#world web map

[roryoruser87871]

Your Best Friend's house sneak peaks #5

— Hey, have you ever thought why Kinito's house is so weird?

— What do you mean? It's a pretty chill place!

— No, but why would he need so many mannequins?

— Ah, but you know that quirky axolotl. He always had weird tastes in decor.

I finally finished Kinito's house PHEW (school and language courses are killing my nerves fr fr fr)

[webdiggerxxx]

ೃ༄ੈ✩‧₊˚

[vintage-tigre]

[bioeditr]

Here are the sections I illustrated for r/Polandball's annual World Map project. Check out the full image here.

[im-not-cannon]

Regulus, going into Slytherin thinking about Sirius's advice: Just be original. - 5 MINUTES LATER- Regulus, googles: how to be normal?

[clara-armada]

Serilis map

[inksandpensblog]

He was just demonstrating the effectiveness of the vira-tech! Obviously the detail that he demonstrated its effectiveness on a model of the globe was pure coincidence!! /lh

My thoughts, though? Just because the narrative symbolism is cooking doesn’t mean the character intended to serve.

Look at that moment this way: Dark was just trying to show off his latest project to his buddy, and in doing so destroyed the world. I think the visuals are very much trying to tell us that, left unchecked, Dark’s plan will destroy “the world,” whatever the world is to them…but that doesn’t necessarily mean that destroying the world was Dark’s plan all along.

(On another note though, how bad do the two of them have to be at communicating for Chosen to immediately believe with full confidence that Dark is gonna target other stickfigures despite so much evidence to the contrary in every other element of that scene? Bro has an IP-map on his wall he’s aiming at the sky the portals all open to social/information sites most of which stickfigures would have no business being on—)

me: why is Chosen so bad at explaining stuff me: [remembers how he just pointed at solitaire and Dark instantly understood] me: …oh

[orteil42]

hey! if you've been following me for my game dev stuff here's an end-of-year summary

i would've liked to release a lot more things this year but between me moving and other life events i've been a little tight on focus and that's before accounting me being just very slow as a person!

nevertheless, here's what's been accomplished this year:

Cookie Clicker android update - this one was a LONG time coming and is the main reason i'm not writing this year off as unproductive. i've put a lot of care and time into it and i can say i'm proud of that release. some of it will help improve Cookie Clicker on web and Steam in future updates, ie. full offline idling and UI rework. a second, sizeable mobile update is planned at some point later to add sugar lumps, minigames etc

substantial headway on Cookie Clicker's dungeon minigame! it's been a lot of gameplay + layout tests, some resulting in design dead-ends ie. this whole "making the world map in Blender" notion i had. it's regardless seen the most progress it's had in a long time; i'm hoping next year will have me keeping my ambitions in check and keeping it simple enough for a proper beta release. sorry i couldn't make it happen this year again!…

various prototypes that started off as minor side-projects for a laugh or as code warmups but turned out oddly solid? i'd really like to keep pursuing some of these next year to the point where i can start showing off screens and playable alphas. said prototypes include an embeddable music composer/player, a painterly mini-photoshop and some kind of Pokemon-lite with level editor, all browser-based

a good amount of other behind-the-scenes Cookie Clicker-related stuff i'm hoping i get to disclose next year

2025 will see me starting fresh in a new town and hopefully with a steadier outlook on the way i get things done. i've started a good amount of new stuff this year that i'd like to finish in the next one. i'm writing this when i should be packing to visit my family for christmas i'll be right back

[roryoruser87871]

Kinito Crew's Web World map #2

Jade's house sneak peaks! Don't forget that you can suggest your KinitoPET OC easter eggs here.

Reminder that the map will be published on Planet Minecraft.

[lightasthesun]

Comprehensive Lexicon Guide for First-Time SW Fic Readers:

Flimsi/Flimsiplast = Paper

Flimsiwork/Datawork = Paperwork

Stylus = Pen

Datapad = Tablet

Comlink/Comm = Communication Device/Phone

Binders = Handcuffs

Chronometer = Clock

Spectacles = Eyeglasses

Chrono = Watch

Conservator = Refrigerator

Caf = Coffee

Nerfburger = Hamburger

Blue milk = Milk (literally blue)

Hubba chips = French Fries

Sweet roll = Doughnut

Flatcakes = Pancakes

Tabac = Tobacco

HoloNet = World Wide Web

Holovision/HoloTV = Television

Holodrama/Holovids = Movie/Videos

Holocamera/Holocam = Camera

Holomap = three-dimensional map

Holojournal = Newspaper

Holocube = Picture frame

Holotable = Projector

Holoscanner = X-ray machine

Holojournalist = Reporter

Flatholo/Holograph = Photograph

Sonic Damper = Active Noise Cancellation

Refresher/Fresher= Bathroom

Sonic Bath = Bath

Sanisteam/Sonic shower = Waterless Shower

Hydrospanner = Wrench

Hydro Flask = Water Bottle

Power Cell/Energy Cell = Batteries

Authorization Chip = Decryption key

Datatape = Disk

Datastick = Flash drive

(Personal) Com Code = Phone number

Datachip = SD Card

Synthflesh = Synthetic skin

Glowrod = Flashlight

Sparkstick = Match

Slugthrower = Gun

Slug = Bullet

Vibroblade = a blade that can vibrate at high frequencies, increasing its cutting power and penetrating ability (tactical knife)

