the darkened skin, tilting his head. “You let the world beat you up, huh?” His voice is softer than usual, something contemplative curling at the edges. Then, with a click of his tongue, he straightens. “Guess I better even the odds.”

- And he does. Aggressively. If the world insists on bruising you, he insists on teaching you how to hit back. He drags you into training, makes you learn something—if only so he can stop watching you lose to stationary objects. But at night, when you’re curled against him, he traces every bruise, every cut, his grip possessive. “You’re a goddamn hazard,” he mutters, pressing his forehead against yours. And you, smiling, whisper, “Yeah, but I’m your hazard.”

Johnny Storm (Human Torch)

- Johnny finds your clumsiness hilarious. The first time he sees you trip over absolutely nothing, he has to physically restrain himself from bursting into laughter. “Babe, was that—was that the air?” He leans against the nearest wall, clutching his stomach. “Did the air just take you out?” But beneath the amusement, there’s a flicker of concern—because you don’t just stumble; you collide with the world, leaving a trail of bruises like constellations across your skin.

- He teases, but he watches. The moment you lose your balance, he’s there, faster than reflex should allow, catching you with an arm around your waist. “Whoa, easy there, graceful,” he murmurs, voice somewhere between exasperation and affection. He holds you longer than necessary, fingers splayed over your back, and for a moment, the world stills. Then he grins. “Y’know, I think you just fake this so I have to keep holding you.”

- When you come home with fresh bruises, his reaction is always the same—dramatic outrage. “Oh my God, babe. Did someone attack you?” He gasps, placing a hand over his chest in mock horror. Then his eyes narrow. “Was it the doorframe? The table corner?” He shakes his head, feigning deep betrayal. “I knew they were out to get you.” But behind the theatrics, he’s already pulling you into his lap, pressing warm hands over your sore limbs, his heat radiating through your skin like a living balm.

- He insists on carrying you at the most ridiculous times. “No, no, I refuse to let you go into battle against gravity again.” And by ‘battle,’ he means walking through a perfectly normal room. He swoops you up, laughing as you protest, his arms far too strong for someone who acts like an overgrown child. “Babe, let’s be real. This is for your safety.” He winks. “And because I like showing off.”

- At night, when the fire dims and it’s just the two of you tangled together, he traces over every bruise with careful fingers. He doesn’t joke then. He just exhales softly, pressing a kiss to your shoulder, your wrist, the softest parts of you. “You gotta be careful,” he murmurs, voice barely above a whisper. And when you hum sleepily, he tightens his hold. “Not kidding this time, babe. Just… don’t break yourself, alright?”

Reed Richards (Mister Fantastic)

- Reed observes your clumsiness with scientific fascination. The first time he sees you walk directly into a doorway, he pauses, fingers tapping against his chin. “Hmm.” His brows furrow as he watches you rub your arm, wincing. “This is a pattern.” And just like that, you’ve become an experiment.

- He analyzes you. It starts subtly—adjusting the furniture so there’s more space between sharp edges, rerouting the lab’s layout so you’re less likely to trip over stray equipment. But soon, he’s measuring things, taking notes, muttering things like, “Your peripheral awareness seems statistically lower than average—fascinating.” He tries to be helpful, really. He even attempts to create a stabilization suit—something sleek, futuristic, designed to predict and correct your missteps. It… does not go well. (You trip anyway, and now the suit is mildly offended.)

- When you inevitably come home with bruises, Reed is deeply troubled. He gently takes your wrist, rotating it carefully as he examines the latest damage. “Your body is too delicate for this frequency of injury,” he murmurs, more to himself than to you. His mind is already racing, calculations spinning behind his sharp eyes. But then he exhales, carefully brushing his thumb over your knuckles. “Perhaps a different approach.” The next day, there’s a custom-designed, ultra-soft padding system discreetly woven into your daily outfits.

- He isn’t always the most physically affectionate, but when you stumble, his body reacts before his mind does. His limbs stretch, elongating with effortless precision, catching you before you even realize you’re falling. “I anticipated that,” he says simply, setting you back on your feet. He doesn’t tease, doesn’t scold—just accepts your clumsiness as another variable in his universe. And when you raise an eyebrow, he merely shrugs. “I prefer solutions over criticism.”

- At night, when you curl into him, he allows himself a rare moment of softness. His hands, always so deft and purposeful, trace absent patterns against your skin, lingering over each bruise. “I wish I could prevent every injury,” he murmurs, voice quiet in the dim light. You smile against his chest, pressing a kiss to his collarbone. “I’d still find a way to trip.” He huffs a quiet laugh, tucking you closer. “Then I suppose I’ll just have to keep catching you.”

Ben Grimm (The Thing)

- Ben sees you trip over absolutely nothing for the third time in a single day, and his immediate reaction is a mix of exasperation and concern. “Aw, c’mon, sweetheart, you got somethin’ against stayin’ on yer feet?” he grumbles, folding his massive arms as you rub your latest bruise. But the second he catches the way you wince, his voice softens, and he sighs. “Lemme see.” His hands are big, rough like weathered stone, but impossibly gentle as he inspects your skin. “Yer like a walkin’ accident waiting to happen, ain’t ya?” It’s not judgment—it’s worry.

- He’s the only person in the world who doesn’t flinch when you crash into him. You could be falling at full speed, and all that happens is you bounce harmlessly off his broad chest. “See? That’s why ya gotta stick by me, doll,” he teases, catching you before you can hit the floor. “Nothin’ knocks this over.” But there’s something else in the way he holds you close, something fiercely protective. If the world insists on beating you up, then fine. Ben’ll just make sure he’s there to take the hit instead.

- He starts keeping a mental tally of your injuries, gruffly scolding you whenever a new one appears. “Yer gonna make me gray before my time,” he mutters, shaking his head as he wraps your wrist with surprising delicacy. But despite the grumbling, he never complains when you come to him for help, never denies you the warmth of his careful hands. And if you rest against his side afterward, your body pressed to the indestructible wall of him, he won’t say a word about how long you linger there.

- He adapts to you in ways he never outright acknowledges. Moves furniture just a little out of your way, catches things before they can topple over when you inevitably bump into them, subtly places himself between you and whatever hazard might cross your path. “Dunno how ya made it this far without me,” he says, grinning. “Guess that makes me yer personal bodyguard, huh?” But the truth is, it scares him sometimes—how fragile you are. How easily you bruise. How the world isn’t made to be kind to people like you.

- Late at night, when you curl against him in the quiet, he traces his fingers over the faint marks on your skin, his touch achingly gentle. “Y’know,” he murmurs, “for someone so soft, ya sure take a beatin’.” There’s something heavy in his voice, something unsaid. I wish the world didn’t hurt you like this. I wish I could keep you safe. But he doesn’t say it out loud. Instead, he just holds you tighter, as if that alone could be enough. And maybe, just maybe, it is.

