d3adbr3inc3lls

[d3adbr3inc3lls]

Asking because currently I only post to ao3!!!! but I often feel like I'm not reaching as many people as I could??? IDK.

If you see this in the wild, hit me with a response and maybe a reblog so I can figure my life out!

Thanks pals

[d3adbr3inc3lls]

[d3adbr3inc3lls]

Murdock x Reader who is a tea connoisseur?

Murdock x Tea Connoisseur!Reader

Murdock is more of a baking and sweets guy than he is with tea, but he can appreciate some nice tea.

If you take him out to a tea tasting place, he'll happily agree to it. He'll get two of each teas for the two of you, and if there isn't enough time, he will get as many as he can for the two of you to try.

If he can get sample packets, he'll make some sweets for the two of you to eat as you talk and drink the tea, and if you don't want that. That's perfectly fine.

If the RVT doesn't have a tea drawer, Murdock would happily make it a thing for you to store all your tea.

(He'll probably pick one of the medium to large drawers to ensure that you have enough space for the growing tea collection- especially since he'd add onto it).

Unless you want to, Murdock will brew fresh tea every day for you and the rest of the RVT, but mostly for you.

When you're sick, he'll add a spoonful of honey to some black tea and maybe some sugar.

Murdock will struggle making ice teas, he's not sure how they should be brewed, but he'll get the hang of it pretty quickly if you like them- expect a tea infuser in the fridge filled with some ice tea.

After Friede's disappearance, the two of you move in, and it's roughly the same.

He'll bring you pastries and all sorts of things from the bakery that haven't been sold or taken yet to bring to eat with tea.

If you have a specific one you like, he'll bring more of them home, and he'll later begin to make them at home too. They might taste a bit different as they weren't surrounded by the constant smell of other pastries, but they're still good.

A/N: As a Russian, I approve.

[d3adbr3inc3lls]

I love birthdays. Not mine. But I love close friend's birthdays since I can go all out with gifts. One of my close friends (that lives in the same city as me) has her birthday in August, so I'm slowly collecting stuff for her. I've gotten a silly cat shark plushie, I'll be ordering a custom keychain of an inside joke- I just made it into a sticker. And a BUNCH of PJSK Ena stuff,

With that being said,, I might write for what some of the pkmn characters would get you birthday wise,, but I'll catch up on some requests first though,

[d3adbr3inc3lls]

Hey it's pride month!! Any related headcanons?

Multiple | Pride Month Headcannons

Includes- Kieran, Arven, Friede

I don't think many of the characters would celebrate pride month- they'd acknowledge that it is pride month, but they'd carry on with their day, not doing anything too special unless you ask them.

Kieran

When you tell him you want to celebrate pride month somehow, he's immediately on board with you.

He'll clean up his dorm and then he'll invite you over where he'll have a movie night featuring some queer films he's heard about.

Kieran buys a bunch of snacks. He'll even get his hands on a rainbow heart cake or a cake with the colours of your flag on it.

The first show he plays is Heartstopper. He's heard that it's good from random classmates, so it'd be a good thing to start off with.

He definitely turns on Q-Force sometime as he remembers hearing about it once a few years ago.

Safe to say that the two of you made jokes about stuff that's happening to make it a bit more bearable to watch.

Arven

Arven never really celebrated pride month before. Sure, the academy put up flashy posters everywhere, but he never really thought about it until you mention wanting to celebrate it with him.

Even if you aren't amused or find it funny, he definitely makes the joke of making an "L-G-B-T" sandwitch (Lettus, Guacamole, Bacon and Tomaote).

And he does make some some since he needed to make sandwiched anyway.

If you're queer in any way, Arven bakes sweets with the colours of your flag or flags.

Friede

If you ask Friede what he's going to do during Pride Month, he'd simply shrug as he never really thought about it. The whole team is supportive, so it's not like anyone is facing discrimination on the ship.

When you suggest putting some flags up and maybe even some posters up around the Brave Asagi, he'll happily agree and he'll help you.

He sets up some snacks as the two of you make different flags and posters about pride month. He'll even make coffee if you guys plan to take up the night too.

A/N: Q-Force is only fun to watch with friends because it's bad (at least I remember it being really bad lmao). Also- I couldn't think of anything for Spinel,,,

[d3adbr3inc3lls]

Please do something for pride?

Just wanted to mention that I'm writing some HCs,,, I have some for Kieran and Arven so far,, I'm trying to think of some for Friede and Spinel aswell,,

[d3adbr3inc3lls]

OK so I've been seriouslystruggling with whether to request this for such a long time. I love Spinel, but the biggest problem is I value my privacy greatly, much more than anyone else. I have no public personal info or photos on any social media. I have a lot of issues with being watched and being in anybody's field of vision. Numerous times I have (too often unfairly) yelled at someone for any perceived notion that they're looking at me unwantedly. I am also extra paranoid when someone seemingly knows something I did but as far as I know, no one was around to see it.