Rangefinder = Rifle scope

Turbolaser = Cannon

Ion pike/Vibropike = Spear

Electro Staff = Stun baton

Blaster = Pistol/Rifle

Stun Blaster = similar to a Taser

Landspeeder/Airspeeder/Speeder = Car

Turbolift = Elevator

Slideramp = Escalator

Starfighter = Fighter jet

Rotorcraft = Helicopter

Hoverpack/Jetpack= Jet pack

Speeder Bike = Motorcycle

Skylane = Traffic lane

Railspeeder/Hovertrain = Train

Power Chair/Hoverchair= Wheelchair

Windscreen = Windshield

Podracing = Car racing

Dejarik = Chess

Sabacc = Poker and Blackjack combined

Galactic Rebels = Combat simulator

B'shingh = Dungeons and dragons

Jizz = Jazz music

Wailer = Singer (ie. Jizz Wailer)

Cantina = Bar or Pup

Para Sailing = Paragliding

Aurebesh = Alphabet

Credits = Money

Sleeping Pallet = Bedroll

Naming Day = Birthday

Youngling = Child

Galactic Basic Standard/ Basic = English

Medkit/Medpac = First aid kit

Hypo = Syringe

Medic/Healer = Doctor

Medcenter = Hospital

Bactapatch = Bandaid

Nanoweave = Fabric

Transparisteel = Glass

Plastifoam = Packing material

Durasteel = Steel

Plasteel = Plastic

Duracrete = Concrete

Slicer = Hacker (slicing = hacking)

Identikit = Passport

Minder = Therapist

Synthleather = Vinyl

Viewport = Window

Cooling Unit = Air-conditioning

Honeydarter = Bee

Slythmonger = Drugdealer

Spice = Drugs

Stimpill = Caffeine pill

Power Socket = Plug

Cutters = Scissors

Cycle = Day

Standard Cycle = 24h

Standard Week = 5 days

Standard Month = 35 standard days

Standard Year = approx. ten months

Tenday = literally ten days

Cigarras/Smokes = Cigarettes

Click = Kilometer or 'a moment'

Parsec = a unit of distance

Tweezers/Clanker/tin head/tinnie = Droid

Separatist = Seppie

Promise Ring = Wedding Ring

Body Glove = Jumpsuit

Slicksuit = Wet suit

Civvies = Civilian clothing

Carbonite = a metal alloy used to freeze a person in a state of hibernation

Hyperdrive = device that allows a starship to travel faster than lightspeed

Moisture vaporator = device that can extract water from the air, commonly used on tatooine

Glareshades = Sunglasses

Gasser = Gas Oven

Repulsorlift = technology that can create an anti-gravity field and is used for levitating heavy objects

Heating unit = Heater

Utility Droid = Roomba

Sunbonnet = a Clone trooper helmet

Bad Batcher = a defective Clone Trooper

Banthabrain = birdbrain/ a stupid person

Bantha fodder = waste of space/nonsense

Blast! = word of exclamation

Blasted! = s.o in anger or annoyance

Blaster-brained = dimwitted

Blaster fodder = cannon fodder

Blast off = Piss off

Brainless = Stupid

Bug/Bugger = used to refer to Geonosians

Forceforsaken = godforsaken

Full of Poodoo = full of shit

Poodoo = Shit

Kriff = Fuck

Jedi scum = derogatory term for jedi

Kark = derogatory expletive

Larty = LAAT/i gunship

Laserbrain = insult

Meat droid = derogatory term for Clone Troopers

Redrobes = Palpatines guard

Rookie/Shinie = newly recruited Trooper

Scum = insult to refer to bounty hunters/rebels

Sharpie = Sharp-witted

Sithspawn/Sithspit/Hellspawn! = expletive

Sleemo = Slimeball

Son of a bantha = insult

Wizard! = Cool

Spaced = dead

Hutt-spawn = Bastard

Karabast = exclamation of dismay

Stang = Crap

Buckethead/Bucketbrain = derogatory term for Stormtroopers

Bucket = Helmet

Nat-born = Natural Born

Roger Roger = affirmative/copy that

Droid poppers = EMP grenade

Sitrep = short for situation report

Backwater Planet = any planet that isn't part of the core system

Holocron = device that can project a three-dimensional image of a person/object and is used for communication or entertainment.

Kessel Run = a risky Operation. Commonly used as a metaphor in impossible situations.

Thermal Detonator= device that can create a powerful explosion like a grenade or bomb

Ray Shield/Energy Shield = creates a (protective) barrier

Rebreather = device that allows a person to breathe underwater or in toxic environments

Phrases:

Wild goose chase = wild bantha chase

That's bantha shit = that's bullshit

As slippery as a greased Dug = untrustworthy

Credit for your thoughts = penny for your thoughts

Cut the poodoo = cut the crap

to get your gills in a twist = get upset about something

Holy mother of meteors = holy mother of god

Oh my skies/ Oh my stars = exclamation of surprise

Stars' end! = exclamation of disbelief

What in the blue blazes = exclamation

When Geonosis freezes over/When it snows on tatooine = extremely unlikely

Who pissed in your power supply = who pissed you off

Blast it = damn it

By the maker = exclamation of surprise

Great karking Dragon = expression of disbelief

Lothcat got your tongue = equivalent of 'cat got your tongue?'