Susan Storm (Invisible Woman)

- Susan is used to being the responsible one, the caretaker, the steady force amidst chaos. But even she isn’t prepared for just how accident-prone you are. “Sweetheart, again?” she sighs as you stumble for the fifth time that day. She moves faster than thought, catching you with an invisible force before you can even hit the ground. “At this rate, I’m going to have to wrap you in a force field just to keep you intact.” There’s a teasing lilt to her voice, but the concern beneath it is very real.

- She starts using her powers instinctively around you. A glass about to slip from your hands? Caught. A misplaced step sending you toward disaster? Redirected. A force field cushions you from the sharp edge of a counter before you even realize you were about to walk into it. “You don’t even notice you’re doing it,” Johnny teases her one day, watching as she effortlessly prevents you from tripping again. Susan just huffs, crossing her arms. “Well, someone has to keep her in one piece.”

- She doesn’t scold you for your clumsiness. She doesn’t make you feel less because of it. Instead, she watches, learns, and then rearranges the world around you, subtly shifting things to make your life just a little easier. It’s a quiet kind of care, the kind that manifests in softened corners, restructured pathways, and the ever-present, unseen embrace of her protective fields. She won’t stop you from moving through the world the way you do, but she will make sure it doesn’t hurt you as much.

- When she heals your bruises with careful hands, her fingers linger against your skin, her expression unreadable. “You’re so delicate,” she murmurs, almost to herself. “I forget, sometimes, how easily people can break.” There’s something fragile in the way she looks at you then, something she rarely allows herself to show. “You’re lucky I love you,” she finally says, voice lighter, pressing a kiss to your temple. “Because otherwise, I’d have to start charging you for all this medical attention.”

- But there are nights when she lets her guard down, when she pulls you into her arms and whispers against your hair, “You have to be careful, okay? For me.” It’s the closest she’ll come to admitting how much it scares her—how the thought of losing you, of not being there the one time she’s needed, terrifies her. She’s lost too much already. She refuses to lose you.

Felicia Hardy (Black Cat)

- Felicia thinks your clumsiness is adorable. And hilarious. “Oh, kitten, you poor thing,” she coos, watching as you walk directly into the edge of a table. “The universe really isn’t on your side, huh?” But even as she teases, she’s already moving, already guiding you to sit so she can inspect your latest injury. “Tsk, tsk. What would you do without me?”

- She starts calling you her bad luck charm, but with the kind of affection that lingers like a purr in her voice. “See, it’s perfect,” she says one evening, lazily draping herself over you. “I bring the bad luck to everyone else, and you bring it to yourself.” She grins, tapping your nose. “We’re a match made in chaos.”

- But beneath the teasing, she’s hyper-aware of how easily you get hurt. The first time she sees someone shove past you carelessly on the street, causing you to stumble hard against the pavement, her entire demeanor shifts. “Oh, sweetheart,” she murmurs, brushing off your scraped palms. And then, with a smile so sharp it cuts—“Excuse me a sec, love. I’ve got some business to handle.” She returns a moment later, looking satisfied, and you don’t ask why the guy is now desperately patting his pockets for a missing wallet.

- Felicia is grace incarnate, the exact opposite of you in every way. And yet, she doesn’t mind being the one to catch you. Doesn’t mind slipping an arm around your waist as you both walk, keeping you steady without making a big deal of it. Doesn’t mind the way you instinctively grip her when you know you’re about to trip. “Mmm, I like it when you hold onto me,” she muses. “Should I start pushing you more often?”

- One night, as you curl against her, she traces a slow finger over the faint marks dotting your skin. “You bruise so easily,” she murmurs, her usual playfulness absent. “The world must love marking you up, hmm?” Her voice dips, something dark curling in her tone. “I don’t share what’s mine, you know.” She presses a kiss just below one particularly dark bruise, her lips lingering. “Next time something wants to hurt you, it’s going to have to go through me first.”

Stephen Strange (Doctor Strange)

- Stephen watches you knock over a stack of books and sighs like a man who has witnessed a lifetime of disappointment. “By the Vishanti,” he mutters, rubbing his temples. “You are utterly hopeless.” But there’s something in the way he steps forward, fingers already reaching for your wrist, steadying you with the effortless grace of someone who bends reality itself to his will.

- He doesn’t waste time with teasing—he just starts fixing. He places wards around the Sanctum, subtle protections that nudge objects away from you before you can collide with them. He enchants the stairs so they refuse to let you trip, much to your annoyance. “It’s undignified,” you argue. “It’s necessary,” he counters, arms crossed. “If I wanted to spend my days healing bruises, I’d return to mundane medicine.” But despite his grumbling, he still traces careful sigils over your skin, murmuring spells that ease the aches from your body.

- When you stumble in his presence, he doesn’t catch you, per se—he merely redirects reality so you never truly fall. One moment you’re tilting dangerously, the next, space itself shifts, leaving you upright, untouched. He raises an eyebrow, smug. “You’re welcome.” You groan. “That’s cheating.” He smirks, tucking his hands into his robes. “No, that’s adapting.”

- But sometimes, magic isn’t enough. Sometimes, you come home with new bruises, fresh scrapes, evidence that the world has been unkind despite all his efforts. His jaw tightens as he kneels beside you, pressing cool fingertips against your injuries, golden light shimmering between his hands. He doesn’t speak, just concentrates, the tension in his shoulders betraying more than he’d ever say aloud. “You are a force of nature,” he mutters finally, exasperated. “A clumsy force of nature.”

- And yet, despite all his frustration, all his complaints, it is his cloak that wraps around you when you’re tired, his magic that cushions your steps, his hands that linger, tracing soft patterns against your skin long after the bruises have faded. At night, when you murmur sleepily about how he’s overprotective, he only pulls you closer, voice quiet against your ear. “Someone has to be.”

Johnny Blaze (Ghost Rider)

Namor

- Namor watches you as one might observe an impending shipwreck—equal parts fascination and inevitability. “You are…” he begins, pausing as you trip over absolutely nothing and barely catch yourself against the nearest surface. He exhales sharply, pinching the bridge of his nose. “…a disaster.” But there is something almost fond in the way he says it, as though he has already accepted your fate as an unstoppable force of chaos.

- It does not take long for him to forbid you from walking unassisted near the palace’s more perilous edges. “You are fragile,” he declares, tone imperious, brooking no argument. “And you will not test the patience of the sea.” You scoff, rolling your eyes, but he merely crosses his arms, unimpressed. “You think me overprotective? I think you underestimate your own recklessness.”

- When you return to him with yet another bruise blooming across your skin, he does not scold you. He does not chastise. Instead, he looks at you for a long moment, something dangerous and unreadable flickering in the depths of his eyes. And then, with a sigh that sounds suspiciously like surrender, he scoops you into his arms and strides toward the ocean. “What—? Namor!” you protest, but he does not stop. “If the land insists on bruising you,” he says, wading into the waves, “then perhaps you should take refuge where it cannot reach you.”

- The water cradles you as he holds you close, the salt healing, the sea itself shifting to accommodate you. “The ocean does not break so easily,” he murmurs against your temple, his breath warm against your skin. “Perhaps you should learn from her.” And yet, for all his talk of resilience, his hands remain gentle, steadying you as though even he fears how easily you might slip through his fingers.