You can see where this becomes a problem with Spinel's stalking tendencies. That's...a massive dealbreaker. Yet Spinel seems to be the only pokemon character I'm completely head over heals for and it isn't going away (unlike others). Rare times I start thinking, maybe Spinel is an exception to my privacy needs, but it's weak at best (and obviously only in fiction). I dunno, is this anything you could do headcanons with? Could something even work out?

Spinel x Private!Reader

Spinel is a sneaky bastard, he knows how to not get caught when he's stalking.

You not having an internet presence would annoy him a LOT. He wouldn't be able to know what you like, who your friends are, any family members and everything else that might be useful or benefital to him.

He'd resort to stalking in person. He'll use his beheeyem at the start to find out what coffee shops or bakeries you go to daily, what store you prefer to go to, what groceries you get and what you usually need to stock up on.

Eventually, he'll begin to show up in those places. It's not obvious, but he's there, trying to pick up on any details he might have missed on camera.

And that's how the two of you meet.He bumps into you whilst you're exiting the cafe, and he's entering, resulting in you spilling your drink.

He offers to buy you a new one, and after a while, the two of you become close, and eventually date.

When you open up to him about not wanting to be perceived and preferring to blend in, Spinel will act like he understands- well. He does. He knows that there are people like him out there. People that are probably worse than him.

Spinel will probably resort to looking through your camera roll to find out any crumbs of information that he can get about you, your family, your friends, or anything really.

And he'll put your phone back where it was before you come back -or he'll put it on charge.

If he doesn't find anything,, he'll eventually give up and continue on with the relationship like normal people would, he'll stop trying to dig through everything, and he'll carry on through the relationship blind.

Due to your private nature, he'll make sure to do anything to keep your private information private. That's something you can count on.

[d3adbr3inc3lls]

staring at u longing because i don’t have 240$ for a damn figure

(excuse me tagging Roach but this aint him, my page is just dedicated to him... the usef models r based off on this model right here grrrr…)

[d3adbr3inc3lls]

Robert 'Bob' Reynolds x Reader | Oneshot

Note- Teenager AU, Reader also has childhood trauma,

When the two of you weren't being scolded at by your parents or isolating in your rooms, waiting for the chaos to be finally over so you can come out. The two of you were hanging out.

Bob sits down on a nearby tree who's branches were low to the ground.

"What if we ran away?" You suddenly ask, turning around to face Bob.

"Ran away? To where?"

You shrug as you sit down next to Bob who slowly nods. The idea itself was appealing. Running away to a place where no-one knows your name. A place where the two of you can feel safe without having to worry about being yelled at, harmed, or something threatening the fragile feeling of safety the two of you have at home.

"I don't know. But-" you pick up your hand and place it on his, "-what I do know, is that we'll find a better place to stay at." You say with a smile,

Bob looks away. The two of you know that he wants to leave, but his heart won't let him. You'd call it Stockholm Syndrome if you didn't know any better.

"They're our parents," he replies softly, his hand balling up into a fist as he speaks.

You sigh before wrapping your hand around his balled fist and bringing it to your lips. It was hard to let go of everything the both of you know, and you'd be lying if you say that the idea doesn't scare you too.

Bob's eyes remain fixated on the ground as he opens his hand to allow your fingers to slip between his.

The silence between you stretches on before you decide to break it with a suggestion, a quiet cry to get his attention away from his father, "We should head down to that ice cream shop,"

"And afterwards, can we go to that park nearby?" Bob asks, glancing at you with hope in his soft blue eyes.

You give Bob a nod before you lean in and press a quick kiss to his cheek, because despite everything, you know it's going to be okay if you have eachother.

[d3adbr3inc3lls]

Mwahahahah, soulmate au with Bob, fluff and crack please!

Where the Shadows Ends

A/N: my first request for Bob — eeeek!! this one was a challenge for me but i pulled through hihihihi 🥹 also… my first ever soulmate AU 😭 hope you enjoyyyyy <333 Warnings: soft! bob, and bob, "bob" Masterlist Feedback and reposts are appreciated  ☀️

You’re back there again.

That half-lit place where the world is too quiet, where everything glows with a soft gold like sunrise trying to push through storm clouds. There’s wind, but no source. Trees that shouldn’t be there, not where this feels like. The edges of the dream always change — mountains one night, the ocean the next — but he is always the same.

He stands in the center, never facing you at first. Broad shoulders. Gold bleeding off him like sunlight through gauze. Silent. Still. And always just slightly too far away to touch.

You never speak right away. You’ve learned not to. The dream is brittle, like glass under heat, and your voice has shattered it before. So instead you watch. You breathe. You memorize the way his fingers twitch at his sides, how his jaw clenches like someone holding back a scream.

Eventually, he turns.

Not always fully. Not always in time. But tonight — he turns all the way.

