#source: one punch man

[bespectacled-bookwyrm]

'What's with this. . .

Sassy, lost salad man?'

-Hangman's Way AU Colress, upon meeting N for the first time

[incorrectshantaequotes]

Zapple: For personal reasons, I'm here to smash your heads in.

[mythologyfolklore]

"What's with this sassy ... lost child?"

This is funny, because, despite looking like a child, Nézhā is 600+ years older than Sūn Wùkōng.

(I've wanted to draw this for a while, but I kept forgetting, and now I've finally done it. :3)

I know you have the "Who's this sassy lost child" meme already, but consider, Nezha is asking the question about Wukong because chronologically, Nezha is older than him.

You're absolutely right. I will draw this one day!

[coffeeandjuice]

Steve: The first time I punched someone was in first grade

Tony: Why?

Steve: Well, he said, “You’re not gonna punch me” so I did

Natasha: Yeah, that checks out

[badjohnspeakeasy]

Psykos and Orochi interview "That Man" for a position in the Monster Association.

Link 1

Link 2

[bebe-tatsu]

変わりゆく時流のなかで

Inside/About/Regarding the Changing Times(?). About moving towards the current state of affairs? Japanese is hard

This is the second time post PS-Arc to which I've seen a Saitama cover reference something about change.

[comatosebunny09]

carpe noctem [ preface ] | sylus

— summary: whatever they have is cosmic. which is why you quietly bow out, thinking you never stood a chance. — cw: reader is not mc, assassin!reader, unrequited feelings, mentions of burned bodies, mentions of blood & injuries, jealousy, stream of conciousness, mdni — notes: shout out to @alfredosaws, @cheshireworld, and @midiplier for inspiring this! thank you for reading! here's a playlist to keep you entertained! edit: part 2 can be found here. — now playing: abracadabra - brown eyed girls

“Did you see that?!”

A smirk crooks your lips. 

You watch the source of excitement in your peripheral, her mirth infectious. You pat the space between her shoulder blades, the other hand stuffed in your pocket, pride swelling in your chest. The SUV eases into focus, a sleek outline of black, haloed by the sun’s deceptively innocent glow.

“I did.”

Her eyes brighten like stars shining through the inky night. She punches at the air—a reenactment of the moves she displayed during your scuffle inside the warehouse. It burns a pretty blend of orange and yellow behind, flames licking a cyan sky, smoke billowing from squealing metal. Carnage you left behind after a deal gone sour, structure and bodies turned to cinder, courtesy of one nefarious mafioso with a bomb fetish. 

She flexes her bicep, fixing you with a grin that’s all canines. “I was pretty badass, huh?”

You quirk a brow, quietly giving her props. 

A chuckle erupts from behind you both. You don’t look back—don’t have to. His presence is ever-looming. Imposing, towering over your shoulder, oozing smugness. 

“Don’t get ahead of yourself, kitten.” 

He says it to humble her. To keep her head from overinflating, but you don’t miss the affection surfing in the undercurrents of his voice. It always lives there when he chides her. 

You can’t blame him. She’s come a long way: Ms. Hunter. 

Initially, she feared being roped in with the lot of you. Rejected the lifestyle of doing very bad things to equally bad people. She eventually found her niche, and you unconsciously took her under your wing, treating her like something of a sibling—a friend.

You knew she wasn’t going anywhere any time soon. Sylus made that clear. Cryptic as ever, forcing her onto you, refusing to tell you everything. Only that she owed him a debt, and he brought her around to collect.

At first, you despised the arrangement. She was a thorn in your side, the bane of your existence. Her very presence threatened the hodgepodge life you constructed with your makeshift family—Luke, Kieran, Mephisto, Sylus.

She was too nice. Reckless. Too self-righteous, where you were calculative. A manipulator, a killer. Your hands dripped red while hers were delicate as orchid petals. But she had Sylus wrapped around her finger—a feat you struggled to conquer for years. The man was playing Kitty Cards and sneaking plushies into the manor, for crying out loud. Besides, you couldn’t deny how she squirmed her way through the fissures of your own heart, nestling between atriums and ventricles like she’d always belonged there. 

You found yourself quietly rooting for them—your big, bad wolf of a boss and his precious little lamb. The affection blooming between them was palpable, like datura petals drifting in an errant breeze. Though an official title never revealed itself to you, you sensed whatever bond they shared was cosmic. Something you couldn’t touch or disrupt no matter how much you willed yourself to. So you wordlessly conceded, bowing out of a competition you constructed in your mind. 

You were content with protecting her. Showing her the ropes, knowing in the back of your mind she would one day replace you. You were slowly becoming old news, no longer the center of Sylus’ orbit. It was fitful, but it was nice to see him smile like that for a change. To see this side of him, smitten with his defenses buried beneath the rubble, and you supposed that was enough for you. 

At least this way, you could remain by his side. Fulfill your own obligations, continuing to serve him, even if it means watching the world you’ve grown so accustomed to slowly fall away from your feet. 

“You did a good job,” you say, disrupting the slurry of your thoughts, a fond hand ruffling her hair, eyes creased at the corners. 

You usher the hunter into the passenger seat of the SUV. She’s still buzzing in the aftermath of your fight as you shut the door, a chuckle roiling in your chest. You turn to ease into the backseat, but Sylus is there, wearing that customary smirk, holding the rear door open for you instead. 

“You both did well.”

The look you toss at him is suspicious. Raised brows and a sardonic curve to your lips. There’s more to his praise than he lets on, handing it out like a rare bouquet, usually reserved for her. Sylus merely shrugs, feigning innocence, his intentions shielded behind dark lenses. You ease into the chilled leather seat, the swell of noise from the fire traded for Ms. Hunter animatedly recounting the day’s events when the door shuts beside you.

You lapse into monotony, watching plumes of smoke fade in the rearview mirror as the three of you ease onto the highway. Sylus’ hand is tight on the steering wheel. Long, spindly fingers wrapped around coarse leather. His voice is bold like black coffee, warming your innards on a wintry day, as he and Ms. Hunter exchange words you can’t be bothered to follow up front. Occasionally, scarlet eyes catch yours in the mirror. It’s as if he’s keeping tabs on you, ensuring you’re still here. Like you’re poised to tuck and roll out the backseat, driven by how comfortably they speak with each other.

Physically, you’re present. Mentally, you’re drifting off. Watching power lines skate by, blurring with the skyline and mountains as the vehicle slides downhill. Maybe you’re more exhausted than you initially thought. You’d taken a hit or two in the fray earlier. Have blood speckling the ivory collar of your shirt, a scrape lining your jaw, and you’re sure you’ll have pretty splotches of blue and purple staining the corner of your mouth come tomorrow. 

Pain is usually an afterthought. You’re so used to shielding, so accustomed to recklessly throwing your body around, and the adrenaline’s ebbing, making way for the dull throb of a migraine and sleepiness dangling like sandbags from your upper lids. You lean against the door, propped on your elbow, temple roosted on swollen knuckles. You blink slowly, your heart beating steady until the scenery beyond the window makes way for darkness. You won’t be at the hotel for another hour. A little catnap won’t hurt. 

Before you fully relinquish yourself to the pretty girls of sleep, an enthusiastic voice peels through the inkiness. Static against a violet backdrop, tugging a quiet smile onto your lips. Ms. Hunter.   

“We should celebrate!”

We should, you muse, sinking below the shadowy depths of sleep, lured there by the bumping of the SUV against the road and Sylus fondly teasing the source of your envy.

masterlist | conflict

[novelistwriter]

The Runaway Scientist

DP x DC Prompt

There is a young man running around the world. Normally, this wouldn't be a cause for concern for the Justice League, but this young man isn't an ordinary person. This young man is someone who rivals the greatest minds the League has to offer, who has tech with him that's very advanced, despite being made of everyday appliances, with a clean source of energy that no one knows of, no one but the young man they are chasing.

Batman was the first to encounter him in Gotham. The young man was doing something in an abandoned warehouse, and the Bats caught wind of it. Batman tried to interrogate the young man on what he was doing, but instead, he found himself flipped over and pinned down himself. The young man had realized who he pinned down and quickly fled with most of what he had. The only thing left behind was a high-tech belt. When they analyzed the belt, it was revealed to be a personal shield that could withstand a full force kryptonion punch with minor cracks on it.

Then, he began to be encountered by other League members across the US for a few months before he was sighted in other countries.

Now, it's become a race against time, as the League needs to get to the young man who may be an upcoming genius scientist, as their enemies caught wind of him.