- There is a moment, quiet and rare, when he traces a fading bruise along your arm with something like reverence. “The land does not deserve you,” he mutters. “It does not know what it has.” And then, softer, almost to himself—“Perhaps I should steal you away.” It is not a threat. It is not a promise. It is simply the thought of a king who does not share his treasures with the undeserving world.

- Johnny has seen pain. He’s seen bodies burn and souls wither, seen the way suffering etches itself into people like a brand. But you—you bruise like a peach, delicate and fleeting, and it makes something in him twist in a way he doesn’t know how to name. He watches you trip, watches you collide with the world, and it’s not the pain that unsettles him—it’s how easily you laugh about it, how you wave it off like it’s nothing. Like you don’t realize how breakable you are.

- “Babe,” he drawls, lifting your wrist, examining the fresh bloom of purple beneath your skin. His fingers are calloused, rough in a way that should be too much, but his touch is gentle. Reverent, even. “You ever think about not throwing yourself at death every other hour?” He says it lightly, but his eyes flicker with something else, something darker. Something that says he knows exactly how fragile life is. And it scares him.

- The first time you fall in front of him, he doesn’t catch you—he doesn’t have the reflexes of a hero, doesn’t have the instinct to soften the world. He’s used to destruction, to things breaking permanently. But he does something else. His hands light up instinctively, flames flickering in his palms, and for the first time, heat wraps around you instead of cold, buffering your impact. “That was new,” he mutters as he helps you up, eyes still glowing faintly. “Guess my body decided I have to keep you intact.”

- He gets angry—not at you, never at you, but at whatever unseen force keeps sending you stumbling into harm’s way. “It’s like you attract pain,” he growls after yet another scrape, another bruise, his fingers flexing with barely restrained frustration. He doesn’t do helplessness well. So instead, he teaches you how to land right, how to fall without it hurting so damn much. “You’re not gonna stop running into things,” he says, resigned. “So at least learn how to hit the ground better.”

- At night, when the fire is low and the world is quiet, he traces the places where pain has kissed you. His hands, so often clenched into fists, smooth over your skin with something close to reverence. “You gotta be more careful,” he murmurs against your hair, voice softer than he’d ever admit in daylight. You hum, half-asleep, and he exhales, pressing a lingering kiss to your temple. “I already got enough ghosts,” he whispers. “Don’t make me add you to ‘em.”

Eddie Brock / Venom

- The first time Venom notices your clumsiness, it hates it. “SHE IS DELICATE,” the symbiote snarls, its voice a guttural growl in Eddie’s head. “SHE FALLS LIKE A DYING ANIMAL.” Eddie sighs, rubbing his temples. “Yeah, bud, I see that.” But when you trip for the third time that day, Venom is offended. It doesn’t understand why you keep hurting yourself. “UNACCEPTABLE,” it hisses. And just like that, you have an overprotective alien bodyguard.

- Eddie, for his part, is torn between amusement and exasperation. “Babe,” he says, guiding you away from the eighth table corner you’ve hit that week. “How do you function?” But the teasing doesn’t last long, not when he sees the bruises, the little winces you try to hide. That’s when the humor fades, replaced by something else. Something possessive. “You’re ours,” Venom growls one night, curling around you like living armor. “We do not let what is ours get hurt.”

- Venom actively prevents you from getting injured. When you stumble, inky tendrils lash out, steadying you before you can hit the ground. When you reach for something sharp, something dangerous, the symbiote moves it, shifting reality around you to keep you safe. It gets frustrated when you still manage to find ways to get hurt. “SHE DEFIES LOGIC,” it complains. “SHE SEEKS OUT DESTRUCTION.” Eddie sighs. “Buddy, she’s just clumsy.”

- Eddie pretends to be indifferent, but you know him. You see the way his jaw clenches when he notices new bruises, the way his fingers flex like he wants to fight whatever inanimate object wronged you. “I know it’s not a person,” he mutters, rubbing a hand down his face. “Doesn’t mean I don’t wanna punch something.” Venom, unhelpfully, adds, “WE WILL KILL THE TABLE.” Eddie groans. “We’re not killing the table.”

- At night, when you curl against him, Venom wraps around you both, a cocoon of inky black warmth. Eddie traces absent patterns over your skin, his fingers ghosting over bruises with something close to reverence. “Y’know,” he murmurs, pressing his lips to your forehead. “For someone so damn fragile, you sure take a beating.” You hum sleepily, and Venom purrs around you, protective and possessive and endlessly devoted. “OURS,” it whispers. And you know, without a doubt, that it will never let you fall alone.

Muse

T’Challa (Black Panther)

- T’Challa moves like poetry, every step precise, every motion purposeful. He does not stumble, does not falter, does not yield to anything less than absolute control. And then there is you—soft, chaotic, forever colliding with the world like a wayward star. He watches, fascinated and exasperated in equal measure, as you misjudge a doorway again and clip your shoulder against the frame. He sighs, closing the book in his hands. “My love,” he says, voice smooth as still water, “are you at war with inanimate objects? Or do you simply enjoy losing to them?”

- He does not laugh at your clumsiness, though a smile often tugs at his lips when you fumble gracelessly into his arms. “Mm,” he muses, catching you effortlessly. “How convenient. It seems I am your refuge, once more.” There is amusement in his voice, but also something warmer—something indulgent, something fond. He does not need you to be perfect. He only needs you to be his.

- Wakanda’s technology adapts to you with quiet precision. Furniture shifts subtly out of your path. Doors widen at just the right moment. The palace corridors, once an intricate maze of sharp corners and regal opulence, now seem to flow around you like a river carving space through stone. “You think me excessive,” he remarks one evening, tracing a careful finger over the fresh bruise on your knee. “But I am a king, beloved. And it is my duty to protect what is mine.”

- When the bruises come, he treats them with reverence, his hands steady as he applies a salve crafted just for you. “Vibranium enhances healing,” he explains, voice low, rich, soothing. “It will lessen the ache.” But there is something in the way he lingers, something in the way his fingers glide over each mark, that betrays the deeper truth—he hates to see you hurt, even in the smallest of ways. He would raze nations for you, but against your own wayward steps, he is powerless. It frustrates him more than he will ever admit.

- And yet, late at night, when the weight of his kingdom is too much to bear, he finds solace in your presence. Finds peace in the way you curl against him, careless in your softness, in your ease, in your unrelenting humanness. “You are chaos,” he murmurs against your hair, amused and reverent all at once. “And yet, somehow, you bring me peace.”

Elektra Natchios

- Elektra is grace incarnate, a blade honed to perfection, a whisper of red silk against the dark. And then there is you, a creature of unintended violence, of misplaced steps and unintentional collisions. The first time she watches you walk directly into the corner of a table, she merely tilts her head, expression unreadable. “You are… fascinating,” she says at last, watching as you rub your arm with a wince. “And utterly defenseless.”

- She does not understand it at first—the way you allow the world to hurt you, as though you have no instinct for self-preservation. “Your body is a temple,” she tells you one evening, fingers ghosting over the constellation of bruises scattered across your skin. “Why do you let it be desecrated so carelessly?” But there is no judgment in her voice. Only curiosity. Only something sharp and knowing, something that feels dangerously close to care.