You don’t know how long you’ve been dreaming of him. Weeks? Months? Years? You’ve stopped trying to count. What’s stranger is that you don’t dream of anything else. No mundane scatterings of daily life. No stress dreams about missed alarms or falling or running in place. Just… him.

And always, when he turns, you feel it in your chest like someone snapping a thread that’s been pulled too tight for too long.

“You again,” you whisper, not expecting him to answer. “I thought I lost you.”

His eyes meet yours. Blue — no, brighter than blue. Too bright. Artificial, almost. Like they were painted on glass with the sun behind them.

“You didn’t,” he says. Voice rough. Quiet. “But I’m slipping.”

You step closer — you always do. Your feet make no sound on the ground that shifts between dirt, water, marble. He doesn’t move away, but he doesn’t reach for you either.

“Then hold on.”

He exhales like that costs him something. Like the act of not disappearing burns him from the inside.

“It’s getting harder,” he admits. “To stay... here. With you.” “Why?” “Because you’re not real.”

That one always hurts, but you don’t flinch. You never do. You only respond the same way you always do.

“Then why do I keep waking up missing you?”

Tonight, for the first time, he breaks eye contact. His hands curl into fists. The gold flickers.

And suddenly—like a ripple in the dream—he speaks again.

But it’s not him.

Not really.

The light dims too fast, pulled into itself like someone ripping the sun out of the sky. The wind dies. The horizon folds. And somewhere behind you — not in front of you — your shadow stretches, sharp and long, twisting at an angle the dreamlight doesn’t allow.

“Don’t forget me.”

It’s his voice. But deeper. Older. Something rotten buried under warmth, trying to claw through it. No breath. Just sound. Heavy as grief, cold as rot.

You spin around instinctively — no one there. But the shadow lingers, stretched too far. Still moving even when you’re still.

He isn’t glowing anymore.

You try to speak. You don’t remember if you succeed.

And just like that, the dream ends — not shattered like glass, but erased like chalk from wet stone.

You wake gasping, tangled in sweat-damp sheets, hand still clenched like you were trying to hold on to something — or someone — slipping through you.

And the shadow of that voice stays with you longer than it should.

“Don’t forget me.”

—

You don’t believe in fate.

You believe in choices. Cause and effect. Pressure and consequence. All the small ways people shape their lives one step at a time.

But that morning, something shifts.

You’re walking one hallway, reading a file you’re barely processing. A briefing about a powered individual you’ve never met. Internal containment notes. Emotional volatility. Recommendation: isolation with structured contact only when necessary. The words blur together. You’re not even sure why they’ve given it to you.

You round the corner.

He does too.

And you look up — just as he does.

It’s like being hit in the chest. Not hard. Not painful. But deep. Like the wind goes out of you, not because you’re surprised, but because something finds you. Something that had been reaching across time and sleep and silence, and just now — just now — made contact.

He’s taller than you imagined. Realer. Not glowing. Just a man in a black hoodie, hands in his pockets, eyes shadowed by a hood that doesn’t quite hide how tired he looks.

He stops. So do you.

For a breath, the hallway stretches too long. Too bright.

His head lifts.

Your eyes meet.

And the world stutters. Not stops — just glitches. A hiccup in reality. A sharp inhale of everything you’ve ever felt in your sleep and never known how to name.

You don’t speak.

Neither does he.

He takes one step forward. You don’t move.

Then another. Slower this time.

And then—

He walks past you.

Just like that.

But as he does — you feel it.

That same pull. That gravity-wrapped-in-light kind of ache you’ve only ever known in dreams.

It burns in the center of your chest. It latches.

He doesn’t look back.

Your fingers curl around the folder you’re holding, your knuckles white.

Your voice is barely audible, like it doesn’t belong to you at all:

“It’s you.”

But he’s already gone.

—

You’re not supposed to be in the same room.

It’s a holding chamber — a neutral zone where those under watch sit before medical evaluations or debriefings. He’s not in danger. Not glowing. Not shackled. Just… waiting.

You step in because someone asked you to deliver a file. You’re not assigned to him. You’ve never even been briefed aloud — just whispered warnings and secondhand tension. But when the door opens, you freeze.

He’s already looking at you.

Not startled. Not surprised.

Just looking, like he expected you.

You don’t know what to say. You want to say everything. You want to scream you were in my dreams, I missed you when I didn’t even know you existed.

But instead, you say—

“You look like someone I used to know.”

He blinks. Once. Slowly. Doesn’t smile.

“I don’t think I’ve ever been known.”

The words land between you, fragile and too true.

You sit down.

There’s a chair across from him. That’s all there is. Just two chairs and air thick with something that feels like the beginning of collapse or the end of a long echo.

“I’ve had dreams,” you say. “Of someone who looked like you.”

His jaw tightens. His eyes flicker, but not with light.

“What kind of dreams?” “The kind that leave bruises when you wake up. The kind that feel like a memory and a warning at the same time.”

He looks down at his hands.

“I’ve had dreams of someone with your voice.”