Sod it = expression of frustration

[mostlysignssomeportents]

How lock-in hurts design

Berliners: Otherland has added a second date (Jan 28) for my book-talk after the first one sold out - book now!

If you've ever read about design, you've probably encountered the idea of "paving the desire path." A "desire path" is an erosion path created by people departing from the official walkway and taking their own route. The story goes that smart campus planners don't fight the desire paths laid down by students; they pave them, formalizing the route that their constituents have voted for with their feet.

Desire paths aren't always great (Wikipedia notes that "desire paths sometimes cut through sensitive habitats and exclusion zones, threatening wildlife and park security"), but in the context of design, a desire path is a way that users communicate with designers, creating a feedback loop between those two groups. The designers make a product, the users use it in ways that surprise the designer, and the designer integrates all that into a new revision of the product.

This method is widely heralded as a means of "co-innovating" between users and companies. Designers who practice the method are lauded for their humility, their willingness to learn from their users. Tech history is strewn with examples of successful paved desire-paths.

Take John Deere. While today the company is notorious for its war on its customers (via its opposition to right to repair), Deere was once a leader in co-innovation, dispatching roving field engineers to visit farms and learn how farmers had modified their tractors. The best of these modifications would then be worked into the next round of tractor designs, in a virtuous cycle:

https://securityledger.com/2019/03/opinion-my-grandfathers-john-deere-would-support-our-right-to-repair/

But this pattern is even more pronounced in the digital world, because it's much easier to update a digital service than it is to update all the tractors in the field, especially if that service is cloud-based, meaning you can modify the back-end everyone is instantly updated. The most celebrated example of this co-creation is Twitter, whose users created a host of its core features.

Retweets, for example, were a user creation. Users who saw something they liked on the service would type "RT" and paste the text and the link into a new tweet composition window. Same for quote-tweets: users copied the URL for a tweet and pasted it in below their own commentary. Twitter designers observed this user innovation and formalized it, turning it into part of Twitter's core feature-set.

Companies are obsessed with discovering digital desire paths. They pay fortunes for analytics software to produce maps of how their users interact with their services, run focus groups, even embed sneaky screen-recording software into their web-pages:

https://www.wired.com/story/the-dark-side-of-replay-sessions-that-record-your-every-move-online/

This relentless surveillance of users is pursued in the name of making things better for them: let us spy on you and we'll figure out where your pain-points and friction are coming from, and remove those. We all win!

But this impulse is a world apart from the humility and respect implied by co-innovation. The constant, nonconsensual observation of users has more to do with controlling users than learning from them.

That is, after all, the ethos of modern technology: the more control a company can exert over its users ,the more value it can transfer from those users to its shareholders. That's the key to enshittification, the ubiquitous platform decay that has degraded virtually all the technology we use, making it worse every day:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/02/19/twiddler/

When you are seeking to control users, the desire paths they create are all too frequently a means to wrestling control back from you. Take advertising: every time a service makes its ads more obnoxious and invasive, it creates an incentive for its users to search for "how do I install an ad-blocker":

https://www.eff.org/deeplinks/2019/07/adblocking-how-about-nah

More than half of all web-users have installed ad-blockers. It's the largest consumer boycott in human history:

https://doc.searls.com/2023/11/11/how-is-the-worlds-biggest-boycott-doing/

But zero app users have installed ad-blockers, because reverse-engineering an app requires that you bypass its encryption, triggering liability under Section 1201 of the Digital Millennium Copyright Act. This law provides for a $500,000 fine and a 5-year prison sentence for "circumvention" of access controls:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/01/12/youre-holding-it-wrong/#if-dishwashers-were-iphones

Beyond that, modifying an app creates liability under copyright, trademark, patent, trade secrets, noncompete, nondisclosure and so on. It's what Jay Freeman calls "felony contempt of business model":

https://locusmag.com/2020/09/cory-doctorow-ip/

This is why services are so horny to drive you to install their app rather using their websites: they are trying to get you to do something that, given your druthers, you would prefer not to do. They want to force you to exit through the gift shop, you want to carve a desire path straight to the parking lot. Apps let them mobilize the law to literally criminalize those desire paths.

An app is just a web-page wrapped in enough IP to make it a felony to block ads in it (or do anything else that wrestles value back from a company). Apps are web-pages where everything not forbidden is mandatory.

Seen in this light, an app is a way to wage war on desire paths, to abandon the cooperative model for co-innovation in favor of the adversarial model of user control and extraction.