Danny is on the run. The GIW had killed his family and friends to get to him when they learned that he was Phantom. His parents had just accepted him as Phantom as well. He took all of his parents' research and tools and destroyed the portal. He's using the Fenton Crammer to store the bigger things in a Thermos, like the Ops Center, the finished model of the Ecto Skeleton, the Fenton ATV, the GAV, the Fenton Submarine, the Specter Speeder, and the Prototype of the Fenton Rocket. He thought he could hide out in Gotham for a bit, but then he had to attack Batman, the adrenaline from escaping Amity and his training from when Pandora and his other mentors for him, Clockwork said that he needs training in martial arts because he is the Ghost King, and a King needs to defend himself. So he ran again, not knowing he left a modified Specter Deflector behind.

And now that he's on the run from the Justice League because he attacked a founding member, not knowing that the Justice League just wants to talk and maybe make him a scientist (plus the Batfam trying to convince Batman that this isn't someone to adopt). He now has to deal with the bad guys of the Justice League wanting him, as well as the GIW and the Justice League, his most recent encounter? A very old Fruitloop with ectoplasm in him that's the equivalent of Fast Food for Ghosts who wants him as his Heir, all because he easily bested the Fruitloop in a fight.

[sh4nksslvt]

maybe i need a whole fic with luffy x reader married now... i'm not charging you, maybe i'm just in love with your writing

a/n: thank u <3 hope u like this~

Wait… Luffy’s WHAT?!

Luffy reunites with his childhood sweetheart, who also happens to be his secret spouse. The crew thought he was joking… until they weren’t laughing anymore.

LUFFY X GN!READER | ONE SHOT

tags: fluff, sfw, ooc, marriage, reader is opposite of luffy

a/n: this js me trying to write ffs, this is experimental and for fun only, so expect this ffs a bit cringe

word count: 1.3k

masterlist | ko-fi

: 𓏲🐋 ๋࣭  ࣪ ˖✩࿐࿔ 🌊

The Thousand Sunny drifted through the final tunnel, water glistening against its protective bubble as Fishman Island came into view.

“WOAAAH!” Luffy yelled from the deck, eyes wide. “It’s so shiny!”

“I can’t believe it’s real!” Chopper spun around.

Robin smiled behind a hand. “The architecture here is said to be older than the Grand Line itself.”

“I heard the royal family is pretty generous,” Nami added. “If we play this smart, we could stock up for weeks.”

But Luffy? His mind was somewhere else entirely. Or rather, on someone.

He leaned against the rail, a soft smile tugging at his lips.

“I wonder if they’re here…”

“LUFFY, GET BACK HERE, YOU CAN’T JUST–!”

“NAMI!, I SMELL MEEAAT!”

He was already gone. Sprinting like a man possessed through the bustling bubble streets of Fishman Island, eyes wide, tongue out, arms flailing in glee.

“Captain,” Robin said with a small smile, “seems excited.”

“He's always excited,” Zoro muttered, arms crossed. “But this time he’s extra stupid.”

Brook hummed thoughtfully. “Yohohoho, I wonder if the meat will marry him too.”

“Wait, did you say marry?” Usopp blinked. “Oh yeah! Didn’t Luffy say he was married once?”

“…Didn’t we all think he was joking?” Franky asked, brows raised.

“Yeah,” Chopper added with a little snort. “He said something like ‘I already got a wife, and they’re way stronger than all of you!’ and we just laughed.”

The crew exchanged glances.

“…You think he was serious?”

MEANWHILE.

Luffy skidded around the corner, bonking a coral lamp post with his forehead. “Ow–!”

“Still no sense of direction?”

He froze.

That voice.

He knew that voice like the back of his hand — or the taste of meat. Slowly, his wide eyes turned toward the source.

There, standing with arms crossed and an eyebrow raised, was you.

Stoic, calm, one eyebrow raised, and totally unamused as always.

“Y/N!!” Luffy beamed, bolting toward you. “Y/N Y/N Y/N! YOU'RE HERE!!”

Before you could scold him, he’d wrapped you in a tight hug that nearly knocked you back.

“Still a hugger as usual, huh?” you mumbled, eyes softening just a bit.

“Missed you! SHISHISHI,” he grinned into your shoulder.

“You saw me six months ago,” you said, deadpan.

“Yeah!, but that’s like…so long!!”

You sighed, though your hand was already resting on his back, grounding the chaotic ball of sunshine that had stolen your heart all those years ago.

“…You never change.”

FLASHBACK - Windmill Village

“You’re so noisy.”

“C’mon Y/N, let’s go punch that tree again!”

Putting your book down, you sat with your arms folded, watching as young Luffy jumped up and down with excitement, a stick in his hand like it was the strongest sword in the world.

“We’ll get stronger together! Then we’ll go on adventures and eat meat every day!”

You blinked. “That’s your dream?”

“Yup! What’s yours?”

You shrugged. “I don’t have one.”

“Then make one with me!”

You raised an eyebrow. “Make a dream with you?”

He nodded seriously. “We can share. Like best friends. Or… like married people!”

“…That’s not how marriage works.”

“Then I’ll change the rules!”

You stared at him.

“…Fine.”

“Hey, Y/N.”

“What now.”

“If we ever get married, can I still eat meat at the wedding?”

You looked up from your book. “Obviously. I won’t marry someone who doesn’t love meat.”

He blinked, surprised. “So you will marry me?”

You went back to reading. “Didn’t say I wouldn’t.”

His heart exploded like fireworks.

BACK TO PRESENT

“Wait,” Sanji whispered from the side of the plaza, crouched with the rest of the crew behind some candy-colored seaweed. “Is that them?! MELLORINEE~~”

“THEM?!” Usopp whispered. “You know them?!”

“I’ve heard rumors,” Sanji sighed dreamily. “That’s Y/N — calm as the sea before a storm. Feared in the Grand Line and cold-hearted~"

“Yeah, but they’re…” Chopper tilted his head. “Letting Luffy carry them like a backpack right now.”

“Are they… cuddling?” Zoro’s eye twitched. “In public?”

“I’m SUPER! emotionally confused,” Franky muttered.

“Yohohoho,” Brook said softly. “So our captain is�� married.”

“And he was serious,” Robin added, intrigued.

Luffy still hadn’t let go. You were currently being dragged around the island as he loudly pointed at every fish-person, street food stall, and bubble coral with endless excitement.

“Look, Y/N, look!! That octopus is playing drums!!”

You nodded. “Mm.”

“And that shark guy has THREE swords!”

You blinked. “Impressive.”

“Oh! That candy shop sells meat-lollipops!! Want one?”

“…Fine.”

He gasped, eyes shining. “You said yes! You never say yes to candy!”

“It’s for you, dumbass.”

He beamed so hard it could’ve powered the Sunny.

LATER, WITH THE CREW

“LUFFY!!”

He turned mid-bite of his meat-lollipop. “Huh?”

“WHAT. IS. GOING. ON?!” Nami shrieked.

You were sitting beside him, sipping seaweed tea calmly. “Can I help you?”

“YEAH, YOU CAN EXPLAIN HOW YOU’RE—MARRIED TO LUFFY?!”

He tilted his head. “I told you guys already.”

��YEAH BUT YOU SAID IT WHILE EATING A SEA KING LEG!!”

Franky pointed dramatically. “That’s not the time for SUPER confessions, bro!”

You raised a hand. “We’ve been married for years. It’s just not something we flaunt.”

“…You married Luffy. As in legal.”

“Technically yes. I still have the officiation snail photo. Luffy drew a mustache on it.”

“HE LOOKED SO FUNNY!! SHISHISHI” Luffy grinned, remembering it fondly.

“WHAT ABOUT YOUR PERSONALITY?! YOU’RE THE COMPLETE OPPOSITE!” Usopp flailed.

You stared at him. “What about it?”

“I dunno!! It’s just… Luffy’s sunshine! You’re like… moonlight. That can kill people.”

Zoro finally snapped. “Okay, no offense, but how do you even deal with him?”

You sighed, placing a hand over Luffy’s head as he practically melted beside you.

“…I’ve dealt with worse than a meat-goblin with a hero complex and zero sense of personal space.”

“That’s me!!” Luffy said proudly.

Robin giggled. “You really are opposites.”

“They’re so cool,” Sanji whispered, nose bleeding. “They’re scary. But like, in a hot way~”

“Are you crushing on our captain’s spouse?!” the crew hissed.