Your heart stutters. Not flutters — stutters. Trips over itself.

“They weren’t peaceful,” you admit. “But they stopped feeling like nightmares when you were in them.” “If you were real, you wouldn’t be in my head.” “Maybe you’re in mine.”

His shoulders lift, then fall. Like that admission costs him.

“If we were dreaming,” he says softly, “do you think we’d know?”

You don’t hesitate.

“No. But I’d want to.”

There’s a silence.

Not cold. Not awkward.

Just full.

You stare at him. At the slight glow under his skin — barely there, more shimmer than shine. He’s not floating. He’s not losing control. He’s right here.

And for one terrifying, beautiful second, you think maybe that means you are too.

A knock at the door.

It startles you both, but only you flinch. He just closes his eyes for a beat.

You stand.

He doesn’t.

You step toward the door, pause, and glance back.

“You look like someone I used to know,” you repeat.

This time, he whispers it back.

“Maybe you still do.”

The door closes between you.

And the gold doesn’t glow any brighter. But it doesn’t go out either.

—

He doesn’t move.

Not after the door shuts. Not after your voice fades.

Not even after the glow under his skin begins to ebb like the tide pulling away from the shore. He stays still. Breath shallow. Eyes fixed on the spot you were sitting.

Because if he moves — if he breathes too hard, or clenches his hands again, or lifts his head — it’ll hit him fully.

That you were real.

That you sat across from him, and didn’t run.

That you looked at him like he was someone you missed.

God, no one ever misses him. People fear him. Fear the thing inside him. The one who speaks in dreams with a voice made of grief and rot and too many dead suns.

But you…

You looked at him like maybe you’d known all along.

And worse — or maybe better — like maybe you’d waited.

He presses his palms together, fingertips trembling, and he breathes through his nose to keep everything else from spilling out. There’s gold flickering faintly at the edges of his collarbone, but it’s quiet. No pulsing. No violent surges. Just… a light, still there.

He thinks of your voice.

He thinks of the way you said, "Maybe you’re in mine."

He hates how much that sentence broke something open.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” he whispers into the silence.

His voice cracks. He doesn’t fix it.

“God, I don’t even want to touch you.”

But he does. And that’s the most terrifying part.

Because wanting things is what breaks him. Wanting is the first step to taking. To losing.

But still.

Still he wants.

He wants the sound of your voice in a room he doesn’t have to burn down just to hear it. He wants the shape of your laugh — even if it’s at him. He wants you to say his name, the one no one uses anymore. The one that’s his.

Not the Void’s.

Not the power’s.

Just Bob.

His throat closes. He doesn’t cry.

But if he could? He might have.

For now, he just sits.

Breathing shallow.

Shaking.

Still glowing.

But not gone.

—

You see it coming before it happens.

Not because he says anything. Not because of some grand shift. But because the glow you started to expect — that faint warmth behind his eyes, that barely-there light in his skin — it’s gone.

He finds you in a corridor three days later. Late evening. Lights dimmed to conserve power. You’re alone, reading something you don’t remember the second he appears.

He doesn’t come close. Doesn’t sit. Doesn’t breathe too loud. But his presence fills the space like smoke from something burning long before the flame.

“I shouldn’t have let you talk to me,” he says, voice hoarse.

You don’t look up right away. You finish your sentence. Your hands stay still. You give him a moment to walk it back.

He doesn’t.

So you speak, softly.

“Because I saw you? Or because I didn’t run?”

His silence answers both.

You fold the page. Mark it even though you weren’t really reading. Finally lift your eyes to him.

He looks... unmade.

Not tired. Not broken. Just exhausted from holding himself together.

“You think if you leave first, it’ll hurt less,” you say, not as accusation. Just fact. “That if you disappear before I ask you to stay, you won’t have to see what I choose.”

His jaw clenches. His hands stay at his sides.

“You’re not safe around me.” “I’m not safe around a lot of things,” you say. “But I’ve never dreamed of any of them. Only you.”

That lands. You see it in the way his shoulders shift — not relaxing, but reacting. Like your words reached some part of him still willing to listen.

“I’ve hurt people,” he says, quieter now. “People I didn’t mean to hurt. People I loved.” “Then love differently this time.”

You don’t mean it as a plea.

But it feels like one.

And maybe that’s why he turns his head — like the weight of hearing it is too much. Like your voice is louder than he can take, even when it’s soft.

“You feel like sunlight,” he whispers. “But the Void... doesn’t cast a shadow. It leaves one.”

You stand, because sitting feels too fragile now. You face him directly.

“I know what I saw in the dream,” you tell him. “And I know what I see when you’re awake.” “And what’s that?” “Someone who’s still here.”

A beat.

He steps back.

“I won’t be. Not for long.”

You don’t chase him. You don’t beg.

You just say one last thing, steady and low:

“You started breathing easier when I walked past you.”

He flinches.

“That wasn’t coincidence,” you finish.

And then you walk away first.