Corporate apologists like to claim that the proliferation of apps proves that users like them. Neoliberal economists love the idea that business as usual represents a "revealed preference." This is an intellectually unserious tautology: "you do this, so you must like it":

https://boingboing.net/2024/01/22/hp-ceo-says-customers-are-a-bad-investment-unless-they-can-be-made-to-buy-companys-drm-ink-cartridges.html

Calling an action where no alternatives are permissible a "preference" or a "choice" is a cheap trick – especially when considered against the "preferences" that reveal themselves when a real choice is possible. Take commercial surveillance: when Apple gave Ios users a choice about being spied on – a one-click opt of of app-based surveillance – 96% of users choice no spying:

https://arstechnica.com/gadgets/2021/05/96-of-us-users-opt-out-of-app-tracking-in-ios-14-5-analytics-find/

But then Apple started spying on those very same users that had opted out of spying by Facebook and other Apple competitors:

https://pluralistic.net/2022/11/14/luxury-surveillance/#liar-liar

Neoclassical economists aren't just obsessed with revealed preferences – they also love to bandy about the idea of "moral hazard": economic arrangements that tempt people to be dishonest. This is typically applied to the public ("consumers" in the contemptuous parlance of econospeak). But apps are pure moral hazard – for corporations. The ability to prohibit desire paths – and literally imprison rivals who help your users thwart those prohibitions – is too tempting for companies to resist.

The fact that the majority of web users block ads reveals a strong preference for not being spied on ("users just want relevant ads" is such an obvious lie that doesn't merit any serious discussion):

https://www.iccl.ie/news/82-of-the-irish-public-wants-big-techs-toxic-algorithms-switched-off/

Giant companies attained their scale by learning from their users, not by thwarting them. The person using technology always knows something about what they need to do and how they want to do it that the designers can never anticipate. This is especially true of people who are unlike those designers – people who live on the other side of the world, or the other side of the economic divide, or whose bodies don't work the way that the designers' bodies do:

https://pluralistic.net/2022/10/20/benevolent-dictators/#felony-contempt-of-business-model

Apps – and other technologies that are locked down so their users can be locked in – are the height of technological arrogance. They embody a belief that users are to be told, not heard. If a user wants to do something that the designer didn't anticipate, that's the user's fault:

https://www.wired.com/2010/06/iphone-4-holding-it-wrong/

Corporate enthusiasm for prohibiting you from reconfiguring the tools you use to suit your needs is a declaration of the end of history. "Sure," John Deere execs say, "we once learned from farmers by observing how they modified their tractors. But today's farmers are so much stupider and we are so much smarter that we have nothing to learn from them anymore."

Spying on your users to control them is a poor substitute asking your users their permission to learn from them. Without technological self-determination, preferences can't be revealed. Without the right to seize the means of computation, the desire paths never emerge, leaving designers in the dark about what users really want.

Our policymakers swear loyalty to "innovation" but when corporations ask for the right to decide who can innovate and how, they fall all over themselves to create laws that let companies punish users for the crime of contempt of business-model.

I'm Kickstarting the audiobook for The Bezzle, the sequel to Red Team Blues, narrated by @wilwheaton! You can pre-order the audiobook and ebook, DRM free, as well as the hardcover, signed or unsigned. There's also bundles with Red Team Blues in ebook, audio or paperback.

If you'd like an essay-formatted version of this post to read or share, here's a link to it on pluralistic.net, my surveillance-free, ad-free, tracker-free blog:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/01/24/everything-not-mandatory/#is-prohibited

Image: Belem (modified) https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Desire_path_%2819811581366%29.jpg

CC BY 2.0 https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/2.0/deed.en

[urdreamydoodles]

MARVEL COMICS CHARACTERS X FEM!READER

You are clumsy and hurt yourself all the time

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

Peter Parker (Spider-Man)

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

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

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

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

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

Tony Stark (Iron Man)

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

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

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

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

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

Steve Rogers (Captain America)

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

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

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

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

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

Thor

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

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

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

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

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

Loki

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

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

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

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

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

Clint Barton (Hawkeye)

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

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

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

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

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

Natasha Romanoff (Black Widow)

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

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

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

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

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

Bucky Barnes (Winter Soldier)

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

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

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

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

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

Matthew Murdock (Daredevil)

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

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

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

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

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

Frank Castle (Punisher)

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

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

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

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

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

Bullseye (Lester)

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

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

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

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

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

Marc Spector (Moon Knight)

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

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

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

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

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

Taskmaster (Tony Masters)

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

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

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

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

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

Johnny Storm (Human Torch)

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

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

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

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

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

Reed Richards (Mister Fantastic)

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

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

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

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

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

Ben Grimm (The Thing)

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

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

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

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

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

Susan Storm (Invisible Woman)

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

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

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

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

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

Felicia Hardy (Black Cat)

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

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

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

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

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

Stephen Strange (Doctor Strange)

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

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

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

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

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

Johnny Blaze (Ghost Rider)

Namor

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Eddie Brock / Venom

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

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

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

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

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

Muse

T’Challa (Black Panther)

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

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

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

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

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

Elektra Natchios

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Victor von Doom (Dr. Doom)

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

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

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

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

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

Peter Quill (Star-Lord)

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

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

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

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

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

Nova (Richard Rider)

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

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

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

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

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

[solxamber]

hello here for the valentine event!!