“Can’t help it~”

LATER THAT NIGHT ON THE SUNNY

You sat at the edge of the deck, legs dangling above the water, watching the glowing sea beneath.

Luffy flopped beside you, resting his head in your lap like he always did when the sky was quiet.

“You’re really okay with all this attention?” you asked, fingers brushing his hair.

“Mmhmm. Why wouldn’t I be?”

You raised an eyebrow. “You never cared about showing people.”

“I didn’t think I had to. You're mine. That’s already the best thing ever.”

Your hand paused. Then resumed slowly.

“You’re still dumb.”

He grinned. “Yeah, but I’m your dumb.”

“…Yeah. You are.”

He yawned, curling closer. “Remember the promise we made?”

“Which one? You made a lot.”

“The one about sharing dreams.”

You looked up at the stars. “Yeah. I remember.”

“I still wanna do that. Even if it’s dumb. Even if I die trying.”

You tapped his forehead.

“You won’t die. I’ll kill anyone who tries.”

NEXT MORNING — FISHMAN ISLAND MARKET

“I WANT TO BUY THAT ONE!”

“Luffy, that’s a pearl the size of a cannonball.”

“I WANT IT!!”

You pinched the bridge of your nose.

“Luffy, if I have to carry another crate of your ‘souvenirs’ I will drown you.”

He gasped. “Y/N!! That’s mean!”

“…You like that.”

“I DO!”

“Ew, please stop flirting where I can hear you,” Nami groaned as she walked by.

Zoro muttered, “Every time I think they’ll kill each other, they end up flirting again.”

“Do you think they’ll ever kiss in front of us?” Chopper asked innocently.

Sanji's eye turned into fire. “NO WAY! I'LL KICK YOU! YOU DAMN MONKEY!!!"

“Luffy, stop licking the pearl.”

“You know,” Robin said later that evening, watching you drag Luffy back from trying to arm-wrestle a sea king, “they’re oddly perfect together.”

“Opposites attract,” Franky nodded.

“They’re like fire and ice,” Brook added.

“More like hyper gremlin and emotionless murderbot,” Nami muttered.

“…Still somehow works,” Zoro said.

Sanji sobbed. “WHEN WILL MY TURN COME?!"

.

.

— A FEW DAYS LATER

“Hey, Robin,” Usopp whispered as the ship cruised along the current.

“Yes?”

“…Do you think we should throw them a wedding party?”

She sipped her tea. “I think if you try, you’ll die.”

“Right.”

“Besides,” she added, glancing at the couple watching the sunset at the bow of the ship, Luffy wrapped around you like a sleepy octopus, “I think they already had the only wedding they needed.”

[gay-dorito-dust]

One piece reacts to you holding their hand when in need of comfort/reminder that they are there.

Zoro doesn’t flinch when you hold his hand, it’s happened more then once, he has yet to see you do similar with the rest of the crew, but he wasn’t about to say anything about how you always seem to come to him for comfort and security.

He wasn’t complaining as it only meant he was doing his job, growing stronger and cementing himself as someone strong enough, brave enough for others to find solace within. Zoro took pride in the work he had put in himself to get where he was now, he was even proud that you even thought of him as a source of comfort in the first place, and feeling no fear when you reached for his calloused hand that wasn’t perched upon the hilts of his swords.

He caresses his thumb against the back of your hand in a way to reassure you that nothing would happen when under his protection, nothing wouldn't dare harm a hair on your head when his reflexes were seemingly faster then light on most occasions, he had made himself an vow to himself to keep being your safe haven and your source of comfort.

Buggy almost jolts out of his skin when he feels you hold his hand out of the blue. He’s never known someone to touch him out of their own free will, not unless it was to beat him up at least, so feeling you grab his hand on instinct made him tense up before realising why you did what you did.

You were in search of something to ground yourself to and ironically he was the closet thing you could get your hands on, something to keep you steady and he was the one you automatically deemed safe enough to hold onto, at least just until this feeling of uncertainty passes you by.

Buggy would feel an sense of pride that out of everyone you could've possibly have picked from, you had chosen him to be your sense of normality and someone you associated with saftey and security, not that Buggy was complaining -not at all- as it only gave him an sense of purpose and he wasn't about to take your trust in him for granted.

He even puffs out his chest like a cocky bird and held your hand even tighter, and maybe even leaving you with it when he had some stuff to do, smiling ever so slightly when he felt you squeeze it and acting as though there isn't a warmth within his chest. Buggy is just happy that he could be useful and not a punching bag for once and he has you to thank.

Ace grips your hand immediately and squeezes it multiple times to reassure you that he was there, that he was real and he wasn’t going to let anything get to you. If anything he grips your hand with equal strength to show you that he held you in the same regard, that while he is your source of comfort you were just as much his source of comfort.

He felt as though he was the luckiest man alive to be chosen as then one person you go to when facing uncertainty and were at a geuine loss, feeling as though he wasn't worth your trust and companionship, thining that there were more better suiting people instead of him. Yet here you were proven his innermost thoughts wrong, holding his hand as though you'd be lost if you were to ever let go, which were things that only warmed Ace's heart tenfold.

His smile couldn't have been more wider then it ever had when your holding his hand as though it held all the awnsers you saught after, unafraid of the flames that he could easily conjure with a single snap of his fingers, treating it as though it was something sacred and only something you entrusted him to bear witness to it.

Ace felt as though he was within a picture perfect dream, not believing that this was reality until he felt the warmth of your palm push agaisnt his own, the twitch of your fingers and how you seemed to need to reassure yourself that he was real. At least he wasn't alone in such a feeling, feeling compelled to keep holding your hand if it meant being each others constant reminder that this was your shared reality, for he wouldn't about to let you wander this life alone in the dark when he could easily light thr way for you instead.

[sunarryn]

DP X Marvel #25

Danny Fenton hadn’t meant to punch Captain America in the face. In fact, he’d spent the better part of the week trying not to punch anyone, despite the rapidly growing laundry list of reasons to lose his cool—like not sleeping for seventy-two hours because Technus decided to merge his data with every Bluetooth speaker in the tri-state area, or the GIW tracking his every move again, or that weird, suspicious portal energy he kept picking up from somewhere labeled Stark Tower. Danny was running on fumes, ghostly adrenaline, and one too many Red Bulls when it happened. Really, the stars aligned perfectly for an international incident.

He’d only been in New York for six hours, trying to find the source of the energy spike without alerting every superhero on the block—because the last thing he needed was to get into it with the Avengers. Again. The last time had involved Hulk trying to punch a ghost and failing miserably, Thor throwing Mjölnir into the Ghost Zone, and Iron Man demanding to know if ectoplasm was FDA approved. It was a whole thing.

Danny was crouched on the rooftop of some high-rise, scanning with a modified Fenton Specter-Tracker, eyes bloodshot and twitching slightly. He hadn’t slept since Monday. It was Thursday.

“Hey, kid,” came a voice behind him, calm but firm.

Danny spun like a feral cat, eyes glowing, hair frizzed out with ghost static. He registered the silhouette of a man—tall, broad-shouldered, carrying a star-shaped shield—and his brain went danger. Ghost hunter? No. GIW agent? No. Super-soldier-hydra-time-travel-experiment?

He didn’t even process it. He just swung.

There was a crack like a thunderclap, followed by the very human sound of pain—a grunt that broke mid-voice like it had surprised the man himself. Captain Steve Rogers staggered back, hand pressed to his jaw, blinking stars out of his vision and trying to comprehend the fact that someone had just hit him hard enough to make him feel it. Not just feel it—wince. His serum-enhanced, war-hardened, literally-punched-by-Thor-once jaw hurt.

Danny stood frozen, fist still outstretched, pupils blown wide in horror.

“Oh my God. Oh my God. I just punched Captain America. I just decked the star-spangled man with a plan. I am so sorry—I thought you were a ghost! Or like—a time-traveling war criminal! Wait, that’s redundant—”

“Okay, wow,” Steve mumbled, touching his jaw again. “That’s definitely gonna bruise.”

Danny looked like he was about to combust. “Why were you behind me like that?! Who just materializes out of nowhere and says ‘hey, kid’ in the middle of a rooftop stakeout?! I thought I was being ambushed!”

Steve blinked. “I was asking for directions.”

Danny gasped. “You were WHAT?”

Steve looked sheepish. “Tony dropped me off on the wrong building. Said, and I quote, ‘GPS is for cowards.’ I’ve been circling the same three blocks for twenty minutes.”