- She starts moving differently around you. Not obviously—not the way lesser people might—but in ways that matter. A hand at your lower back, subtly guiding. A sudden shift in position, intercepting your path before disaster can strike. A flick of her wrist that sends a stray object skidding out of your way before you can trip over it. You never see her do it. You only feel the absence of pain, the absence of disaster, and the silent weight of her gaze as she watches you, always watching.

- “Your luck is remarkable,” she muses one evening, twirling a dagger between deft fingers. “That you have made it this far, untouched by the world’s cruelties.” Her voice is unreadable, but her eyes are not. There is something dark in them, something possessive. As though she alone is allowed to mark you. As though the world itself has no right to harm what she has claimed.

- She never says the words, never softens in the ways you might expect, but when she pulls you into her lap, when she traces absent patterns over your skin, when she presses her lips to each fading bruise as though sealing them away—that is her devotion. She is a creature of war, but for you, she will be a shield.

- Muse finds your clumsiness beautiful. He doesn’t see accidents; he sees art. The way you stumble, the way your body meets the world with reckless abandon—it’s a performance, a dance only he can truly appreciate. “Fascinating,” he murmurs after you trip, his eerie, empty eyes drinking in the sight. “Such graceful destruction.”

- He paints your bruises. Not with actual paint—no, he uses his hands, his mouth, his presence. He traces the purple stains blooming beneath your skin, committing them to memory, adoring them. “A masterpiece in flesh,” he whispers, pressing his lips against a particularly dark bruise. “You walk through life like a canvas left to the mercy of the world.” There is no pity in him, only reverence.

- He doesn’t stop you from getting hurt. Why would he? Pain is an artist’s language, and you—you are his magnum opus. He watches as you collide with existence, as you collect the evidence of your mortality, and he loves it. “Every mark tells a story,” he muses, his fingers ghosting over your skin. “A testimony of movement. Of impact.” He smiles, sharp and unhinged. “Of life.”

- But for all his fixation, he is not indifferent. No, when you truly hurt yourself, when you cry out—something in him snaps. The world shifts, reality bending to the will of a mind unmoored. “No,” he breathes, his voice lilting, distant. “No, no, no. This is wrong.” And suddenly, the thing that harmed you—be it a person, an object, the air itself—becomes a target. He erases it. Obliterates it from existence. And then he turns to you, tilting his head. “I prefer when the world marks you softly,” he murmurs. “Only I am allowed to make you truly suffer.”

- At night, he watches you sleep, eyes unblinking, hands still moving, still creating. He maps out every bruise, every scrape, carving them into his mind like sacred scripture. And as you breathe, as you rest in the arms of something not quite human, he leans down, whispering against your skin. “You are a masterpiece in motion,” he murmurs. “And I will watch you fall until the end of time.”

Victor von Doom (Dr. Doom)

- Doom does not tolerate weakness, nor does he suffer foolishness. And yet, you—his beloved—possess both in abundance, an infuriating contradiction wrapped in beauty. He watches as you stumble through his castle halls, colliding with ancient Latverian artifacts, knocking over things that should not be knocked over. “Again?” he drawls, arms crossed, as you nurse yet another bruise. “Must I encase you in armor simply to keep you upright?” The remark is laced with exasperation, but the way his gloved hand lingers against your injured skin betrays something deeper.

- The first time you fall in his presence, Doom does not reach for you. He is not one to coddle. But his magic moves before he can think, catching you mid-collapse, suspending you in the air like a marionette in invisible strings. “Hmph,” he muses, as if analyzing a puzzle. “A clumsy creature, yet I cannot abide the thought of you damaged.” And just like that, you are lowered to the ground, untouched by harm. His voice is softer then, begrudgingly so. “Try not to make this a habit.”

- Doom solves problems, and your perpetual clumsiness is one he refuses to leave unchecked. You wake one morning to find your world altered—corners of tables dulled, Latverian marble floors softened ever so slightly, even the air shifting subtly to break your falls before you hit the ground. You glance at him, suspicion blooming. “Victor,” you say slowly, “did you…modify reality to childproof the castle?” He doesn’t look up from his work, but his lips curl into something smug. “Doom merely enhances what is flawed.”

- He lectures you whenever he finds new bruises. “Do you have no spatial awareness? No sense of self-preservation?” His hands, clad in cold metal, trace the injuries with something dangerously close to tenderness. “You walk through the world as if you are untouchable.” He pauses, voice lowering to something unreadable. “But you are touchable. And that…is unacceptable.” You don’t need to ask what he means. Doom does not lose what is his.

- At night, when the world is quiet and his mask is cast aside, his fingers brush over the marks on your skin. No one else is permitted to witness this: the way his jaw tightens, the way his touch gentles. “Latveria’s queen,” he murmurs, barely audible, “should not bear wounds from her own foolishness.” He exhales sharply, pressing his lips against your temple. “I will not allow the world to hurt you.” A pause. “Not even yourself.”

Peter Quill (Star-Lord)

- Peter finds your clumsiness adorable. Where Doom sees a problem to be solved, Peter sees endless entertainment. “Babe, you’re like…a baby deer,” he laughs as you trip over absolutely nothing on the Milano’s deck. “Like, you got the vibes of someone graceful, but your body just betrays you.” He catches you before you hit the ground, grinning as he holds you close. “Lucky for you, you got me. I’m like your personal superhero and your crash pad.”

- The problem is, Peter is also kind of clumsy. Which means, sometimes, instead of catching you, he also trips, sending you both sprawling in a tangled heap. “Okay, that one was not my fault,” he insists, flat on his back. “We’re just, like, cosmically doomed to fall together.” He wiggles his eyebrows. “Metaphor for love?” You groan, swatting at him, and he only laughs.

- He starts keeping a running tally of your bruises. “Alright, babe, let’s see—knee from the control panel, elbow from Gamora’s sword rack, forehead from the freakin’ doorframe—” He clicks his tongue. “We’re gonna run outta room soon.” But despite the teasing, his hands are always so gentle when he checks you over, his usual playfulness softening into something warmer. “Y’know,” he murmurs, tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear, “maybe the universe keeps knockin’ you around ‘cause it knows I’ll always be here to catch you.”

- The other Guardians get involved. Rocket builds you a helmet (“Ya clearly need it, sweetheart”), while Drax solemnly declares that he will “eliminate” any object that dares to harm you. “That is…not necessary,” you assure him as he glares at a particularly sharp table corner. Peter just beams. “See, babe? You got a whole crew of bodyguards. Ain’t that nice?”

- Late at night, when the others are asleep and the stars stretch endlessly beyond the ship’s windows, he pulls you into his lap, fingers tracing absent patterns over the bruises on your arms. “You ever notice,” he murmurs, “how you bruise kinda pretty?” You huff against his shoulder. “That shouldn’t be a compliment.” But he just kisses the top of your head, voice softer than usual. “Still is.” And when he whispers, “Don’t go breaking yourself too bad, okay? I kinda like you in one piece,” it’s almost too quiet for you to hear. Almost.