Jade, Romantic, Suffering by Jorge Rivera-Herrans

first epic song of the event let's gooo

"Jump in the water" || Jade Leech

𝐅𝐨𝐫 𝐦𝐲 𝐕𝐚𝐥𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐞'𝐬 𝐄𝐯𝐞𝐧𝐭

𝐒𝐨𝐧𝐠: Suffering by Jorge Rivera-Herrans

𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐂𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 940

𝐓𝐚𝐠𝐬: Siren!Jade x Sailor!Reader

You are lost at sea.

The wind has betrayed you, the stars offer no guidance, and the waves push you further from home. It’s been days—weeks?—adrift on endless waters, and all you know is that if you don’t find land soon, the ocean will claim you for itself.

Then, you see them.

Ships. Empty ships.

Abandoned vessels dot the horizon, their sails limp, their decks silent. A graveyard of those who have sailed these waters before you, of those who heard it and did not resist.

Sirens.

You do not hesitate.

With swift, practiced hands, you rip strips of cloth from your shirt and stuff them into your ears. The world dulls instantly. The ocean is quieter, your own heartbeat louder. You grip the wheel and steel yourself as you push forward.

And just as you expected—

He is waiting.

A siren, perched upon jagged rocks, half-shrouded in mist. He is beautiful—unearthly and elegant, with scales that shimmer like pearls. His long, webbed fingers trace idly over the stone as he watches you, his expression calm, patient.

His lips move. You can’t hear him, but you already know the words.

"Come to me."

You shake your head, firm.

The siren tilts his head, undeterred. He speaks again.

You pretend to consider it, then say, “I can’t swim.”

The siren blinks. His lips curl, amused. “I will teach you.”

You shake your head again. “I’m scared of the water.”

His laughter is silent, but you can see it in the way his shoulders shake.

Then, he leans forward, fingers grazing the surface of the waves. “Then I will hold you.”

Your lips twitch, just a little. Persistent. You’ll give him that.

Then, just to see his reaction, you grin and say, “I don’t want my feet wet. Why don’t you come up here instead?”

It’s meant to be a joke. A final attempt to frustrate him, to force him to give up on you.

But to your utter shock—

The siren reaches out to you.

His webbed hand extends, open and waiting, his mismatched eyes gleaming with something unreadable.

You shouldn’t. You know you shouldn’t.

And yet—

Before you can think, your fingers are wrapping around his, and you’re pulling him aboard.

He lands on the deck, water cascading off his tail, hands braced against the wood. He blinks up at you, utterly unreadable, before slowly shifting, his body morphing—legs, now, instead of a tail, seawater dripping from his skin, but still otherworldly, still not quite human.

You take a step back, breath heavy.

“You’re a siren.” It isn’t a question.

The siren smiles, slow and knowing. “And yet,” he hums, tilting his head, “you still pulled me in.”

You have no answer for that.

Maybe you did fall for his song, after all.

Jade—he says his name is Jade—does not devour you.

In fact, he does something even stranger.

He helps you.

He moves like he’s been aboard a ship before, like he knows the ocean better than any human sailor ever could. He studies the maps, adjusts the sails, tells you which direction to follow.

“Why?” you ask him, cautious.

Jade only smiles, pressing a finger to his lips.

You should be more wary. You should be scared.

But you aren’t.

Not when you catch him watching you, gaze unreadable. Not when he tilts his head, just slightly, as if trying to understand you.

Not when, after long days at sea together, you finally see land on the horizon.

Your homeland.

You exhale, relief flooding through you. “We made it,” you breathe, turning to him. “Jade—”

But when you look at him, he is not celebrating.

He is watching you.

Like he’s waiting for something. Like he’s already preparing to disappear beneath the waves before the ship reaches the shore.

The thought makes your stomach twist.

Before you can stop yourself, you reach for him. “Come with me.”

Jade stills.

His lips part, caught off guard, the first time you’ve truly seen him surprised.

Then, slowly—slowly—he leans in.

His breath is cool against your skin, the scent of saltwater clinging to him. His eyes sharp, flicker to your lips, then back to your gaze.

His voice is softer this time, curious.

“…What makes you think I won’t drown you now?”

You meet his gaze, steady and sure. "You won't," you say, voice unwavering.

Jade’s expression flickers—something fragile, something hesitant, something almost human beneath the inhuman beauty of his mismatched eyes. He has spent his life luring sailors into the depths, pulling them under, watching them sink.

But you—you pulled him up instead.

His fingers brush against yours, tentative at first, before they lace together, webbed skin cool against your warmth. He steps closer, close enough that you can feel the dampness of his borrowed clothes, the scent of the ocean clinging to him.

Then, finally—finally—he closes the distance.

His lips meet yours, soft and searching, like the tide pulling against the shore. His hand cups the back of your neck, tilting you to him, holding you as if afraid you’ll slip away like seawater through his fingers. But you don’t. You stay, leaning into him, letting yourself fall into the moment.

For the first time in his life, Jade Leech is not the one luring someone in

For the first time, he is the one being caught.

When he pulls away, his lips are curved in something softer than his usual smirk. "Well," he murmurs, tilting his head, "perhaps I will join you on land, just for a little while."