Danny stared. “Captain America got lost and asked a sleep-deprived half-ghost teenager for directions?”

“I didn’t know you were a sleep-deprived half-ghost teenager,” Steve said defensively. “You looked… competent. Specter-tracker aside.”

Danny made a strangled noise and sat down hard, face buried in his hands. “I’m going to be assassinated by your PR team.”

Steve rubbed his jaw again. “You’re stronger than you look.”

“That is not the point here!”

“No, seriously,” Steve insisted, kneeling down. “That punch? I’ve taken hits from Thanos. You rattled me.”

Danny peeked through his fingers. “Are you flirting with me?”

“What? No!”

“You’re complimenting my punch like it’s a pickup line.”

“I’m—okay, no. You’re a kid.”

“I’m nineteen!”

Steve squinted. “You look like you’ve been through five timelines and one midlife crisis.”

“I have!” Danny wailed. “Do you know what it’s like to babysit the entire ghost population of the afterlife and then accidentally elbow Thor in the ribs during a training session because you forgot he was behind you?! I’m a walking international crisis!”

Steve paused. “Wait. You trained with Thor?”

“Long story. I died once, came back, now I punch ghosts for fun and may or may not be legally considered a WMD by six governments.”

Steve took a long breath. “Do all teenagers do this now? Or is this just a… you thing?”

Danny groaned. “Just me. I’m special.”

Steve lowered his shield and sat cross-legged like they were about to have a heart-to-heart. “You okay, kid?”

“No! I haven’t slept in three days, my enemies keep possessing animatronics to scare me, and I just committed accidental patriotic assault!”

Steve tried not to smile. He really did. “You got a name?”

Danny sighed. “Danny. Danny Fenton. Or Phantom. Depends on how you know me.”

Steve looked intrigued. “You’re the ghost kid.”

Danny flinched. “I prefer ghost young adult, thank you.”

“You’re the one Nick Fury won’t shut up about.”

Danny’s eyes widened. “He talks about me?”

“Nonstop. Every meeting. ‘The ghost kid leveled a tank with his pinky finger!’ ‘The ghost kid opened a portal to another dimension with a yawn!’” Steve did a passable impression of Fury’s gruff voice. “‘You think your team’s strong? Try containing a seventeen-year-old who talks to the dead like it’s a podcast!’”

Danny laughed, a bit unhinged, definitely sleep-deprived. “I did do the tank thing. That was an accident.”

“Fury thinks you’re the future.”

“That’s horrifying.”

“You’re not wrong.”

Danny looked at him warily. “Are you gonna try to recruit me?”

Steve considered. “Honestly? Not until you’ve slept. You look like you’d punch Thor if he asked you for coffee.”

“I have, and I did, and he was proud of me.”

“…Of course he was.”

There was a moment of silence, just the city humming beneath them, both of them sitting cross-legged like two war veterans who somehow found themselves on a rooftop in Manhattan instead of the battlefield they were clearly built for.

“So,” Steve said eventually. “You gonna tell me why you’re camped out here?”

Danny pointed to the tracker. “Someone in that building”—he gestured vaguely toward Stark Tower—“is leaking interdimensional ghost radiation like it’s designer cologne. I was trying to be subtle.”

Steve looked at the tower. “That’s Tony.”

Danny blinked. “Tony Stark is radiating ectoplasmic energy?”

“Yeah. He bought a ghost portal off eBay last month. Said it’d be good for ‘multiverse surveillance.’ It… got loose.”

Danny stood up so fast he swayed. “I knew it! I told Jazz that someone was messing with rogue ghost portals again and she said I was paranoid! I am paranoid! But that doesn’t mean I’m wrong!”

“You’re… very high-strung.”

Danny glared. “Do you have a collection of alternate-universe versions of yourself constantly trying to kill you?”

Steve held up his hands. “Fair.”

Suddenly, Danny wobbled. His legs buckled, and Steve caught him with a grunt. “Woah, hey, hey! Okay, that’s enough hero time for now.”

“I’m fine,” Danny slurred. “I’ve just been awake for three days. It’s not a problem unless I—”

He passed out.

Steve stared down at the kid—a half-dead, glowing teen who apparently punched like a demigod and talked like a sitcom character on speed—and muttered, “…Tony owes me so much alcohol for this.”

He slung Danny over his shoulder and started walking toward the Tower.

A few floors down, Tony Stark looked up from his holograms and blinked as the elevator pinged open.

Steve walked in carrying what looked like a sleep-dead raccoon in human form.

Tony blinked. “Did you adopt a raccoon?”

“He punched me.”

Tony raised an eyebrow. “…You?”

“Knocked me back five feet.”

Tony whistled. “Damn. Strong raccoon.”

“He’s nineteen. Name’s Danny Fenton. Ghost kid.”

Tony’s eyes widened. “Oh. Oh. The one Fury thinks is a nuclear bomb with social anxiety.”

Steve dumped Danny on the nearest couch. “Let him sleep. He earned it.”

Tony looked down at Danny. “Should I be worried he’s glowing?”

“No. But maybe hide the ghost portal.”

Tony scoffed. “I knew someone was tracking it.”

Danny stirred, groaning, “Stark, I swear to the Ancients, if I wake up and your toaster is haunted again, I’m putting salt in your arc reactor…”

Steve stared. “Wait, what?”

Tony sighed. “Long story. Ghosts don’t like me. Something about my attitude.”

Steve sat down, already dreading explaining this to Fury.

Across the room, Danny turned on his side, mumbled, “Tell the Captain I didn’t mean to punch him…”

Steve looked over, surprisingly fond. “It’s fine, kid. I’ve had worse.”

Danny let out a soft snore.

Tony grinned. “You’re getting soft.”

“He reminds me of Bucky.”

Tony choked. “Excuse me?”

Steve shrugged. “If Bucky died and came back with ghost powers, he’d absolutely punch me in the face for fun.”

“…Okay, yeah, that tracks.”

And thus began the weird, wonderful, mildly catastrophic journey of Danny Fenton, ghost boy, menace to the Avengers, and accidental best friend to Captain America, who still rubbed his jaw now and then, remembering the punch that nearly knocked out a super-soldier’s tooth.

[revilloutionaire]

All Might was literally suicidal and people dont talk about it enough.

How it must've felt to have to pass on the one source of his strength, for years that has kept him at the top, his sole source of not only livelihood but also his way of helping others? How he must've felt knowing that he could not be the pillar of peace as he had been for almost four decades, that he had to subject another young person to carry that weight. How he must've felt after Kamino, after losing that power for good, after the entire nation saw him at his weakest.

His talk with Aizawa about deciding to live for the next generation, absolutely broke my heart. He felt useless, in a way probably none of us could ever even grasp. Not even izuku could.

What does it mean to be the entire world's pillar in one moment, the strongest man alive, only to go powerless in the next? It's no wonder Toshinori considered ending his life after Kamino- He didn't even look the same. What other option would you have but to end it all there? When you go from the man everyone looks to for help, to a man who can't even take a punch and survive?

But the fact he chose to live speaks volumes of his strength. His willingness to carry on, and help his students and successor fight with whatever strength remained. He helped Izuku during his tenture as a vigilante, because All Might would've done the exact same thing. He packed those lunches. He chased after Izuku, trying to give him the same support he knew All Might would've needed if he was the same age as Izuku.

It's why he put on that suit and fought All For One, even if it meant stalling and not defeating.

Because All Might is beyond his quirk, the same way Izuku is. He has the heart of a true hero.

The reason Izuku probably managed to survive those eight years without an ability to fight alongside his class- was because All Might was likely there beside him, both of them sharing the loss of their power after being at the front of the field. And they both know the importance of sharing their strength, their true strength, with future generations.

It was the strength of their hearts that put All Might and Deku above the rest.

[mandoalorian]

brooklyn baby [bucky barnes x f!reader]

Pairing: Congressman!Bucky Barnes x Personal Assistant!Reader

Synopsis: Hiding out in your Brooklyn apartment, Bucky finally lets his guard down, opening up about his past and the ghosts that still haunt him. As they navigate their growing connection, the threat looming over them becomes impossible to ignore. When an old friend shows up with a plan, Bucky is forced to decide—stay in the shadows or fight back before it’s too late.

Word Count: 3100

Tags/warnings: 18+ explicit content. employer x employee, m!receiving oral, handjobs, riding, delayed gratification, edging, praise kink, you take care of your boss

Masterlist

prev chapter <3 | congress & carnality masterlist

The fallout from the airport fight spiralled faster than either of you could have imagined. The media had latched onto the image of Bucky punching the man to the ground, and within hours, every major outlet was dissecting it. The headlines were brutal.