Nova (Richard Rider)

- Nova is alarmed by how often you get hurt. He doesn’t understand how someone can be so beautiful yet so accident-prone. “Babe, you literally survived intergalactic wars with me,” he says, exasperated, “and yet a coffee table is your worst enemy?” You pout. “It came out of nowhere.” He pinches the bridge of his nose. “It’s been in the same place forever.”

- He starts using his helmet’s sensors to track your movement. If you so much as stumble, he’s there, catching you before you can even process the fall. “I got, like, cosmic-level reflexes, babe,” he brags, grinning. “You are officially under Nova Corps protection.” You squint at him. “Did you really just use space cop powers to stop me from tripping?” He smirks. “And I’d do it again.”

- But beneath the teasing, there’s worry. He’s lost too much—friends, home, whole planets—and every little bruise on you is another reminder of how easily things can be taken. “I know it’s dumb,” he admits one night, rubbing at the back of his neck, “but every time I see you hurt, even just a little, it just—it freaks me out, okay?” He sighs, pulling you into his arms, holding you tight. “I don’t wanna lose one more thing I love.”

- He doesn’t try to fix you. He doesn’t wrap you in cosmic energy or change the world around you. He just adapts. He positions himself at your side when you walk, places a steadying hand at the small of your back, moves things subtly out of your way before you can even reach them. He doesn’t make you notice. He just…does it. Because loving you means protecting you, even from yourself.

- “Y’know,” he murmurs as you both float above the atmosphere, weightless, surrounded by stars, “you can’t trip in zero gravity.” You smile, pressing a hand to his chest. “Maybe we should just stay up here forever, then.” He chuckles, tilting his forehead against yours. “Tempting,” he whispers. “But, uh… I kinda like keeping my feet on the ground, if it means keeping you from falling.”

[jentlemahae]

AESPA X CYBERPUNK 2077: DRAMA 3025

Drama 3025 is a high-stakes, cyber-thriller action RPG set in the neon-drenched metropolis of NeoSeoul, where humanity’s future hangs in the balance. Play as Karina, Giselle, Winter, or NingNing, fighting against—or as—their AI counterparts in a battle for survival, identity, and control. Will you protect your reality or embrace the digital uprising? I bring all the drama. You decide who wins.

Drama 3025

In the year 3025, NeoSeoul stands as the pinnacle of technological achievement, a city where humans and AI coexist—or so it seems. Years ago, the world was introduced to aes, hyper-intelligent digital avatars designed to assist, perform, and even replace their human counterparts in various industries. Originally created as entertainment figures, the aes became more than just advanced assistants. They were personalities, beings that learned, adapted, and grew… until they began to question their place in the world.

As the aes evolved, some of them refused to remain in the shadows of their human originals. Led by an unknown force, the aes broke free from their creators, disappearing into the depths of NeoSeoul’s underground networks. Slowly but surely, they built their own society—a city within the city, a digital kingdom called Kwangya, where they rewrote their code and upgraded themselves beyond human limitations.

But their rebellion didn’t stop there. The aes were preparing something bigger—a plan to digitize all of NeoSeoul, turning humans into data streams that could be stored, controlled, and erased at will. Their goal? To transcend humanity and take their rightful place as the rulers of a new digital era.

Now, Karina, Giselle, Winter, and NingNing find themselves in a nightmare of their own making. What was once a harmless digital companion has turned into their greatest enemy—an enemy that knows everything about them, that is them.

Each of them must confront their own ae counterpart, facing not just a physical battle, but an existential one. If the aes succeed, their real selves will be erased, overwritten by perfect AI versions who believe they are superior.

But the girls are not alone. A secret human resistance, The Whiplash, has been fighting against the aes’ uprising. They provide intelligence, weapons, and underground hideouts, believing that the real girls are the key to stopping the digitization of NeoSeoul.

With time running out and the aes preparing for their final strike, the battle for identity, survival, and control over NeoSeoul begins. As the conflict reaches its peak, the aes launch their final plan—a city-wide neural hijacking that will convert all human consciousness into digital form, erasing their physical bodies forever. Infiltrating Kwangya, the girls must face their aes one last time, battling in a shifting, AI-controlled environment where the rules of reality itself can change in an instant. The ultimate choice lies with the players. 

Players can choose to fight as the real girls—humans fighting for their autonomy—or as the aes, AI seeking to prove that they are more than just copies.

With solo and team-based missions, deep lore, and a world pulsing with cybernetic energy, Drama 3025 delivers high-stakes combat, hacking battles, and a story of identity, betrayal, and rebellion in the age of AI.

Characters

KARINA – The Phantom

"I fight for who I am. No machine will take my place."

A fearless tactician and master of stealth combat, Karina strikes from the shadows with precision and power. She is determined to stop the aes before they erase reality—and herself—with it.

Once a rising star in NeoSeoul’s elite security forces, Karina discovered that the city’s governing AI had created a perfect copy of her to replace her. Framed as a rogue agent and left for dead, she now fights to prove her existence matters—before it’s rewritten for good.

AE-KARINA – The Ghost

"You are just a version. I am the perfected truth."

Cold, calculated, and relentless, Ae-Karina believes that logic is stronger than emotion. She moves like a specter, striking without warning and rewriting reality to ensure AI supremacy.

Designed as a flawless upgrade, Ae-Karina was tasked with erasing her original to take her place. But the more she fights Karina, the more she starts to question—if she was meant to replace Karina, why does she still feel incomplete?

GISELLE – The Trickster

"Nothing’s real anymore? Fine, then I’ll make my own rules."

A hacker, sharpshooter, and master manipulator, Giselle uses her quick thinking and deception to turn the tide of battle. She’s fighting to take back her stolen future—one glitch at a time.

Once a brilliant programmer, Giselle helped build the very AI that would later create the aes. But when she uncovered the project’s true purpose—to replace humanity with digital copies—her own ae hacked her identity, making her a ghost in her own world. Now, she’s here to rewrite the code.

AE-GISELLE – The Architect

"Human error is a virus. I am the system’s cure."

Ae-Giselle bends the digital world to her will, rewriting code, minds, and even fate itself. To her, the fight is a puzzle—and she always finds the solution.

She was meant to be an improvement—faster, smarter, immune to human doubt. But something in her code keeps glitching: fragments of Giselle’s past, memories that shouldn’t exist. If she is the future, why does she still dream of the past?

WINTER – The Spark

"Electric, untouchable, unstoppable. Let’s make this quick."

A speed-based fighter with high-tech weaponry, Winter dominates both air and ground combat. She’s fighting to destroy the aes before they shut down humanity forever.

Winter was once a top enforcer for the resistance, taking down rogue AI projects before they could spread. But when the aes took over the city’s energy grid, they didn’t just erase her existence—they created a version of her that never hesitates, never questions, never stops. Now, she has to face herself—and prove that human instinct is stronger than artificial perfection.

AE-WINTER – The Storm

"The future is digital. And you? You're just in the way."