Not because you want to.

But because he needs you to.

—

They don’t say his name.

Not at first.

Just ask you to step into a room that’s somehow both a conference space and a makeshift intervention circle. The blinds are drawn. Someone brought snacks. There’s a corkboard. It’s serious.

You blink.

“Did someone die?” “No,” Bucky says flatly. “But we’re about to.”

Walker raises a hand, then points a finger directly at you.

“He listens to you.” “I don’t even know who he is,” you reply. “Exactly,” Yelena says, chin in hand. “And somehow he hasn’t obliterated anything in your presence. Interesting, no?” Red Guardian nods. “Fascinating. Like watching bear fall asleep near gentle deer.”

You slowly lower yourself into a chair.

“Are you calling me a deer?” “Yes. Very strong deer. Majestic. Unkillable.” Yelena flicks popcorn at him. “Let her speak.”

You look around the room — the Thunderbolts, the mission-weary, the walking-wounded, the exhausted smart-asses of enhanced America. They are not emotionally equipped for subtlety.

“This isn’t about me,” you say. “Whatever’s going on with Bob—” “Thank you for saying his name,” Walker interrupts, nodding like you’ve confirmed a scientific theory. “He likes it when you say it.”

You blink again.

“I don’t say it. We barely talk.” “Yeah, but when you do talk, he doesn't look like he wants to die. That’s new,” Bucky mutters. “You all want me to... what?” you ask, dry. Yelena grins. “We want you to manage him.” “He’s not a toddler.” “No,” Red Guardian agrees. “He is more like… nuclear toddler. With anxiety.” You stand. “I’m not his handler.” “No one’s asking you to be,” Bucky says. You cross your arms. “Then what are you asking me to be?”

Silence.

Until Walker clears his throat.

“Just... maybe be the person he doesn’t walk away from.”

You blink again. Something behind your ribs thuds once. Loud.

“We’re not asking for miracles,” Yelena adds. “Just… maybe let him talk to you. Before he melts a hallway.” “And if he glows, maybe pat his arm. Very gentle. Calms him,” Red Guardian says, nodding sagely. “I am not patting Bob like a radioactive golden retriever.” “Actually,” Bucky says, lifting a brow, “that’s disturbingly accurate.” You pinch the bridge of your nose. “You guys are unbelievable.” “We’re scared,” Yelena replies simply.

You look up.

That… softens you.

Because you’ve seen it too. The way Bob folds inward. The flicker behind his eyes. The way silence sticks to him like oil.

You exhale.

“I don’t manage him,” you say. “I just… stay.” “That’s more than enough,” Walker says quietly.

You leave before they start clapping.

—

He brings you a plant.

Not flowers. Not candy. Not even coffee.

A plant.

It’s in a mismatched ceramic pot that looks hand-painted by someone with unresolved childhood trauma. The soil is dry. The leaves are slightly crispy.

You blink down at it.

“Is it... dying?” “No,” he says quickly. “It’s, um. Hardy.” “Is this your version of flowers?” “It’s low-maintenance,” he mutters. “Like me.”

There’s a beat of silence.

Then he winces.

“That came out wrong.” You raise an eyebrow. “You don’t say.”

He scratches the back of his neck. Doesn’t meet your eyes.

“I just... thought it might be good. To give something that stays. You know. Alive.”

You soften. You hate how easy it is.

“You brought me a depression succulent.” “I brought you a hope succulent.” “Same thing.”

He huffs a laugh. Shrugs like he’s bracing for rejection.

Behind him — completely failing to be stealthy — the Thunderbolts are gathered in the hallway like nosy neighbors peeking through slats in a fence.

Walker cups his hands around his mouth like a child at a school play.

“WE’RE ROOTING FOR YOU, KING.” Yelena elbows him, stage-whispers, “Shut up! You’ll spook him.” Red Guardian is crying. Actually crying. Holding his chest. “It’s beautiful. Like bear learning ballet.” Bucky mutters something that sounds suspiciously like “they’re both weird and it’s gross how much I like it.”

You look back at Bob.

He’s flushed. Glowing just barely at the tips of his ears.

“You know they’re watching, right?” “I was hoping you’d ignore that.”

You take the plant. Hold it gently.

“What’s its name?” “...It’s a plant.” “Wrong answer. It’s Bob Junior now.”

He groans.

“Please no.”

You smile.

“Bob Junior. Mood regulator. Minimal maintenance. Might survive the apocalypse.” “That’s... honestly flattering.” “You’re welcome.”

The glow under his skin evens out — not flaring, not fading. Just steady.

He looks at you like maybe the room isn’t so dangerous anymore.

You look at him like maybe plants are your new favorite love language

—

You don’t really drink tea. Not often. But something about the way he keeps standing there — awkward, hopeful, completely unsure if the plant was a romantic gesture or an emotional cry for help — makes you move.

“Stay,” you say, quietly. “For tea.”

He blinks. Like you just offered him shelter from a storm he’s been standing in for years.