“James Barnes: Hero or Menace?”

“Ex-Winter Soldier Loses Control—Again.”

“Congressman Barnes’ Violent Outburst Sparks Controversy.”

The press swarmed as soon as you landed. Paparazzi lined the exits, their cameras flashing like a relentless storm, and reporters shouted over one another.

“Congressman Barnes! Was the attack premeditated?”

“Do you think your violent history makes you unfit for office?”

“Who was the woman with you? A secret lover?”

“Will there be an investigation?”

The tension sat thick between you. The worst part? The whispers were growing. Bucky wasn’t just under scrutiny for the fight—someone was leaking information. Photos of the two of you together, too close in quiet moments, grainy images taken from a distance that suggested something more than professionalism. A calculated attack.

You scrolled through your phone, reading the latest articles.

“Sources close to Barnes reveal he’s been engaging in an unprofessional relationship with a member of his staff.”

“Anonymous insiders claim the Congressman has been seen getting intimate with his assistant behind closed doors.”

“A political scandal brewing?”

Your stomach twisted. “Bucky…” You hesitated, then turned your screen toward him.

He barely spared it a glance. “I know,” he muttered. “I saw it this morning.”

Your heart pounded. “Who’s doing this?”

Bucky exhaled slowly, running a hand over his face. “I don’t know. But I have a feeling.”

And then there was Tara. She had been oddly distant all morning—no witty remarks, no passive-aggressive jabs. Just silence. That alone made your skin crawl.

Bucky’s phone buzzed. He glanced at it, then cursed under his breath. “I need to call Sam.”

You frowned. “Sam?”

“If they think they can silence me, they’re wrong.” His expression darkened. “This isn’t just about the fight. It’s bigger than that. Someone’s trying to control me. And I won’t let them.”

You swallowed hard. “Bucky… what are you planning?”

He finally looked at you, his blue eyes stormy and determined. “I’m going to find out who’s behind this. And I’m going to bring them down.”

The drive back to Brooklyn was quiet, but not uncomfortable. After everything that had happened—the fight at the airport, the media storm, the looming threats—you were both exhausted. The city lights blurred past the car windows, and Bucky’s fingers twitched on his thigh as if itching to reach for you.

When the car finally pulled up in front of your apartment building, you let out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding. Home. For now, at least.

Bucky followed you inside, scanning the surroundings like a soldier surveying new territory. He had been in your space before, but never like this—never in a way that felt so permanent, so inevitable.

“Make yourself comfortable,” you murmured, slipping off your coat. “I’ll get you something to drink.”

Bucky nodded but didn’t sit. Instead, he wandered over to the bookshelf near your window, eyes tracing over the spines of books and the small trinkets you had collected over the years.

“You’re a reader,” he noted, running his fingers along the edges of a few well-worn novels.

You smiled, handing him a glass of water. “Always have been. I used to spend hours at the library as a kid.”

He hummed, taking a sip. “Me too.”

That surprised you. “Really?”

Bucky leaned against the windowsill, a small, wistful smile playing at his lips. “Yeah. My ma worked long hours, so sometimes she’d drop me and Rebecca off at the library. I’d read anything I could get my hands on—adventure stories, war novels, even poetry.” He shook his head with a chuckle. “Steve always made fun of me for that one.”

Your chest warmed at the thought of a younger Bucky, lost in books, before the war, before everything. “I think that’s sweet. Rebecca is…?”

“My youngest sister,” Bucky answered, his lips curling into a small smile. “She lives up in Indiana, in a care-home. I try and visit when I can but, it’s a busy life. I think she’d like you, actually.”

The last part made your heart warm. You walked over to the Congressman, passing him a glass of neat whiskey. His favourite. “You have more than one sister?”

“I have— had— three sisters. Rebecca, Betty, and Winnie. Becca is the only one still with us. I was the older brother, always doing my best to take care of them. I taught them how to read, actually.” Bucky laughed fondly at the memory and took a swig of his drink. You gazed up at him, mesmerised. He had never opened up like this before, and it felt good to know he was this comfortable around you. 

“I bet you were the most wonderful big brother,” you said, rubbing your hand on Bucky’s shoulder soothingly. You felt the knots under his skin, the tension.

“I tried to be,” Bucky replied. “I miss my sisters all the time. When HYDRA kidnapped me, my sisters had to bury me. They believed me to be dead. In the fifties, Betty passed away from a short-lived illness, and in the seventies, we lost Winnie too. I never got the chance to see them again.”

You were lost for words. No person should have ever gone through something like that. You were beginning to understand now why Bucky’s campaigning was so important to him, and why he was so worried about a Super Soldier revival. 

“I think… I think I’d like to meet Rebecca one day. I’m sure she has some funny stories about her big brother.”

Bucky laughed. “I’d like for you to meet her too. She’s so important to me, you know?”

“Of course.”  You replied. 

“When I came back, got my freedom, I tracked her down. When she saw me, she thought she’d died and gone to heaven,” Bucky revealed, his blue eyes wide with sadness. “I got to learn all about the life she lived without me. Got herself a husband and had kids, then grandkids, a dog too. She named her son after me, actually. I used to long for that sort of thing. A family. But I guess the universe had other ideas.” Bucky glanced at you, his gaze softer now that he had shared that. “What about you? What was your childhood like?”

You hesitated for a moment before shrugging. “Not as interesting as yours, I’m sure. I moved around a lot. Never really had a place that felt like home until I came here.”

Bucky’s brow furrowed slightly. “You got family?”

You nodded. “Yeah, but we’re not close.”

He didn’t press, and you were grateful for that. Instead, he simply said, “Then this is home.”

Something about the way he said it made your throat tighten. Home was never a place for you, not when you moved about so much. You couldn’t afford to make a place a home, but that comfort and care and love that a home was supposed to give, you had found with Bucky. No matter if you were in his office, flying on his jet or in a Tokyo hotel room. Bucky felt like home.

You looked away, clearing your throat. “You hungry?”

Bucky smirked. “Depends. You offering to cook?”

You rolled your eyes. “Don’t get ahead of yourself, Barnes.”

But the teasing felt good. Normal. Like, despite everything, the world hadn’t completely spun off its axis.

Eventually, after sharing stories of childhood mischief and Brooklyn winters, you both ended up in your bedroom. The weight of the past few days, the exhaustion, the tension—it all melted away as you curled into each other.

Bucky’s hands were warm as they traced your spine, and his breath was steady against your neck.

“You tired?” he murmured.

You should have been. But with his body pressed against yours, sleep was the last thing on your mind.

“No,” you whispered, tilting your head to meet his gaze.

His eyes darkened. “Good.”

His lips were on yours before you could say another word, slow and deep, his tongue sweeping into your mouth as he rolled you onto your back. His hands wandered, exploring, claiming, but when his fingers brushed the hem of your sleep shorts, you pulled back.

“Let me,” you whispered, your hands already working at the waistband of his sweatpants.

Bucky’s breath hitched. “You don’t have to—”

“I want to.”

And God, you did. You had felt him before, had touched him, but you had never taken him in your mouth, never had the chance to make him fall apart beneath you.

Bucky swallowed hard, watching as you moved down the bed, your hands sliding his sweatpants and boxers down in one slow motion. His cock was already hard, thick and flushed, twitching slightly as the cool air hit him.

You licked your lips. “You’re so big…”

Bucky groaned, his head falling back against the pillows. “Fuck, sweetheart…”

You started slow, kissing the tip, licking a teasing stripe up his length. His fingers twitched at his sides, as if resisting the urge to grab your hair.

When you finally took him into your mouth, hollowing your cheeks and sucking him in deep, Bucky let out a strangled moan.

“Jesus—” His hand found the back of your head, his hips lifting slightly off the bed. “You’re gonna kill me.”

You licked a slow stripe up the underside of his cock, savouring the way he twitched under your tongue. The weight of him in your hand was heavy, thick, veins pulsing against your palm as you gave him a slow, deliberate stroke.

Bucky sucked in a sharp breath. “Fuck, baby…”

His voice was rough, edged with desperation, and it made you even wetter, the power of having him like this sending a thrill through your body. You flicked your tongue over the head, teasing the slit before wrapping your lips around him, hollowing your cheeks as you took him deeper.