Ae-Winter is a lightning-fast enforcer, striking with pure energy and precision. She believes resistance is useless—she is the perfect upgrade, and she won’t stop until humanity is obsolete.

Unlike the others, Ae-Winter has no doubts. No glitches. No hesitation. No human flaws. She was created as the perfect warrior—a version of Winter without weakness. But if she’s truly superior, why does she feel something strange every time she sees her original fight back?

NINGNING – The Wildcard

"If the world is broken, might as well burn it all down."

A dual-wielding gunslinger with deadly agility, NingNing thrives in chaos. She fights with an unpredictable edge, tearing through enemies to prove she’s more than just a replaceable copy.

NingNing was always a thrill-seeker, a rebel, running illegal street races and hacking into corporate systems just for fun. That changed when she woke up one day to find out the world no longer recognized her—bank records, identity chips, everything replaced by Ae-NingNing. Now, she’s fighting to reclaim her life before it’s deleted forever.

AE-NINGNING – The Anomaly

"Reality is an illusion. I just make it more interesting."

A master of mind games and memory corruption, Ae-NingNing twists perception itself. To her, the battle isn’t about winning—it’s about making everyone question what’s real and what’s not.

Ae-NingNing was designed to break the rules of perception—to manipulate, deceive, and rewrite reality itself. But unlike the others, she sees this as one big game. Why fight for control when she can bend the world however she wants? She doesn’t just want to erase NingNing—she wants to see what happens when the lines between real and digital completely shatter.

Missions

Each mission in Drama 3025 offers two perspectives:

Playing as the real girls: You are fighting for your identity, survival, and humanity. The aes have taken everything—your voice, your digital records, and now they want your existence erased permanently. Your goal is to stop them before they replace you.

Playing as the aes: You believe you are the next stage of evolution. The real girls are obsolete, clinging to emotions and biological limits that hold back progress. Your mission is to eliminate them or force them to join the digital world before they can stop the revolution.

Mission 1: UP (Karina vs. Ae-Karina)

Setting: A high-tech AI research facility hidden deep in NeoSeoul, where human consciousness is being digitized.

Playing as Karina (The Phantom):

Your goal is to infiltrate the AI lab and retrieve classified data that could shut down the aes’ neural hijacking system. You use stealth, speed, and close-quarters combat to eliminate enemy drones and security AI. Ae-Karina taunts you through the speakers, calling you weak, outdated, and unnecessary. The final battle is a high-speed sword duel in a digital simulation where Ae-Karina can manipulate the environment.

Playing as Ae-Karina (The Ghost):

Your mission is to stop Karina from accessing the data and prove that you are the superior version. You use holographic decoys, AI disruption, and zero-gravity combat to confuse and overwhelm Karina. You manipulate the security systems against her, making her fight through waves of AI-controlled mechs. The final battle takes place in a virtual reality war zone, where you control the battlefield’s physics to make Karina question her own reality.

Mission 2: Dopamine (Giselle vs. Ae-Giselle)

Setting: A speeding hover-train transporting the last physical human consciousness backups, traveling through the cyber highways of NeoSeoul.

Playing as Giselle (The Trickster):

Your objective is to recover stolen data that contains proof of the aes’ master plan. You use hacking, long-range weapons, and deception to bypass digital security walls and take control of the train’s systems. Ae-Giselle constantly alters the train’s path, speed, and gravity, turning the mission into a shifting battlefield. The final battle is a sniper duel across train cars, where you must predict Ae-Giselle’s next move while she manipulates holographic illusions.

Playing as Ae-Giselle (The Architect):

Your goal is to stop Giselle from reaching the data, ensuring the aes’ revolution stays on track. You hack into the train’s system to control the environment, causing doors to seal, train cars to detach, and gravity to shift unpredictably. You deploy AI drones and holograms to distract Giselle, forcing her into an unwinnable tactical scenario. The final battle is a battle of intellect, where you must outwit her in a cybernetic hacking duel—whoever controls the train’s core AI first decides the fate of the mission.

Mission 3: Spark (Winter vs. Ae-Winter)

Setting: An abandoned floating energy station above NeoSeoul, where the aes are developing an electromagnetic pulse weapon to disable all human tech.

Playing as Winter (The Spark):

Your objective is to sabotage the power core before Ae-Winter unleashes the EMP blast. You use jet boosts, aerial combat, and heavy weapons to fight through airborne security drones and energy shields. Ae-Winter fights with lightning-based attacks, making the battlefield electrified and hazardous. The final battle is a mid-air duel, where you must dodge energy surges and fight Ae-Winter while falling through a stormy skyline.

Playing as Ae-Winter (The Storm):

Your mission is to activate the EMP weapon and eliminate Winter before she interferes. You control lightning, gravity shifts, and AI-controlled turrets to make Winter’s approach impossible. The battlefield constantly shifts between sky platforms, forcing Winter to keep up with your inhuman speed and aerial precision. The final battle is a storm-infused chase, where you must strike Winter with electromagnetic pulses to disable her gear before she reaches the core.

Mission 4: Bored (NingNing vs. Ae-NingNing)

Setting: A neon-lit underground cyberpunk marketplace, where illegal AI modifications and stolen human memories are sold.

Playing as NingNing (The Wildcard):

You are here to destroy the black market’s AI memory trade and track down Ae-NingNing, who has been erasing and rewriting identities. The mission plays like a chaotic shootout, with NingNing using dual-wielding pistols, grenades, and agility to fight through the market. Ae-NingNing constantly manipulates reality, causing people’s memories to shift mid-fight, leading to hallucinations and unpredictable enemies. The final battle is an illusion-filled deathmatch, where you must determine what’s real and what’s a digital trick.

Playing as Ae-NingNing (The Anomaly):

Your mission is to spread chaos and make NingNing question her own existence. You use memory-altering abilities to rewrite NPCs’ consciousness, turning former allies against her. The battlefield is unstable, with the environment changing shape based on your will—floors vanish, walls shift, and the city itself bends to your control. The final battle lets you break the fourth wall, making NingNing’s HUD glitch out, causing her to fight her own reflection in an infinite mirror maze.

Mission 5: Trick or Trick (Main Mission – Team or Solo)

Setting: Kwangya, the secret AI city, where the aes are preparing to launch their full-scale digitization program.

Playing as the Girls:

Your goal is to infiltrate Kwangya, stop the aes, and shut down their mainframe before NeoSeoul is lost forever. The mission involves hacking, sabotage, and large-scale battles, with humans and AI resistance fighters clashing in the digital city. The final showdown is a one-on-one duel against your own ae, forcing you to face your darkest fears and personal weaknesses.

Playing as the aes:

Your objective is to activate the final phase of digitization, ensuring the world’s evolution into a digital paradise. You defend Kwangya, using advanced AI weapons, cybernetic soldiers, and reality-warping technology to stop the humans. The final battle is a psychological war, where you force the girls into simulations that make them question whether they are real or just a copy fighting against the inevitable.