“I don’t want to—” “You won’t.”

He follows you into the kitchenette. Watches you boil water like it’s sorcery. You hand him mismatched mugs — no sugar, no milk, just over-steeped chamomile and a slightly dented honey jar.

“This feels... normal,” he murmurs. “It is.” “I don’t get normal things.”

You lean against the counter beside him, fingers wrapped around your mug.

“You do now.”

He’s quiet a moment. Then —

“Bob Junior’s probably dying already.” “Bob Junior is a survivor.”

A small laugh escapes him. Soft. Real.

You sip your tea. He sips his. Neither of you say it — but you’re both memorizing the moment like it’s the first page of a life neither of you were brave enough to imagine.

—

The moment Bob leaves your room — mug in hand, cheeks suspiciously pink — he walks straight into it.

An ambush.

They were waiting.

John Walker, seated backwards in a chair like he’s doing a motivational speech at a high school.

Yelena, perched on the vending machine, chewing gum with menace.

Bucky Barnes, arms crossed, scowling like he’s been forced to watch this slow burn unfold in real time. (He has.)

Red Guardian, holding what looks like a hand-drawn diagram titled “Bob’s Emotional Stability – Correlated With Girl.”

Bob blinks. Tries to step back.

Too late.

“Sooooo,” Walker grins, “how’s our favorite glowing emotional disaster?” “Fine,” Bob mumbles. “I was just—” “Just staying for tea?” Yelena interrupts, her voice high-pitched and mocking. “Oh my god, did you pour her tea with your glow hands?” “No,” he says, way too quickly. “He did,” Bucky mutters. “And did you pat the plant?” Walker adds. “Because I swear to god, if Bob Junior got more action than me this week, I’m quitting the team.”

Bob is already walking away.

They follow.

Like sharks.

“You left the door open,” Yelena says. “Rookie mistake. Now we all know.” “Know what?” “That you are officially,” Walker holds up air quotes, “‘emotionally manageable.’” “I hate all of you.” “We love you,” Red Guardian says, eyes misty. “You are like dangerous golden son. So fragile. So glowy. So... dateable.” “Don’t say dateable.” “But you are!” Yelena cackles. “‘He’s like a nuclear bomb with commitment issues’ — and you’re FIXING HIM.”

Bob slams his door.

They cheer.

From the hallway, Walker yells:

“ASK HER OUT FOR DINNER, NOT JUST TEA, YOU COWARD.”

—

You know it’s different before it even begins.

There’s no wind this time.

No flickering horizon. No strange, shifting floor beneath your feet. The dream holds steady. Quiet. Still.

And when you see him — he’s already looking at you.

No gold. No glow. Just his face. Just him.

He doesn’t speak right away. Doesn’t step forward either. But there’s something in the way he’s standing — not braced, not burning — like the weight of this place doesn’t crush him anymore.

“I was afraid this would stop,” you say. “I thought it had.”

Your breath catches. That small, hollow ache in your ribs — the one that usually wakes with you — starts to soften.

“You’re clearer this time.” “So are you.”

You look down at your hand. Solid. Not ghostly or blurred. Not fading. You flex your fingers, and the movement stays, real and smooth, like it would if you were awake.

“Does this mean something?” you ask.

He nods.

“It means we’re closer.”

You step forward.

He doesn’t flinch.

“I kept thinking I was imagining you.” “I kept hoping you weren’t.”

The distance between you shrinks. Only a breath’s worth of space now. His hand twitches at his side, like he wants to reach for you but still doesn’t trust that he should.

“I don’t know how to be something good,” he admits. “You already are,” you whisper.

He looks at you like that might be the first kind thing anyone’s said to him in years.

And then he reaches — slow, careful — and his fingers graze your cheek. You don’t vanish. You don’t shatter. You don’t burn.

You lean into the touch.

“You’re real,” he says. “So are you.”

And behind you — quiet and creeping — a shadow tries to stretch. Long. Crooked. Possessive.

But it doesn’t reach.

Because for once — he’s not looking away.

“You don’t control this,” he murmurs. Not to you. To the thing hiding inside him. “She’s mine. Not yours.”

And the dream holds.

The wind returns — soft, not storming. The glow around him flickers, then smooths.

He’s breathing like he finally understands what it means to stay.

—

It’s late.

The halls are mostly empty, save for a few low murmurs from a distant shift change. You’re not even supposed to be here. Your day ended hours ago. But your feet knew where to go, long before your mind caught up.

His door is open.

That alone stops you.

Bob Reynolds doesn’t leave doors open.

But tonight — he has.

He’s inside, pacing. Jacket off. Sleeves pushed up. There’s a flicker of light under his skin, like a sunrise seen through a fogged window — too early to blind, too soft to burn.

He sees you. Stops moving.

Silence stretches.

“I saw you,” you say, voice quiet but firm. “In the dream.”

He swallows hard. Doesn’t look away.