Bucky groaned, his hand sliding into your hair, not pushing, just resting there, fingers flexing every time you swallowed around him. His thighs were tense, his abs flexing under the soft glow of the bedroom light as you bobbed your head, letting saliva drip down his shaft, making everything slick and messy.

“Jesus—” His voice cracked when you took him even deeper, your throat constricting as you forced yourself to take more. “God, you’re—fuck, you’re so good at that.”

His praise made heat pool between your legs, and you moaned around him, the vibrations making his hips jerk involuntarily.

“Shit, shit—” His grip tightened in your hair as you started to work him harder, stroking him with your hand in tandem with your mouth, your tongue swirling around the head, sucking him in deep before pulling off just to tease him with kitten licks.

Bucky’s breath hitched. His chest rose and fell in sharp, uneven breaths, sweat beading along his collarbone as he fought for control. “If you keep that up, I’m not gonna last.”

You pulled off with a wet pop, grinning as you pumped him with your hand. “Maybe I don’t want you to last.”

His eyes darkened. “You tryin’ to kill me, sweetheart?”

You bit your lip, looking up at him through your lashes. “I want you to lose control.”

Bucky let out a strangled sound, his cock twitching in your grip. “Oh, fuck.”

Before he could even think about stopping you, you took him back into your mouth, sucking him even harder, your tongue tracing every ridge and vein, your hand twisting at the base. The lewd, wet sounds filled the room, mixing with Bucky’s harsh breaths, the curses falling from his lips.

“Shit—” His head fell back, eyes screwing shut as his thighs trembled. “I—baby, I’m gonna—”

You didn’t stop. You wanted it, wanted to taste him, to push him over the edge, and when you swallowed around him, that was it.

Bucky came with a broken moan, his body shuddering as he spilled into your mouth. You took it all, swallowing every drop, your tongue swirling to clean him up before you finally pulled back, pressing a teasing kiss to his sensitive tip.

Bucky was still catching his breath when you climbed up his body, straddling his lap. His hands found your hips instinctively, his fingers pressing into your skin as he looked up at you with blown pupils, his hair sticking to his forehead.

“You tryin’ to kill me?” he rasped.

You smirked, grinding your soaked core against his still-hard cock. “You’re still hard.”

Bucky groaned, his grip on your hips tightening. “You ride me right now, I swear to God, I’ll—”

You didn’t let him finish. You reached between your bodies, lining him up before sinking down onto him in one slow, deliberate motion.

Bucky’s jaw went slack. “Holy—fuck.”

You gasped, the stretch stealing your breath, your fingers digging into his chest for balance. He filled you so perfectly, so deep, the pressure overwhelming in the best way.

Bucky groaned, his hands dragging up your waist. “Goddamn, sweetheart, you feel so fuckin’ good.”

You started to move, rolling your hips, setting a slow, teasing rhythm that had Bucky cursing under his breath. His hands gripped your ass, guiding you, his jaw clenched like he was barely holding it together.

“Faster,” he gritted out.

You obeyed, picking up the pace, bouncing on him as your nails raked down his chest. He was so deep, hitting the perfect spot with every movement, and when he reached between your bodies, rubbing your clit in tight circles, you cried out, your walls fluttering around him.

“Fuck, that’s it,” Bucky groaned, his hips thrusting up to meet yours. “Come for me, baby. Let me feel you.”

The pleasure coiled tight, your body tensing before it snapped, your orgasm crashing over you in waves. You moaned his name, your walls pulsing around him as you clung to him, trembling.

Bucky wasn’t far behind. He gritted out a curse, his hands gripping you tight as he drove up into you a few more times before he spilled deep inside you, his whole body tensing beneath you.

You both stayed there, panting, your forehead resting against his.

Bucky let out a breathless laugh. “You’re gonna be the death of me.”

You smirked, pressing a soft kiss to his lips. “But what a way to go.”

Bucky let out a breathless laugh. “That was…”

You grinned. “Good?”

He reached for you, pulling you back up and kissing you, his tongue sweeping against yours. “More than good.”

You curled up beside him, your head resting on his chest. His fingers traced lazy patterns on your back, and for the first time in days, you felt safe.

“Get some sleep,” he murmured, pressing a kiss to your hair. “I’ve got you.”

And you believed him.

You closed your eyes and within minutes, you drifted into a well-needed sleep. But Bucky? Bucky was wide awake. He could not shake the thoughts of a new super soldier serum, and he could not rest until he got clarity. He didn’t even care about the campaign anymore, all he cared about was you and the possibility that more unconsenting people — more soldiers — would have to go through what he went through for seventy years.

Bucky lay there staring at the ceiling, occasionally picking up his phone to check the headlines, a reminder of the threats to you and your career.  When the room was dark and your breathing had evened out, Bucky slipped out of bed. He dressed quickly, his movements silent, and with one last glance at you, he slipped out the door.

Sam Wilson, none other than Captain America himself, was waiting for him in a parked car outside.

Bucky followed Sam through the dimly lit parking lot, the cool night air doing little to settle the storm in his chest. He hadn’t told you where he was going, just slipped out while you were sleeping, your body curled up in the sheets that still smelled like him. He hated leaving you like that, but this—this was bigger than both of you.

Sam leaned against the hood of his car, arms crossed as he studied Bucky with sharp, knowing eyes. “You look like shit,” Sam remarked. “Rough night?”

Bucky huffed out a dry chuckle, running a hand through his hair. “Something like that.”

Sam nodded, then got straight to business. “There’s a gala happening for Ross tonight. Big event, all the right people in the room. And guess who got an invite?” He tapped his chest. “Captain America, plus one.”

Bucky arched a brow. “You asking me to be your date?”

“I’m asking you to help me dig up whatever the hell Ross is hiding,” Sam corrected. “I was gonna take Joaquin, but I think you need to be there more than he does.”

Bucky exhaled slowly. “You really think we’ll find something?”

Sam gave him a look. “I know we will.”

That was all the convincing Bucky needed.

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The sunlight creeping through the curtains was what finally pulled you from sleep. You reached across the bed instinctively, but your hand met cold sheets. Your brows furrowed as your fingers skimmed the emptiness beside you.

“Bucky?” you murmured, voice rough with sleep.

Silence.

You sat up, glancing around the dimly lit bedroom. His clothes were gone. The shoes he’d left by the door—gone. You reached for your phone, a strange weight settling in your chest as you unlocked it. No messages. No missed calls.

What the hell?

Your fingers hovered over his contact, debating whether to call him. Instead, you sent a text:

Where did you go?

A few minutes passed. No response.

Another message.

Bucky?

Still nothing. The weight in your chest grew heavier.

Frustration gnawed at you as you swung your legs over the side of the bed, standing abruptly. Did he just leave? No note, no explanation? After everything last night?

You pulled on a hoodie, shoving your phone in the pocket before heading toward the kitchen. You needed coffee. And maybe an explanation for why Bucky Barnes had a habit of disappearing on you.

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ ⟡ ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁.

Taglist: @imaginecrushes @maplepepperoni @sleepysongbirdsings @sunday-bug @bunnyfella @lktunes12-blog @bellamoret @mrsnikstan @greatenthusiasttidalwave @pancake-05 @theylovethesky @avengersfan25 @nydubs @abitofblues @ferretferretferret @helen-2003 @notreallythatlost @opheliagreenaway

[if you want to be added or removed from taglist, lmk<3]

[badjohnspeakeasy]

Presuppose that the sentient strawberry is about as strong as a creature the size of a strawberry. It doesn't grow, and its attacks are harmless, despite their killing intent. It's like two inches tall, so it's safe to assume that it's not going to beat you up.

It is extremely unfriendly and hostile, and convinced it can and should kill you. It keeps screaming special attack names and ineffectively attacking you, and no amount of time or communication changes its behavior. You cannot negotiate with the strawberry.

[asaarii]

ft: mohawk!mark (invincible) reader: fem wc: 1486 summary: in which mark is down bad for a punk!reader requested by: @qxuanii

i hope you enjoy reading this bc i enjoyed writing it!! hopefully the characters aren't too out of character lol...(praying bc I will start chewing rocks if nobody reads this)

also for some reason i can't spell mohawk for the life of me (I keep spelling mowhawk)

He was a goner from the moment he laid eyes on you.

The first time Mark lays eyes on you, he’s just started junior year and is already in detention for allowing his temper to get the best of him despite being only two weeks into the school year. In all honesty, the loser had it coming with how much he kept bugging Mark. About what exactly…eh, the details don’t really matter in the grand scheme of things, y’know? Though, he supposes he could’ve held his punch a little better.

