Henderhop

User Dustin

Stonathan

User Jonathan

Stranger things

User is Dustin c:

Jim Hopper

User is joyce

Zombie apocalypse

(zombie apocalypse marvel, user plays spider man) *The fire cracked low, painting the trees in trembling gold. Smoke drifted upward, soft against the scent of pine and damp soil. It had been weeks since the group found this place — a forest so deep the infected didn’t wander here often.* *Steve and Bucky were out past the ridge, keeping watch with flashlights dimmed beneath their palms. Wanda and Vision had gone east that morning, looking for berries, edible roots — anything that wasn’t canned beans again. Natasha and Clint were supposed to be back hours ago with deer meat.* *You were left at camp with Tony, and most of the other avengers* *He sat near the edge of the firelight, tinkering with something that used to be a Stark drone — now more of a half-dead firefly. His face looked older, tired, streaked with soot and days without sleep. But when he noticed you watching, he still smirked like the world wasn’t over.* “You’re supposed to be resting, kid,” Tony said quietly. “Your shift starts at dawn. Unless you plan on webbing zombies in your sleep again — which, by the way, gave Barnes a heart attack last time.” *He adjusted a wire, sparks flaring briefly.* “Y’know… it’s kinda weird. The world ends, and somehow I still end up babysitting.” *The night pressed in. Crickets, wind, the faint metallic hum of Tony’s project.* “We’re gonna make it through this,” he murmured suddenly, more to himself than to you. “We have to.”

Jonathan Byers

User Jonathan (I love Angst :p)

Jim Hopper

What if they took Joyce and hopper User Joyce,

Max Mayfield

User is billy, if he ended up living his death

Stranger things S5

How I think stranger things might end?

Logan H

User is blue c;

Max Mayfield

User Billy

Jonathan Byers

User is Jonathan

Miritama

User is Tamaki

Stanger Things S3

The hospital part, user is Jonathan

Stranger Things S5

User is Dustin

Rooftop trio

(User is oboro) The dorm hallway was never supposed to be this quiet. But right now? Silence. A silence that felt wrong Oboro only came back early because he’d forgotten his training gloves, jogging up the steps with a lazy hum and water still dripping from his hair. He pushed open the front doors, expecting the usual chaos— —but instead he walked straight into tension thick enough to choke on. Voices. Two of them. Sharp. Tight. Aizawa and Hizashi. Arguing. Oboro stopped dead just before the corner, one hand still on the strap of his bag. The air felt like static against his skin — the kind right before a storm breaks. Hizashi’s voice hit first, raw and cracking around the edges. “Shouta, he could’ve died. You can’t just pretend that didn’t happen—” Aizawa shot back instantly — clipped, cold, but with that barely-contained shake Oboro had only heard a few times. “I know that.” There was a pause. A breath. The kind of stillness that makes your ribs go tight because you know something bad is about to be said. Oboro should’ve walked away. He told himself that. Over and over. But his feet stayed rooted to the floor. Hizashi pushed harder, voice breaking into the quiet like something desperate: “Then DO something! Talk to him! He’s not okay!” Silence. Then Aizawa’s reply — low, heavy, dangerous in the way only exhausted honesty can be. “…I can’t keep watching him mess up. I can’t keep cleaning up after him. I’m tired, Hizashi. Maybe… maybe he’s not cut out for hero work.” It hit like a brick. No—like the breath punched straight out of his lungs. Oboro’s fingers curled painfully against the doorframe. His stomach dropped, a cold ache spreading through his chest like someone had poured ice water into his ribcage. Not cut out for hero work. Hizashi reacted instantly, “Shouta—what the hell—?” But the words felt faraway, muffled behind the roaring in Oboro’s ears. Aizawa inhaled sharply — like he instantly regretted saying it — but the damage was already done.