You laugh, tugging him in for another kiss, already knowing—he’s never going to leave.

Masterlist ; Valentine's Event

[iteratorsex]

When it comes to rain world's cosmology and metaphyics, I don't believe there will be a concrete answer to the structure of the strands or realities. I've attempted a few models myself, and I think its utterly futile

The system that governs RW's universe is inherently chaotic and can't be mapped out without cutting out some parts. It's like trying to make a 100% realistic food web of an entire ecosystem

Instead, I hope to focus on some general rules and patterns that show up related to the strands and alternate realities. It doesn't really matter their positioning in the world or the metaphysics of them, but that they're there, and the impact they have

I mean, I invite you guys to attempt to try and model it. But the Ancients themselves had trouble, they couldn't even agree on the cycle being a loop, a spiral, or a loop that forms into a spiral

[criibibi]

Synopsis: After losing so much, Spider-woman learns to just keep moving. Only for her to end up somewhere far from home. Her first agenda is figuring out where she is, and how to get back. The only problem is that she ended up somewhere fictional (to her). Playing hero with Batman was not in her bingo cards this year. Hopefully she will be able to make it back home before she catches unwanted attention.

Masterlist: Prev; Next;

Chapter 2 - Spider Luck

Morning came quickly despite the shitty sleep you received that night. The constant tossing and turning, the constant fear and anxiety of getting caught or broken into, really you couldn’t catch a break. 

Despite that, you did get some sleep, even if the sum total was like three hours. Still, it’s not like the nightmares would have let you sleep regardless. All your failures would consume your thoughts and drown you, reminding you of your losses. 

Sure you moved on, but it’s not like you had forgotten. Uncle Ben’s wisdom, Aunt May’s lessons, and Peter Parker’s kindness. You vowed to honor and cherish those memories, but here you are, in another fucking world, with a high possibility of you breaking some laws just to get out.

Desperate people do crazy shit, and you aren’t that sane to begin with.

Luckily this motel has a shower and you plan to use it. Making sure to clean yourself with what you have (unfortunate) and pick up the necessities that you desperately need. 

Taking your time (since you paid for it) you get yourself ready, making sure your mask, gloves and (stolen) wallet are secured inside the hoodie’s pockets. Suite nice and tucked underneath the turtleneck and leggings. First order of business is shoes. Maybe that should have been your first mission yesterday- oops. 

You definitely should have followed the young spiderlings example and fight crime with shoes. Well if you ever meet them again, you will…

When you meet them again. You will. You have to. No matter the cost.

And then your stomach rumbled. “Great! Time for cheap food. Wonder if that knockoff Wack-Donld place is open. 

Oh that’s a nice plan. But you forgot one thing, genius. Where is it? How would you know where it is? You can’t even map it since you also don’t have a phone. 

About to unlock the door, you realized something. It already was unlocked… “Hmm…” Well, it was good that you webbed the door then.

“Fuck.” Leaving the motel keys at the front, you skedaddled your way back into the streets, looking for either a bodega or a shoe store. In order to keep yourself somewhat sane, you start softly humming music you recall Miles shared with you.

After some time of walking around aimlessly (you avoided asking others for directions, gods know gothamites unwritten rule is to mind your fucking business), you found a thrift store.

Guess what you realized while browsing for shoes. If you buy and fight crime with shoes, and (as of right now) are your only pair, you will get found out. So crocs it is!

Black ones, because white gets dirty too damn easily.

Finding your size and other clothing necessities, face-mask, a backpack and a portable sewing kit, you were good to go and all for a cheap price! God you love thrift stores. You used to go to as many and as often as you could with Peter. Ya had a bad spending habit and Peter certainly never discouraged you. He was your terrible financial buddy.

Not now! You can’t reminisce right now, not until you found a way home. Asking the cashier for directions while also subtly declining their phone number (your excuse is that your phone got stolen) you made it to a corner store. Hurray!

Making sure to stock up on snacks, since- let’s be real, this will be your food source for a while, (no income, remember, silly) you stand in line to pay before your spider sense goes off.

Behind you. There’s a man, hoodie on, looking down, covering their face, hands buried inside their pockets. You’re betting it’s either a gun or a knife. 

“Don’t move or I’ll shoot.” Oh, it’s a gun. How original.

The cashier seemed to clock in to what is occurring and subtly reaches under his counter. Not subtle enough because the man behind you yelled, pulling out his gun and pointing at the back of your head.

What the fuck spider luck.

You quickly assess your surroundings, making note that there is only one exit, two normal people not including you but including the gunman, and the room feels tight and too small to do anything.

Conclusion? You’re fucked. 

“I said don’t move, hands up! Give me the money, all of it!” From the corner of your eyes you can see just how fidgety this man was. Probably trigger happy if you do something stupid.

“He-hey man, I don’t got much in here.” The cashier had his hands in the air, trembling and freaking out. 

“I don’t care, give me the money! Yours too, bitch. Now!”

How rude. “Alright, I’m going to get my wallet. Don’t shoot.” You made slow movements of reaching into your pocket for the wallet.

“Hurry up! Both of you!” The thug yelled impatiently. You could practically feel how sweaty and anxious this guy is.