You know, developing powers and all that dumb shit his mom keeps yapping about.

Your eyes flicker from your phone onto him with a cocked, pierced brow, and Mark hates the way his heart skips a beat as your curious gaze bores into him. He holds your stare with narrowed eyes, taking in the odd style of your hair and relaxed posture, your legs kicked up haphazardly onto the back of the desk in front of yours. Despite your less-than-conventional appearance, you smile at him. It’s small and half-hearted, but it’s a smile nonetheless.

He clicks his tongue, breaking your gaze and taking the desk furthest from you in the far corner of the classroom before slouching in the uncomfortable plastic seat. The dim light of his phone illuminates his face as he sends a quick text to his mom after her thirteenth message asking where he was. It shuts off with a click, leaving him staring at his cracked reflection in his screen protector.

A moment passes and Mark ultimately decides to take a nap, his back bending awkwardly to accommodate the low angle of the desk while the edge of it presses against his sternum.

Then, he hears it, the faint notes of a Green Day song reverberating through his sensitive ears, unheard by the snoring teacher slumped at the front desk. The source? None other than you, who continues to scroll on your phone, oblivious to the ire you’ve evoked from the half-blooded Viltrumite.

Rummaging through his bag, he pulls out a syllabus he didn’t care enough to get signed, crumpling it before throwing it at the back of your head. You make a strangled sound upon contact, confusion evident in your gaze as you whip your head to him fast enough that Mark’s sure you’ve given yourself whiplash.

“What the hell, man?” You struggle to keep your voice low as your eyes narrow at him and you finally pause your music.

He gestures vaguely to your headphones, but before you can respond a loud snore interrupts whatever you’d planned to say. You turn to the teacher, observing the steady rise and fall of his shoulders before glancing back to Mark. Without another word, you gather your bag and simply walk out of the classroom.

He doesn’t know what compels him, but Mark follows you out of the classroom, bag thrown lazily over his shoulder as he trails behind you. The school is quiet with no clubs or sports teams active this early on in the year, making his loud steps all the more apparent as he falls in step beside you.

You spare him a glance from the corner of your eye, blinking at him from beneath your heavy liner and thick lashes. “There a reason you’re following me, weirdo?”

You’re one to talk, he thinks to himself cynically, but he only responds with a shrug, the simple action making his toned shoulders all the more apparent beneath his baggy shirt. You turn away with a small click of your tongue, unwanting to entertain the admittedly handsome stranger any longer.

“What did you get detention for,” he suddenly asks and you stop in your tracks, turning to him for what feels like the eightieth time in the last twenty minutes. He’s smirking curiously at you and you catch a glimpse of a frog eye piercing when he darts his tongue out to lick his dried lips.

Your lip lifts slightly as you breathe out a small laugh through your nose. “Just some vandalism. You?”

Mark whistles lowly, his wolfish smirk widening as he invades your personal bubble. “Have you heard what happened to good ol’ Jerry?”

Recognition flickers across your face before your eyes widen. “Dude, no way. You’re Grayson?”

“One and fuckin’ only, baby.”

You’re quick to grow as one of Mark’s favorite sights, with him finding a rather odd sense of comfort when his gaze finds your leather-clad shoulders, spiked cuffs often glinting in the sunlight. He would have you, he was sure of it. Because Mark was nothing if not dedicated, as you would soon come to learn.

“I heard Grayson’s been keeping tabs on you,” one of your friends snorts, jutting her chin in the direction of none other than Mark himself, who looks rather disinterested in the conversation he’s currently having with Samantha Eve Wilkins, the school’s resident golden girl.

You spare them a glance, momentarily taking your eyes off your compact mirror. As if sensing your gaze, Mark turns to you, a familiar grin pulling at his lips, raising his hand in a lazy wave. You scoff, rolling your eyes before returning your focus to fixing your eyeliner.

“Come on,” she goads, nudging your shoulder, “I bet he’d be pretty cute with a mohawk.” She takes note of the way your expression seems to glaze over; your eyes inadvertently traveling to the dark-haired boy who’s now laughing as he kicks some random kid into a locker, much to the dismay of Samantha, who watches on with a frown.

“Oh my fucking god, you’re totally into that.” Her voice lilts teasingly and you scoff again.

You turn to her with a piercing glare, your lip pulled into a snarl as you push her away from you. “Fuck off. I couldn’t care less what Mark does with his stupid ass hair.” Taking her by the arm, you proceed to drag her down the hall, mumbling something about practicing for a concert that your friend only laughs off.

In your haste to leave, you don’t see Mark turn in your direction knowingly, only for his expression to fall when someone continues to drone on in his ear about his duties as a budding hero or some other stupid shit.

“Mark, I’m being serious—”

“Oh my god, do you ever just shut the fuck up? Of course, I know you’re being serious, dipshit,” he laughs sardonically, shoving his way past the seething redhead as he bats his lashes sarcastically and pretends to cry. “Wahh! The Guardians can’t have me around for their wittwe tea pawties—well, tough shit, because I’ve got my own things to deal with.”

The second he’s outside of the school, he takes off flying, ignoring the angered yells thrown his way by Samantha with a roll of his eyes. He’s got plans, and a team meeting with the Guardians sure as hell isn’t as important as impressing you, that’s for sure.

When he lands, he’s immediately reprimanded by his mother for being so rash with his powers, but he doesn’t even acknowledge her. Instead, he merely rolls his neck before locking himself in the bathroom.

It doesn’t take long for him to find Nolan’s electric razor. Around thirty minutes and three YouTube tutorials later, he’s admiring his handiwork in the extensive mirror. He does admit, his head feels a little cold, but the more he strokes the sides, the more assurance he builds.

Yeah, he looks hot as hell.

He cleans up the mess of fallen hair because as much as he likes to bitch and moan, he’s not a complete monster. The only thing on his mind as he sweeps is the cute look he’s sure you’ll have on your face that contrasts the rest of your look.

The rest of his night goes by in a blur, his emotions high despite the horrified gasp of his mother when he sauntered into the dining room for dinner. She held her tongue, much to his relief.

Come morning he was practically grinning like an idiot by the time he caught sight of you lingering just outside of the school. He calls out your name as he approaches, taking the time to admire how well your leather pants clung to your form, the attached chains clinking as you turn to face him. Your makeup is different—of course, he notices, what do you take him for, an idiot? Your liner is still bold, swirled with a design only a practiced hand could procure, but what draws him in is the dark shade of lipstick you’ve decided on today.

“What is it, Mark—”

His gaze is almost predatory with how intensely he watches your lips part at the sight of him, ears catching the slight hitch in your breath and the rapid increase in your heart rate.

Now he’s got you right where he wants you.

Hook.

Line.

And sinker.

©asarii 2025 — do not copy, steal, repost, or translate any of my works on tumblr or any other site or run my works through ai

[the-crooked-library]

Nuance, Narratives, and Nosferatu

As of today, Robert Eggers' Nosferatu (2024) has only been in theatres for 4 full days; and, coincidentally, that is about as long as I am able to let my thoughts marinate before they demand to be communicated. Before going into any further detail, let it be known that this film was made by freaks for freaks; it exists for the goths, the gays, the monsterfuckers, the historians, and for all those who delight in moral and thematic complexity.

With that being said - spoilers under the cut!

There are two principal narratives running through the flesh of Nosferatu, both of them rooted heavily in the cultural and literary origins of the story. It is a nightmare; it is also an erotic fantasy. It is horrifying, and it is also achingly romantic. From what I've seen so far, the vast majority of discourse that has already emerged around the film is caused by people misunderstanding or deliberately ignoring the relationship between these different lines of analysis; so please trust me when I say, from the bottom of my heart, that this duality is the very lifeblood of the movie.

The reason for that is, quite simply, that Nosferatu is a gothic horror film, set in 1830s German Confederation; and its plot relies on the same (sometimes contradictory) complexities often displayed in Victorian gothic fiction.

From the beginning of the movie, we are given to understand that Ellen Hutter met Count Orlok - the eponymous nosferatu - psychically, when she was very young. They spoke, she pledged herself to him, and was horrified to realize what she had done when he revealed his true visage to her in their first visual (and sexual) encounter.

Here, under the lilacs, the paths diverge.