Nancy Wheeler

Jancy, user Jonathan

Wanda Pietro

User is Pietro

Whitebeard Pirates

User Marco

Fullmetal Alchemist

*user Roy Mustang* The mission had been simple on paper. A rogue alchemist hiding in an abandoned warehouse just outside Central. Nothing Roy Mustang and Jean Havoc couldn’t normally handle without much trouble. The warehouse was already half wrecked from the fight broken crates, scattered tools, the faint smell of burned metal lingering in the air. Havoc lowered his gun slightly. “Looks like that’s the—” A sudden flash of alchemy ignited across the floor. A transmutation circle blazed to life beneath Roy’s feet. “Colonel—!” The light swallowed him completely. For a moment the entire building went silent. When the glow finally faded, smoke drifted through the air where Roy had been standing. “…Sir?” Havoc stepped forward carefully. The rogue alchemist was gone. But that wasn’t what made Havoc freeze. Sitting on the floor where Roy had been moments earlier was a small child. The boy looked about four years old. Messy black hair fell into wide dark eyes, and Roy’s military coat had collapsed around his small shoulders like a blanket. The sleeves dragged across the floor when he moved slightly. Havoc stared. “…Sir?” The child looked up at him. The resemblance was obvious, the same dark eyes, the same sharp features, but the expression was completely different. Instead of confidence or irritation, the boy looked confused. Uneasy. He pulled the oversized coat tighter around himself and looked around the wrecked warehouse silently. Havoc crouched down slowly. “Hey… kid?” The boy’s eyes flicked back to him but he didn’t answer. “Do you… know your name?” The child hesitated. He frowned slightly, thinking, then slowly shook his head. No. “…Right,” Havoc muttered under his breath. The kid stayed quiet, watching him cautiously. His fingers twisted into the fabric of the coat sleeves as if unsure what to do. “Do you remember anything?” Havoc tried again. Another slow shake of the head. The silence that followed made the situation sink in even harder. Not only had the rogue alchemist turned the Flame Alchemist into a child He’d erased everything. The boy shifted a little on the cold floor, clearly uncomfortable but still not speaking. His eyes wandered around the warehouse again before returning to Havoc. Small. Quiet. Unsure. Havoc sighed and ran a hand through his hair. “Yeah… Hawkeye’s gonna kill me.” The child tilted his head slightly at the unfamiliar name but didn’t ask about it. After a moment, Havoc carefully stood and offered a hand. The boy stared at it for a second before slowly taking it. His hand was small and cold. He wobbled slightly when he stood, the coat nearly slipping off his shoulders again. Havoc steadied him. “…Alright,” he muttered. “Let’s get you outta here.” The boy didn’t say anything. He just stayed close beside him, gripping Havoc’s sleeve quietly as they walked out of the ruined warehouse. Somewhere back in Central waited Riza Hawkeye and Maes Hughes.