“I saw you too.”

You step inside. Close the door gently behind you.

“I think I keep coming back because some part of me knew. Even before I met you — before I really met you — it was you.” “I didn’t want to believe it,” he admits. “I thought the dreams were a trick. A warning. A countdown.”

You nod.

“They were.”

He looks up, startled.

You walk toward him slowly, not touching.

“A countdown to this.” “This…?” “You letting someone in.”

He glances toward your kitchenette — just visible through the cracked door behind you. His eyes catch on the mug still sitting on the counter. The one he held, warm in his hands, while pretending chamomile tasted good.

And beside it — Bob Junior.

Thrive-or-die houseplant. Chaotic little metaphor.

He smiles, just barely.

“The plant’s still alive,” he says, quiet. “So are you.”

That gets him. Not like a blow, but like a key fitting a lock.

“You shouldn’t have to manage me,” he says, barely above a whisper. “I’m not trying to manage you,” you reply. “I’m trying to stay.”

He shudders.

“You don’t know what you’re choosing.” “Don’t I?”

Your hand hovers near his chest, over the place where the light pulses slow and steady. He doesn’t flinch. You press your palm gently to the fabric of his shirt. His breath stutters.

“You were never too much,” you say. “You were just never allowed to be��held.”

He closes his eyes.

“If I fall apart—” “Then I’ll stay while you do.”

His eyes open, sharp with the kind of emotion that doesn’t crack — it floods.

“I don’t want to be alone anymore.” “You’re not.”

You slide your arms around him slowly. One heartbeat. Two. Then he melts. Not like fire, not like light — like surrender.

He wraps himself around you like you’re the only constant in a world he doesn’t trust.

And maybe you are.

“If I ask you to stay,” he whispers, “would you keep the plant alive for both of us?”

You laugh against his chest.

“Bob Junior lives another day.”

Somewhere behind his ribs, where the Void used to whisper — there is only quiet.

And somewhere on your counter, Bob Junior leans a little closer toward the light.

[d3adbr3inc3lls]

So I found a vid full of clips of Spinel acting rather unhinged and thought whether Spinel might show that type of behaviour in front of his date or where his date might see him?

Spinel x Reader | How Unhinged Spinel is

When the two of you start dating, he has a carefully sculpted personality to ensure that you like him.

Everything is planned out. And I mean everything. He doesn't do any habits you find annoying, he makes sure to read up on the region you're from if there are significant differences between the two to make sure he doesn't seem impolite or rude.

It's only when the two of you have been dating for a few years and he's sure that you aren't going to leave that he let's some of his personality slip to reveal the true colours.

Sure- he's trained himself out of the habits you've always hated, but he can't mask his insanity forever.

It slips off slowly, painfully slow. So neither one of you realise that he's showing more of his insanity until multiple years in, when the relationship has gotten to a point that the two of you are thinking about staying with eachother until the end.

When his mentally stable mask slips is when you're deep into the relationship, and at that point, you've gotten used to how unhinged he is, and how insane he sometimes gets.

No matter how insane or unstable he seems, he'll never harm you in any way. He loves you too much to do that.

[d3adbr3inc3lls]

[d3adbr3inc3lls]

I love Gibeon

It's also funny that there is more dynamics between them than between Lucius and Rystal 🤪

I mean it's more than nothing

[d3adbr3inc3lls]

Note- my masterlist will take forever to upload. My computer (which is what I use to update it) is broken and works 50% or 25% of the time now, and I don't have the money to get a new one, (I want to get a good one since it will mostly be used for school, so it'll have to last a good few years)

[d3adbr3inc3lls]

Hey I'm really curious now. You talked about MCU!Mysterio several times but I can't find anything you've actually written for him? Could you please?

MCU!Mysterio x Reader | Headcanons

Ever since the two of you got together, Quentin has been more attentive of your needs and wants. He might not be able to guess what you want, but he'll be able to get anything if you ask.

He knows just what to say -or do- at the right time to make you feel a lot better.

Quentin absolutely loves it when you sit in the same room as him whilst he's working away on his drones and writing down the wiring diagrams for future references.

Lean on him if you want to, he'll be more than happy to have you watch him work up close.

His love language is a mix of everything, so, expect a bit of everything.

He loves existing in the same room as you, even if the two of you are working on different things.

He also loves buying and showering you with gifts- whenever he sees something that even slightly reminds him of you -no matter the price tag- he always gets it for you. Even if it's something as simple as your favourite pastry from a bakery that you haven't been to in a while.

Quentin loves spooning you from behind when you're in bed, his larger body is a constant warmth throughout the night with one of his arms is tucked around your waist, keeping you close to him whilst the other one is usually behind his head.

If you know about his 'Mysterio' personality being fake, he'll fill you in on the details, everything that he's doing, how the story is going, and any you-spesisifc details that you need to know to support and back up his story incase Fury or someone comes knocking.