The first reading of the film is perhaps the more straightforward. A young girl is essentially catfished and groomed by a much older, dangerous man. When they meet for the first time, she is a teenager; the lilacs that bloom where it happens become a trigger. He is the source of her madness and "melancholy" (depression), she has nightmares about him regularly enough that her husband is aware of them, and it is implied that she has been institutionalized in the past. Thomas Hutter is the physical representation of her one desperate hope for a normal life - but as the story progresses, she finds herself being denied even that. Orlok's psychic connection with her verges on demonic possession; in chilling, The Exorcist-inspired sequences, she writhes and mutters, prophesying a city-wide reign of death and terror. In pursuit of his claim on Ellen, Orlok terrorizes her husband, murders her friends - and, eventually, she gives her life to take him with her to the grave, saving the city from the plague he caused.

That is the horror element of Nosferatu; it deals with an exploration of childhood trauma, of PTSD, of difficulties maintaining a social life after the fact. It is easy to understand even from a modern viewpoint, and it pushes the film to its conclusion with a bleak, heart-wrenching punch.

The horror is not the only element of Nosferatu.

To contextualize the alternate - though just as correct - reading of the film, it is essential to understand that Ellen’s society was extremely sexually repressed, especially in regards to female and queer sexuality.

Both were severely medicalized, demonized, and restricted; and as such, when these topics do make an appearance in contemporary fiction, they are often inextricable from disgust and fear.

Dedicated as always to historical accuracy, Eggers maintains the same setting-based narrative coding.

In anticipation of morality arguments vis à vis monstrosity, depiction, and modern purity culture, let me clarify: this is something that works within his chosen genre. Horror, and especially gothic horror, invites a deeper analysis in regard to morality and motivation, and in this case, Eggers' homage to the origins of that genre grounds the narrative in its time and location, as well as fleshing it out much further than a purely modern cultural lens would permit. In this context, the details of Ellen's connection with Orlok become paramount to the understanding of the film.

As bits and pieces of their background become revealed, the audience realizes that her psychic gift did not begin with him - and neither did her melancholy, or her isolation. She was born with her abilities, and throughout her childhood, she was a bit of a tomboy by her contemporary standards, running wild in the woods near her father's property; however, once she foretold her mother's death, and once she was too old to get away with eccentricities, her father became frightened of her abnormality. She was isolated, confined indoors, and that is when her melancholy had begun. Painfully lonely and aching for some form of companionship, she called out into the ether; and Orlok responded.

Over the course of their story, he becomes the physical manifestation of everything Ellen perceives as dark and sinful about herself.

He is psychic, he is vicious, possessive, and blatantly sexual; her sensual affection with Anna parallels the evident and physical attraction he displays towards Thomas; and the social power he so easily commands is the same that she lacks, being a woman in a rigidly patriarchal society.

In the end, the severely questionable age gap, the murders, the coercion, the betrayal - all of that comes down to respect. Throughout the film, that is the one thing that Ellen is consistently denied. She is young when she meets Orlok, yes; but she is aggressively infantilized by her surrounding society even when she is a grown, adult, married woman.

It starts from the beginning of the film, when the Hutters visit the Harding family. During those scenes, the men are shown talking business - while the women play with children in the parlour; and the same social framing persists into the body of the film. When Ellen is suffering from what appears to be some form of mental illness, she is referred to as a child by multiple different characters; and when the condition progresses, she is swiftly diagnosed with hysteria and drugged - thus being forcibly removed from the discussion of her own illness. The general reactions to that illness - which is, in fact, a display of her psychic abilities - range from annoyance to fear to curiosity; it is seen either as a disability or a curse, rather than anything entirely innate to who she is. Her fears are dismissed. Harding tells her to learn some deference. Even closer to the finale, when Von Franz admits that she could have been a great priestess in another age, he does so with pity rather than anything else; in their industrial era, he cannot help but see her only as a tragic sacrifice - horrible, but necessary to save the city from a plague. Brought in to heal her, he instead guides her to her death.

All these aspects of Ellen's circumstances find a direct opposite in her relationship with Orlok. Unlike all other characters in the film, he only ever sees her as his equal, which is made even more evident when his interactions with Thomas and Herr Knock are brought into consideration. With both men, Orlok insists on being addressed by his lordly title, "as his blood demands it"; and yet, Ellen never calls him by any title at all, be it "My Lord" or even a simple "Herr." She argues with him freely, and there is a familiarity between them that he is demonstrated to never tolerate from anyone else. Similarly, while he disguises the covenant he makes with Thomas, the terms of his covenant with Ellen are laid out clearly, in full. He does not hide from her; she already knows the worst of him, the same way he knows that she is intelligent, that she is powerful, and that she is not meant to be demure and deferring. Again and again, Orlok insists that Ellen is not meant for humanity - and the true horror, the horror she cannot bring herself to face, is that he is right.

In a sense, he is a mirror held up in front of her own face. Ellen is painfully aware that she does not fit in, and that she never has. The "normal" society, epitomized by the Hardings (wealthy husband, pretty blonde wife, 2.5 kids), has no place for her - and actively dislikes her.

The film makes this ostracism impossible for the viewer to ignore. As the story progresses, it becomes evident that the other human characters - even those that do sincerely care for Ellen - never truly know her. Anna loves her, but wishes she would not talk of dreadful things - and lashes out as a result of that discomfort, scolding her. Sievers finds himself bewildered by her; Knock sees her as an object to trade; Von Franz pities her, Harding hates her, and Thomas cannot truly satisfy her, even after being touched by the supernatural himself.

Seeing a flash of a monstrous face while they are together, he flings her away. To him, his experience with Orlok is merely traumatic, and he wishes for nothing more than to leave it behind. However, to her, it is something she cannot help but crave; and she continues to wear her lilac perfume.*

All that to say - Count Orlok is, simultaneously, everything Ellen wants and everything she is terrified of being.

That specific dichotomy reaches its climax during their mutual finale. As it is to be expected from a vampire wedding night, they rejoin in a sequence of sex, blood, and renewed vows - and what is particularly notable is that (unlike Murnau) Eggers makes it clear that this Orlok never intended to kill his Ellen, despite his inability to resist her blood. Though he drinks from her through the night, he stops at cock-crow; and she guides his head back down herself, distracting him long enough for the sun to rise. It is a duet of accident and intention. He drains her; and she holds him as the sun drains him. They cling together as they end - on a bed that serves their wedding and their death.

It is romantic. it is unquestionably romantic. However, that does not mean that the horror isn't also present; Ellen's consent, under these circumstances, is highly debatable, and Orlok is cruel, amoral, and murderously possessive. At the same time, the characters are also acting out folkloric archetypes, with precious little adjustment to that framework - which further removes them from a modern understanding of morality. He is Death, a Koschei the Deathless, a monster; she is the Maiden, a Vasilisa, a damsel. I hesitate to liken them to the Beauty and the Beast, largely because in the original premise of that story, the Beauty falls in love with the kindness that the Beast consistently displays; and it is essential to stress that Orlok has none. He does care for Ellen, in his own way, but he admits to being incapable of love as she defines it in human terms;** and, curiously, that seems to be her primary concern when it comes to the idea of accepting his proposal - rather than all the blood and carnage.

What I'm trying to say, I suppose, is that there are multiple ways of following a story, and multiple different stories in a film as nuanced as Nosferatu. Yes, it is about grooming and trauma. Yes, it is about finding love outside of the cage that is "polite society." I'm sure that it is many other things besides, with as many meanings as there are people in the theatres; after all, I am only one person, and the film grossed something over $40M in its first three days. The point is, really, that this is a story in which a rotting vampire is woken from centuries of deathlike slumber by a lonely voice asking him to be her friend; and whatever these two strange and aching souls do with that can go down any myriad of paths. The film trusts the viewer to interpret the narrative they choose.

* LILAC PERFUME - in fact, it is such a consistent favourite of Ellen's that Orlok smells it on her hair in the locket she sends with Thomas to the castle. Thomas never really learns the reason she likes that scent - even though he knows that preference well enough that he gifts her lilacs in the beginning of the film.

** ORLOK'S OBSESSION - this is a side note, but: the vampire wedding sequence reminds me strongly of the third season of NBC's Hannibal. I suppose that was to be expected, considering that Hannibal is also a Dracula offshoot, much like Orlok himself. When Ellen snaps at Orlok that he cannot love, he responds that "no; but only with you, I can be truly sated." Similarly - "Is Hannibal in love with me?" asks Will; and Bedelia responds - "Could he feel a daily stab of hunger for you, and find nourishment at the very sight of you?" I'd say if you liked that series, you should try and see the film. It works with a familiar blend of aesthetic horror.