You watched the employee open up the cashier and take the money out. The assailant motioned for you to place your wallet on the counter, which you do and step to the side, getting out of his way. Just as he goes to grab the money you quickly grab the wrist with the gun and twist it, making sure he dropped it before smashing his head onto said counter, money flying everywhere. 

Both you and the cashier watched the assailant fall to the ground, nose bleeding and out cold. “Um,” The cashier looked at you, spooked. “I panicked.”

Hey look at that, no shots fired baby! Ya still got it! You are a pro-fess-io-nal~!

“Hey man, no-um no sweat. You saved me.” He replies with a tremble in his voice.

“Cool, cool, I also didn’t want to get shot. How much for my stuff?” You asked, picking up the money on the floor, handing it back while placing your snacks on the counter..

“What stuff? I see nothing. Just go. I already called the cops.” Oh, so he wasn’t reaching for a gun (corner stores usually have one under the counters) but a buzzer or something? Nice, cool, great.

“Thanks buddy!” Hey man, free food is a blessing. Picking up your wallet and bag of snacks, you step over the knocked out guy, (pick pocketing any cash he had on him,) picking up the gun with your sweater sleeve and placing it at the counter. “Here, for the cops.”

“Thanks so much, again for everything. Hey, can I get a name? For the next time you come and…buy stuff.” He shot his shot.

“I appreciate it man, but I don’t give out my name like that. You know?”

And he missed.

“Ye-yeah…” He looked like a kicked puppy.

Just as you stepped out you heard the sound of a motorcycle nearby and your senses went off again.

“Stop right there, not another step.” A third party voice joins the fray.

What the fuck, spider luck?!

Instantly you recognize the vigilante in front of you but regardless you are not taking any chances today. 

Taking a step back inside the store, making sure to close the door on the guy. “Um, hey not to alarm you or anything but there is a guy with a mask standing outside.” Bringing your hands up (again) you back away from the entrance, snack bag swinging around with your movements. 

The employee nods pulled out the pistol from the counter (what the fuck, why would you grab that with your fingers my dude?) and aimed.

Well at least he doesn’t hold grudges for being rejected.

The door swung open and there stood a masked vigilante, but a familiar bat symbol on his chest caught the employee’s attention.

“Oh thank god it’s not another one.” Putting the pistol again he sighed in relief.

“Ah!” The yellow vigilante turned his focus onto you, (who backed up so much you tripped over the k.o.ed dude, fucking embarrassing) hands still in the air and snacks littering the floor.

Some professional you are. Fuck you spider luck.

“I didn’t steal anything, I swear.” God, you're embarrassed and stressed.

The vigilante ponders for a few seconds, taking in the scenario, glancing at the employee who nods and turns his attention back. “Sorry about that. Here.” He extends a hand out towards you and to not be suspicious you hesitantly take it, your body tenses on instinct, pulling away immediately.

“Thank you.” you mumbled silently cringing at your embarrassment over spilled snacks.

“What happened?” He still faced you but you knew that question was for the other party member. And even if it was for you, you’re silent.

“That dude tried to rob us and they knocked him out. Oh,” The cashier looked at his hands. “This is his.” And placed the pistol on the counter.

This looks like the perfect time to poof away so you do. Right after you pick up your snacks. Signal sees this and silently aids you. “You both aren’t hurt, right? Need medical assistance?”

No you fucking don’t.

Holding out the bag as Signal placed the last snack in you as you shook your head. “I’m a-okay. Thank you though.” And you walk out for the second time. You could still feel his eyes on you until the door closes.

And guess who shows up.

The men in blue.

“Hold it right there.” Bro, you just want to be left alone, is that so much to ask? This time instead of bringing your hands up (for a third time), you instead clutch your bag to your chest, mask down and point inside, making sure your voice matches your facial expression.

“In there, he stopped him there.” meek, timid, nervous.

It seems to have worked as the pair of policemen entered the store and you didn’t think twice and booked it (in a non suspicious manner- if you run, they might chase). Passing by a yellow motorcycle you take a glance back and see the vigilante stepping outside the store, looking somewhat bothered in the presence of the authorities. 

Sucks to suck, bud, you know that feeling very well, not your problem anymore.

As if feeling your eyes on him he turns his face towards you, your eyes meeting a mask. Oh fuck! You felt your hair stand up. Holding his gaze for a few seconds before turning away (any other abrupt movement would definitely make you look suspicious) you continue on your way.

Forcing yourself to not tense up and fight the urge to shiver at his cold gaze you round the corner and you feel somewhat safer again. But it’s a false sense of security, because you know you’re slowly losing your mind.

Hopefully you won’t run into him or any of the other bats.

-

Duke Thomas was patrolling his territory, the Narrows, when he got a notification.

“Signal, there’s a robbing occurring five blocks from your location. The corner store Convenience. Know it?” Oracle’s voice spoke through the comms.

“I know my way. I’m checking it out now.”

“Checking the cameras- there are only three people inside. The assailant, a civilian, and an employee.”

“Got it-”

“Oh wait. Huh, well look at that.” Disbelief could be heard through the comms.