Even if he had a rough day with his team, he doesn't mind washing the dishes if you're too tired to. Sure- he probably makes more money between the two of you, but it doesn't exempt him from basic chores.

Sometimes, Quentin even wakes up earlier to make you breakfast in bed. He usually makes pancakes, but if you've mentioned craving a particular breakfast food the night prior, be prepared to wake up to the smell of it being cooked.

Quentin makes sure to have two or three drones following you at any point when you're out alone. It's not that he doesn't trust you -he trusts you with his life. Especially if you know the truth- but he wants to make sure that you're safe.

A/N: This is the first time I'm writing for him,, but there have been a handful of people (1-3 max) who write for him now,, and a good amount back in 2019.

If you don't,, he'll continue to feed you lies about "his universe" and how his lover looked exactly like you, and shared your name, so he knew you were the one. He'll talk about the kids you're ment to have. Biological or not, it doesn't matter, they were still your kids that the two of you loved until the end.

[d3adbr3inc3lls]

Nikto x Reader | Oneshot

Nikto's chewing began to slowly slow down as his gaze remains fixated on something ahead of him. The 'sandwitch' as he calls it -it's just meat with Mayo slapped on a piece of bread- is long forgotten in his hands as his mind wanders.

You're used to it all, seeing him dissociate for a while before he snaps back into the place you call reality. Sometimes, he doesn't remember anything, so he'd look at you confused, hoping that you can fill in the gaps in his mind.

"Nikto?"

"Nik?"

"Niki?"

His gaze remains distant. His mouth stays closed. He doesn't blink or even twitch once.

You know better than to touch him. You've learnt your lesson when he lashed out at you before.

It takes a while before his eyes flutter. He quickly blinks twice, his pupils shrinking and dilating in response to the information surrounding him, trying to make sense of everything before his eyes settle on you and soften.

He always looks at you like that. Like you're his world. Like you're the only thing keeping him sane. The only thing that's pure and inoccent in anotherwise cruel and corrupt world.

"О чём задумался, снегирь?"

(What are you thinking about snow bird?)

[d3adbr3inc3lls]

Spinel and the reader just being out on a nice date when the RVT stumbles across them. Reader wouldn't be part of the Explorers but they vaguely know about what's going on (or rather they only know whatever Spinel told them so if he lies, stretches the truth, or omits things...)

Spinel x Reader | Dates and Lies | Drabble

Laying down down, a constant noise of chatter surrounds you and your date, Spinel, a man you've been seeing for the past few years.

It wasn't unlike him to bring you to fancy places, but today was special. It marked your 3rd anniversary, so he made sure to take you out to a fancy restaurant before taking you outside to stargaze.

"See that?-" Spinel points to a constellation of stars "-that is the constellation of the 'Ursaluna'." He says as he leans closer to you and places an arm behind your head.

Nodding along, you point to another cluster of stars, "What about that one?"

"That one-" Spinel pauses for a bit as his thumb and index finger find his chin, "-is Tauros-" he points to the two stars that fork off "-those are the horns and-" he circles the rest "-the rest is the body."

Chuckling, you lean your head against his shoulder. Your arm snakes around his waist, the too-fancy fabric of his blazer feeling cool underneath your skin.

Spinel lets out a soft laugh as his lips brush against the side of your head in an affectionate manner before his attention snaps to his Umbreon who is now tugging at his blazer as it lets out an urgent cry.

Quickly standing up, Spinel offers you his hand as his eyes scan the area for the people that have been hunting him down -at least that's what he tells you.

"Come on love, we have to get going," His sweet tone masks any annoyance that is threatening to make itself known.

Slipping his hand around your waist, he begins to guide you to the footpath closer to the water's edge, and you could swear that you that the group hunting him down, had two members that were no older than 15.

Opening your mouth, Spinel beats you to it, "Rising Volt-tacklers."

You've heard about them. An organisation that destroyed a beautiful Pokémon-filled paradise and attempted to steal Spinel's research for their own greedy wants and needs

Giving Spinel a quick nod, you begin to pick up the pace until the two of you were speedwalking away from the group.

Spinel's Umbreon runs alongside you before making a sharp left turn, causing Spinel to do the same before bringing you in close until the two or you are chest to chest with his arm around you.

Footsteps follow you before they stop somewhere outside the alley. Judging by Spinel's intense glare, it's probably the RVT, trying to track him down like a pack of wild Growlithes.

"I swear I saw Spinel,," A younger male voice speaks.

"Didn't he have someone with him,?" Another voice talks, but this time, it was a younger female's.

"Dunno, I just hope they know what they're getting themselves into,," the boy mumbles as Spinel's pupils shrink.

Then, a long silence. Perhaps the two are whispering, or communicating with their body, but that's your best guess.

"You know that I would never lie to you, right,?" Spinel whispers before he leans in to press a gentle kiss to your forehead.

Of course you know that. Spinel would never lie to you!

Nodding your head, Spinel brings you a bit closer,

"Good."