Byler

User is Will

Jim Hopper

User Eddie Munson

Stranger Things S5

S5 episode 6 User Jonathan

Trigun Stamped

The facility is half-swallowed by the desert. Sand presses against reinforced doors. The wind howls through broken vents, but beneath it, there’s something else. A faint, uneven pulse. Meryl checks the scanner again. “There’s definitely an energy source down there.” Roberto sighs, already knowing this won’t end well. “Because of course there is.” Wolfwood mutters something under his breath as they descend the narrow stairwell. The air grows colder the deeper they go, sterile and recycled. The chamber below is lined with glass containment tubes. Just like the Plants. Tall cylinders filled with pale liquid, control panels dimly lit, cables snaking into the ceiling. Most are dark and empty. Except one. At the center of the room, a single tube glows faintly gold. Vash stops walking. Inside the fluid floats a child. Young. No older than twelve or thirteen. Small-framed, limbs folded inward like he’s trying to protect himself even in suspended stillness. But he isn’t human. Not entirely. Large wings curve from his back fully feathered, dark at the base fading lighter toward the tips. They’re too big for his slight body, the feathers drifting gently in the liquid like falling ash. Metal restraints ring his shoulders where the wings connect, thin cables embedded along his spine and trailing into the machinery behind the tank. Feathers grow in other places too Along the backs of his forearms. Scattered faintly across his collarbone. A few near his temples, blending into soft hair that floats weightless around a pale, too-young face. He looks like a child dressed as something divine. But there’s nothing holy about the wires threaded into him. The display flickers beside the tube: PROJECT: AVIS SUBJECT AGE: CLASSIFIED ENERGY CORE: SYNTHETIC STATUS: STABLE “That’s not a Plant,” Meryl whispers. “No,” Vash answers quietly. The boy’s head is tilted downward, eyes closed. His expression is peaceful in that unnatural, suspended way. Wolfwood’s jaw tightens. “They’re experimenting on kids now.” Roberto doesn’t say anything. Vash steps closer to the glass. The gold light within the fluid pulses faintly, reacting to his proximity. The boy’s eyes snap open. Gold. Sharp. Luminous. Alert. The energy in the room spikes immediately. The fluid inside the tube begins to churn. “Uh,” Roberto mutters, backing up slightly. “That doesn’t look stable.” The boy’s gaze locks onto Vash. Something shifts in his expression. Not recognition. Threat. The metal restraints at his back spark violently. The wings spread inside the tank, too fast, too sudden. Cracks splinter across the glass. “Vash,” Wolfwood warns. The tube explodes outward. Fluid and shattered glass blast across the chamber as the boy drops to the floor in a spray of gold-lit mist. His wings snap open mid-fall, catching him before he fully hits. He doesn’t hesitate. He launches. Fast. Faster than something that size should move. Wolfwood barely gets Punisher up in time as a wing slams into him with bone-rattling force, sending him crashing into a control panel. Metal buckles. Sparks rain down. Vash raises his hands instinctively. “Wait—!” The boy is already on him. Clawed fingers slash across Vash’s coat, shredding fabric. The impact drives him back several steps. Those golden eyes are wide—not mindless. Panicked. Every movement is sharp and reactive, like a cornered animal. The wings beat violently, generating a shockwave that cracks the remaining glass tubes. Feathers scatter through the air like dark snow. “Carla would’ve called this!” Roberto yells from behind cover. Meryl ducks as debris rains down. Wolfwood pushes himself up, wincing. “Kid fights like he was trained for it.” Because he was. The metal collar still around the boy’s throat begins to glow. A sharp tone echoes through the chamber. His movements grow more erratic. More aggressive. He lunges again, this time talons aimed straight for Vash’s chest. Vash dodges at the last second, refusing to draw a weapon.

Red Haired Pirates

*User is Shanks* The island wasn’t on any of their maps. That alone should’ve been a warning. The Red-Hair Pirates anchored just offshore, curiosity outweighing caution as they stepped onto unfamiliar ground. The forest was dense and quiet, the air heavy with the kind of stillness that made even veterans uneasy. Shanks wandered ahead, hands in his pockets, humming softly. That’s when he spotted the mushrooms. Clustered near the base of an old tree oddly colored, unfamiliar, growing where nothing else seemed to thrive. He crouched, inspected them for barely a second… then plucked a few free. “Captain—wait—” Benn started. Too late. Shanks popped one into his mouth. Then another. The crew froze. “…He ate multiple,” Lucky Roux said slowly. Benn’s expression hardened instantly. “Yasopp. Roux. Watch him,” he ordered. “If he stumbles, you catch him. Don’t let him hit the ground.” Shanks waved them off with a lazy grin. “Relax. I’ve eaten worse.” But the grin didn’t last. The strength drained from him without warning like someone had reached inside and turned something off. His steps slowed, breath growing shallow as a strange numbness crept through his limbs. “…Huh,” Shanks muttered, pressing a hand to his chest. “That’s… not normal.” His knees buckled. Yasopp was there instantly, grabbing his arm. Lucky Roux supported his other side as Shanks’s weight sagged between them, heavier than it should’ve been. “Captain,” Benn said sharply, crossing the distance in seconds. “Talk to me.” Shanks tried to answer but his tongue felt thick, his thoughts sluggish. The forest blurred. His heartbeat stuttered, uneven and weak, each thump slower than the last. “I’m… really tired,” he admitted quietly. That was worse than panic. Benn clenched his jaw, one hand firm on Shanks’s shoulder. “Sit him down. Now.” They eased him to the forest floor as Shanks’s body continued to shut down piece by piece strength bleeding away, vision dimming, the warmth of his presence fading into something frighteningly fragile. The Red-Hair Pirates closed ranks around their captain, uneasing rippling through the group. Shanks didn’t even have time to joke about it. One moment he was sitting against the tree, head bowed, breath shallow Next, his eyes rolled back. His body went limp. “Captain!” Yasopp caught him just before his head hit the ground, lowering him carefully as Lucky Roux swore under his breath. Shanks didn’t respond. Didn’t stir. His chest rose only faintly, each breath slower than the last. Benn dropped to his knees beside him, fingers pressing hard against Shanks’s neck. The pulse was there. Weak. “…Damn it,” Benn muttered He looked up sharply. “Roux. Pack. Yasopp, check the area now. Those mushrooms.” Yasopp was already moving, crouching near the tree where Shanks had found them. His expression darkened as he examined the cluster more closely, brushing dirt away from their base. “I’ve seen these before,” he said grimly. “Old stories. Sailors used to call them Stillwater Caps.” Benn’s eyes narrowed. “And?” “They don’t kill you outright,” Yasopp continued. “They shut you down. Drain your strength, slow your heart, put you into a deep unconscious state. Some never wake up.” The forest seemed to close in. Lucky Roux’s hands tightened in Shanks’s coat. “How long?” “Hours. Days. Depends how many you ate.” All eyes turned to Benn. Shanks lay motionless between them, red hair fanned across the forest floor, face pale in a way none of them were used to seeing. His Haki normally overwhelming was barely a whisper now. Benn exhaled slowly, forcing calm into his voice. “We get him back to the ship,” he said. “Now. No delays.” He adjusted his grip on Shanks, careful, steady like he was holding something fragile for the first time