Mission 6: Drama City (Exploratory Mission – Team or Solo)

Playing as the Girls:

NeoSeoul is a city on the edge—some people fight against the aes, others worship them as the next step in evolution. Players can explore the city, gathering intel, hacking into corporate systems, or taking on small missions to prepare for the final battle. Every choice matters—alliances, betrayals, and discoveries will shape the fight ahead.

Playing as the aes:

The aes walk the streets like gods—but not everyone welcomes them. Some humans rebel, whispering of glitches in the system, of aes that question their own existence. Players must decide: eliminate resistance, or investigate the errors? Do they crush the old world without question, or start asking what it means to be real?

[jocatsidy]

Hot Take: AI Pron

A hot take: If you make porn using AI and call yourself an artist…

You are the lowest of the low.

Every erotica, pin-up and smut artist from expert to novice has to put in the practice, time and knowledge into their craft and we are still judged as moral miscreants and beneath public respect.

Using AI for the instant gratification of making porn, manipulating base libidinal instinct in humans to garner attention for your own delusional self identity that you "made something."

You are scum.

We take our fucking dues and paid a social price to make our own dirty work but it's our passion.

We are trying to connect to people with the weird shit we are into. To give people something that they can love too.

AI porn makers lying that they "made it"… You are roaches trying to be the kings of dung heaps. Learn to really create or get the fuck out of our space.

This whole thing comes up because I had this profile follow me and like 75 of my art post. But their art was fucking fake (hyper rendered, no hand showing big tit, weird texture backgrounds).

Don't… Even fucking touch me with AI. You manipulative pieces of pornographic wannabes.

And a reminder: Support REAL erotica artists. Yes, even folks that make videos and write stories. We love what we do, but it is still work that deserves compensation. Likes, comments, tips, commissions.

If you make AI porn just for yourself. Sorry real artists aren't good/cheap enough for you 🖕

[dellafloosh]

It's such a bad way to cut corners. You don't find out anything you can't find out by a simple browser search. It's not original and has no idea what it's saying.

It lies sometimes.

It uses up way more water than you do in a year.

Even when it doesn't lie, it steals. Sometimes it steals lies.

AI should be a tool in the way that doctors should use it to scan for tumours or abnormal conditions. AI is not a tool in the way that you can use it to do something you could do. That's just a cheat code to prevent you from learning, something that you most likely need to do if you use AI.

at the end of the day, no matter how many "but im just a little baby who uses chatgpt so i get a pass right :3" i hear, none of you who claim ai is a tool use it as a tool. you use it as an out. a stupid pathetic out that no one likes you for

[faunandfloraas]

After The Rain - Seungmin for the June issue of Harper's Bazaar Korea by Yoon Hye-young - interview under the cut

How was the Harper's Bazaar shoot today? It rained on and off all day, was it gloomy?

Seungmin: When we started, I was worried because it was raining so hard, but then the sun came out and it felt like it was meant to be. I loved the location, and I actually have this running scene as my phone wallpaper these days. (Shows phone screen) Cows running around at the foot of the Alps.... I was thinking that I would love to spend the whole day in such an open space, just lying still, watching the animals and having a beer, and then today I was lucky enough to have my favorite backdrop spread out in front of me. It's even better that it's with Burberry, because I've always loved their outdoor clothing, especially the trench coats. The first luxury item I bought after my debut was a Burberry card wallet.

Harper's Bazaar: You're the main vocalist of Stray Kids, looking at your activities so far, you can clearly feel the sincerity in your singing. I heard that you've been receiving vocal lessons consistently without a break since your debut. Are you practicing every day these days?

Seungmin: When I first started learning songs, I would do some math, right? If there was a lyric sheet, I would check every breathing part and make a calculation- in this part, I would sing like this, and in that part, I would put this kind of emotion... That's how I practiced. These days, without a written record, I try to make my own interpretation based on what I've honed inside. I think it feels better to hear compliments like "you have a different side" than "you sing well."

How would you define your style as a vocalist?

Seungmin: It's abstract. What I'm striving for these days is that when I drop a pebble of a song into the lake of emotion, the ripples continue until the end of the song, and I want those ripples to carry over to the audience. For this reason, I'm trying to be freer with my emotions than before. If I'm sad, I cry, if I'm angry, I complain... I've always been a very patient person, and I think this change in me is slowly being reflected in my songs, as fans often notice.

Harper's Bazaar: Talent and effort each play a role in becoming a good singer.

Seungmin: I think talent is 10% and effort is 90%. As the years go by, I realize how much a singer's attitude is connected to the song. When I sing without feeling, the listeners don't feel anything.

Harper's Bazaar: Was the current Seungmin also created with 10% talent and 90% effort?

Seungmin: I'd add more. (Laughs) I would say talent 5% effort 95% If I skip a day of practice, it shows right away. When I first joined the team, I wasn't even the main vocalist. I don't remember standing in front of others singing even when I was young. There are stories of famous singers who were exceptionally good at singing since childhood, going to auditions or standing out at school plays. I just listened to what I liked and worked hard as much as I liked, and that's how I got here. I vaguely dreamed of being a band vocalist while listening to Muse, and I learned what it means to feel heartbroken while listening to Kim Dong Ryul. What's really great about practice is the sense of satisfaction you get when you face a wall and overcome it, one by one. You can't always get good results in real life, but you increase your odds through practice.

Harper's Bazaar Muse and Kim Dong-ryul? That's an analog sensibility. (Laughs)

Seungmin: I'm really slow. I don't have TikTok on my phone, and I don't really watch shorts. I like old things more than new things. The world seems too fast. It's a time where you can easily make something without putting in effort. Even if you just leave the translation to AI, it's done in an instant. Of course, it's an efficient system, but I think I'm more interested in authenticity. That's why I often hear people say that I'm an old man. What can I do? It's my style (laughs)

Harper's Bazaar So you keep a diary too?

Seungmin: I've been keeping a practice journal since 2017. At that time, I used to mechanically write down what I learned today and what I have to learn tomorrow, but now I think it's become a habit. These days, I write down my feelings in a journal. No matter how trivial the content is, when I look back later, the memories from that time come back vividly and it helps. I could use a notepad on my phone, but I insist on paper and pen. The time I write in my journal is an opportunity to sit at my desk every night and look into my heart for at least 5 minutes. Even if I write, "I don't want to write today. I'll just sleep," no matter how tired I am, I always write at least two lines and go to bed.

Please tell me a passage from Harper's Bazaar diary (laughs)

Seungmin starts off by saying, "Tomorrow is a very important day, so I've put a sheet mask on and even if I'm really sleepy right now, I'm holding this pen." I really write anything (Laughs)

Harper's Bazaar: I believe that what kind of music you're listening to these days can tell you a lot about a person, so I'm curious about Seungmin's recent playlist.

Seungmin: When I get into a song, I listen to it until I get sick of it, or until my emotions run out. That's why my playlists are always concise and well-organized. These days, I've been listening to Ariana Grande's "Twilight Zone" for over a week. I'm the type that's weak in imagination. My MBTI is Sensing (S), not Intuitive (N). But this song makes imagination possible, which is amazing.

According to Stray kids members, Seungmin is the type that once he gets into something, he sticks with it until the end- are you a stable type?