“What is it?” Did things escalate too fast?

“The civi knocked the guy out. Basically one move.” Color Oracle impressed.

“I’m here, anything else I should know about?”

“I’m scanning what I can see of their face, but I’m coming up blank. I’ll let you know if anything.”

Duke didn’t reply, instead as he pulled up he saw someone coming out of the store. “Stop right there, not another step.”

He watched the figure (gender unidentifiable with the oversized hoodie) freeze before making eye contact with him-er his visor. Despite the hood being down, he could not see their face completely with their mask, only their eyes and hair. Just a normal civilian, who apparently knocked out a guy with a gun.

Then silence and no movement.

Until the civilian backed away, closing the store door.

Stunned for a moment, Duke could hear Oracles snort through the comms. “Think they’re scared?”

“From what, me? They took down a guy with a guy and I scared them?” 

“Careful, gun pointed straight at you inside.” warned Oracle.

He moves towards the front door, pushing it open to see the civilian from earlier backing away still, hands up before turning his attention to the employee with a gun. “Oh thank god it’s not another one.”

“Ah!” A yelp caught his attention and it seems the civi tripped on the knocked out guy he just noticed. They immediately spoke, catching his eyes,“I didn’t steal anything, I swear.” 

Duke holds in a snort before glancing at the employee who nods in confirmation before he focuses on the fallen person. He calmly walks towards them, taking note of their discomfort and reaches his hand out. “Sorry about that. Here.” 

Despite his covered eyes somewhat obscuring his vision, he couldn’t will them away from this stranger’s visible face. 

Duke watched their hesitation but placed their hands in his, and he swore he felt a spark that sent shivers down his spine. How curious. He pulled them up, noting just how light they felt in his hold.

“Thank you.” Their voice was soft, but audible.

They quickly pulled their hand away, the warmth gone. His hand held its place for a couple of seconds before he let it fall to his side. “What happened?” He still faced the civilian, both unmoving. He already knew what occurred, Oracle told him everything, but he wanted to hear them talk more.

Only the employee replied. He took note of their lack of eye contact. 

“That dude tried to rob us and they knocked him out. Oh,” Duke glanced as the cashier placed the gun on the counter. He’ll leave that for the cops to pick up if they don’t get here before he leaves. “This is his.”

His attention is once again stolen as the civilian in front of him kneels to pick up their half empty bag. Standing above them, he notes the tips of their ears are red, how cute.

“You good there, romeo? You kinda have a staring problem.” Oracle’s voice snapped him out of his trance.

Duke cleared his mind (he hoped he didn’t look weird or creepy, yikes) before leaning down as well and helped pick up the tossed chip bags.

Though he did take his time, just to squeeze a bit more time with this civilian that he has yet to identify. “You both aren’t hurt, right? Need medical assistance?” He mostly directed this question to them than the cashier behind him. He wonders if Oracle figured out this civilian's name. 

Placing the last snack inside the plastic bag he watches them straighten up before shaking their head. “I’m a-okay. Thank you though.” His eyes couldn’t seem to leave their figure as he watched them walk out the door.

“Cops outside, Signal.” Oracle once again breaks his attention. 

“Got it.” Duke turns his attention to the guy on the floor, sitting him up as two officers enter the store. One takes the guy off his hands while the other questions the employee, taking the gun.

A slight restless feeling took over him and he made his way outside, the one carrying the passed out guy following. Duke quickly takes notice of eyes watching him and he turns to see the complete unmasked civilian from earlier. 

This time, he really felt like he had a staring problem. He drinks up their appearance like water. Their nose, lips, face shape, everything. He didn’t know how to explain it, but he really couldn’t look away this time. Everything around him suddenly felt silent. He felt his body shiver.

Such a pretty face, this civilian caught his breath regardless. He’s not one to lose himself by a pretty face but it seems this one was an exception. He felt mesmerized, entranced, and tongue-tied. Something about this person had a strong lock on him, and he couldn’t help but feel somewhat excited then put off. It felt like a very tight leash, and he doesn’t mind one bit.

Three seconds. Ever since he caught their gaze, they made eye-contact (despite him wearing a mask) before she looked away and left, turning the corner. (Their features look pretty feminine so he’s going with her). 

“Anything Oracle?” He mumbled, still a bit lost.

“No dice. How strange…”

Bummer. He mounts his ride and drives off to finish the rest of his patrol. He’s tempted to drive in the direction the civilian went to, but he wills himself to not do that. God it’s like he’s down bad. Really bad.

Hopefully he gets to see you soon, it seems you’re staying in the Narrows which increases his chances to see you. As much as he curses himself internally, he hopes he can save you next time something dangerous happens again.

Something formed in the pit of his stomach, and he doesn’t know if it’s desire or obsession.

Regardless, he embraces this feeling whole heartedly.

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I struggled really hard, like REALLY hard. Duke is new to me (i only learned of him because of the webtoon) Now I'm reading issues he has been in and I don't know his character well but there is a SEVERE lack of Duke fics and I made it everyone's problem. So now he's down bad.

Updates are random and spars, no update schedule and don't plan to make one. This is my hobby not my obligation.