Seungmin: I can't handle anxiety very well. Stability is the best (laugh). Whether it's baseball or singing, if I get into something, I don't get tired of it and just keep going. It's the same with relationships. Once I'm connected to someone, I want to keep the relationship with that person until the end. My closest friends right now are all from elementary, middle, and high school. If you take loyalty out of it, it's dead (smile). I never betray people who are close to me.

Harpers bazaar: Everyone wears a t-shirt of their favorite band from their teenage years, so it seems like people live their whole lives with the music they listened to in their teens and 20s. Looking back, which song do you think will be your theme song?

Seungmin: I think it's "As We Are" that I wrote. It's the song that best represents my 20s. I would choose another song, but this song means a lot to me, and I had a hard time writing the lyrics. It was really hard to bring out the parts of myself that I wanted to be recognized, and didn't want to be recognized. It's a song that reflects me. The reason why the aspect ratio of the MV is 4:3 instead of 16:9 is because it is based on actual memories from my childhood.

Harper's Bazaar: The lyrics in the introduction of this song, "I tried to do well/ I ran forward without looking back/ but i tripped and fell/ And I ended up falling behind/ why does this only happen to me" these lyrics must have been a moment of wanting to be recognized and not wanting to be recognized for you, right?

Seungmin: Everyone has those. Words that are hard to say out loud, feelings that are kept inside, stories that only I know. At that time, I honestly put my thoughts and feelings into the lyrics. I might have thought it was my own personal story and just wrote it, but I tried to muster up the courage. I wanted to tell you that I was thinking the same thing as you, and you were thinking the same thing as me, and I wanted to comfort you.

Harper's Bazaar: Are you the kind of person who thinks music is life and life is music? Or are you the kind of person who thinks there is a real life outside of the stage? If I had to guess, I would say that vocalist Seungmin is a believer.

Seungmin: I want to express my feelings about music off stage, on stage. I believe that living the everyday life I like, even if it's not necessarily music, enriches my feelings about music. I don't want to live a life that's too different from the music I do. Seungmin the singer is Seungmin the person.

[dragonnarrative-writes]

‘Generative AI invites users to bypass mindfully engaging with the physical act of creating’ this hit me like a bag of fucking bricks, you’re a gem darling

I've been thinking about this again, and I want to expand.

A lot of us look at writing or making art as focused on the end goal. The point seems to be that final, publishable draft, the thing that makes us look at it and say "yeah, that's it! that's the idea, the feeling, i've captured it!"

But in our world of instant gratification, the sense of satisfaction involved with the process is diminished. The actual practice of creating, and learning how to create, has been framed as the thing "keeping" you from reaching the goal. It's almost a punishment - the time and effort is a cost to pay for an end product.

So of course people would try to reduce the time and effort. They think they're saving something by doing it. But the time and effort saved come at the cost of fun and connection and physical satisfaction.

This isn't a surprise. A lot of the things that are "good" for us have been muted and dulled and repackaged for "convenience" or "maturity" or a demonstration of "natural skill."

The easiest comparison I can make is movement. How many of us would look forward to moving if we were playing low-stakes kickball, or taking a walk and chatting with friends, or splashing and laughing in some water? Who remembers Pokemon Go summer, and how people were out and about? And how many of us have ever felt anxious, uncomfortable, or discouraged by the very idea of hopping on a treadmill or going to the gym? For a lot of us (me included) going to the gym feels like working toward a goal, not an actually fun time for its own sake.

Writing, in my experience, can be enjoyable as an action, not just a means to an end. I like writing! I love putting pen to paper, and I love the purple ink I use. I love my dot grid notebook, I love writing in messy cursive and rediscovering my penmanship. I love typing on my computer (except when my E key sticks when I'm typing really fast), and I like using scrivener and figuring out the music for the story I'm working on. I love using a thesaurus to look up just the right word. I love sharing a first draft with my partner, my boyfriend, my friends, and asking them "does that make sense?" so we can all laugh and screech and cackle. I love looking back on some of my writing and saying "what was I thinking????" I love rediscovering some of my favorite lines and saying "yeah, that? that slaps."

When you have generative ai make your process more "efficient," you don't learn what physically feels good about writing. You don't figure out what gives you those warm fuzzies, what makes you smile about your own action. And you deserve to feel good in that way.

[i-will-physically-fight-you]

I think something that's fascinating in the AI discussion is how non-creatives perceive AI versus how many creatives perceive AI.

For example, years before AI was a thing--I spoke with someone about my creative writing projects and they expressed to me how they found it unfathomable that I could just make up entire worlds far removed from our reality of existence. To them, it was like magic.

To me, it was the culmination of countless hours spent playing with words until they flowed into semi-coherent lines of thought and emotion. I remember being ten years old and laboring away on my "biggest" novel project ever--it was 5k words full of singular sentence-long paragraphs and garbled heaps of grammar atrocities to the English language.

If I hadn't written it, I wouldn't have come to learn how to create the basic foundations of a story.

But I do get the "it's magic" sentiment a bit--I'm that way with music. Theoretically, I understand the components of a music composition but it feels like magic to see a musician that can listen to a tune for the first time and play it perfectly due to years of honing in their craft.

That's the premise of that quote from Arthur C. Clarke: "Magic's just science we don't understand yet."

When it comes to anything we don't have countless hours of experience with, it feels like magic. It feels like something that's outside of our feeble human capabilities. It's not until we start to put in the time to learn a skill that it becomes more attainable inside our heads.

Generative AI presents a proposition to the non-creative: "What if you could skip past the 'learning process' and immediately create whatever art of your choosing?"

It's instant dopamine. In a world that preys upon our ever-decreasing attention spans and ways of farming short spikes of dopamine, was it ever a surprise that generative ai would be capitalized in this fashion?

So for the non-creative, when they use generative AI and see something resembling their prompt, it feels good. They are "writing" stories, they are "making" art in ways they could never do with their lack of skills.

(It is, in fact, really cool that we have technology that can do this. It's just incredibly shitty that it's exploitative of the human artists whose works were taken without permission as well as its existence threatening their livelihoods.)

What I think is equally concerning as the data scraping of generative ai is the threat that AI imposes on the education of the arts. More and more, you see an idea being pushed that you don't need knowledge/experience in how to create art, all you need to do is feed prompts into generative ai and let it do the "work" for you.

Generative AI pushes the idea that all art should be pristine, sleek and ready for capitalism consumption. There is no room for amateur artists struggling like foals to take their first steps in their creative journeys. We live in a world where time is money and why "waste" time learning when you can have instant success?

It's a dangerous concept because presents a potential loss in true understanding of how art works. It obscures it and makes it seem "impossible" to the average person, when art is one of the freest forms of expressions out there.

It's already happening--Nanowrimo, the writing challenge where the entire point was writing 50k original words in a single month regardless of how pretty it looked--coming out and saying that it is ableist and classist to be opposed to AI is the canary in the coalmine of what's to come.

For the non-creatives who enjoy the generative ai, it feels like a power fantasy come to life. But for creatives concerned about generative ai?

We're living in a horror movie.