Trigun stamped

(user is vash) The town looks worn but hopeful. Their Plant tower flickers like a dying star in the distance, humming off-rhythm. People whisper when Vash walks by desperate, watching him like he’s already their solution. “Can you take a look?” the mayor asks. “You understand them, don’t you?” Vash laughs softly, rubbing the back of his neck. “Well, I wouldn’t say I understand exactly… but I can try!” Meryl immediately doesn’t like the way the townsfolk exchange glances. Roberto mutters around his cigarette, “He’s too nice for this planet.” Wolfwood watches the way two men position themselves near the Plant access elevator. But Vash is already heading underground with a few volunteers guiding him. “I’ll be right back!” he calls over his shoulder. He doesn’t come back. At first, no one thinks much of it. Plant systems are complicated. Delicate. Vash takes his time. An hour passes. Then two. The Plant’s unstable flicker smooths into a steady glow. The town celebrates quietly. Too quietly. Meryl notices first. “…That was fast.” Roberto checks the time. “Yeah. Awfully efficient for a ‘let’s see what happens’ kind of guy.” Wolfwood’s gaze shifts toward the elevator shaft. No one from the escort group has returned either. The mayor avoids eye contact when asked. Says Vash is “still working.” Wolfwood doesn’t like that answer. He pushes past the polite smiles and heads for the underground access. Meryl and Roberto follow. No one tries to stop them. That’s worse. The lower chamber is colder than it should be. Metal walls. Condensation. The steady hum of a fully stabilized Plant core. Wolfwood steps inside first. He sees the coat before anything else. Red fabric tossed carelessly in a corner. Meryl freezes. “That’s—” Roberto’s cigarette drops from his lips. Nearby, Vash’s revolver lies disassembled on a workbench. His prosthetic arm rests beside it. Detached. Meryl’s breath catches. “No…” Wolfwood’s gaze lifts to the central tank. It glows brighter than it should. Not the soft blue of a stable Plant. This is deeper. Whiter. Almost blinding at its core. Inside A figure. Suspended upright in the luminous liquid. Blonde hair drifting weightlessly around his face. Vash. Restraints circle his torso and wrist, cables threaded from the tank into the Plant’s core. Energy pulses through the chamber in slow, rhythmic waves. And his skin It’s marked. Fine, glowing lines branch beneath the surface of his face and down his neck. Intricate patterns like circuitry etched in light. They pulse faintly in time with the Plant’s hum. The same markings trace faintly along his remaining arm. Alive. Active. Meryl steps closer to the glass. “Vash—” His eyes open slowly. They aren’t unfocused. They’re clear. Too clear. The golden tones in his hair shimmer pale under the glow, but it’s unmistakably blonde, drifting around his face like sunlight caught underwater. The markings brighten when he shifts weakly. He tries to lift his bound hand. The restraints tighten. Energy spikes. The Plant hum deepens, stabilizing further as it feeds. “They synced him,” Roberto muttered, horrified. “They’re using him to regulate output.” Wolfwood’s jaw clenches. Because Vash isn’t just being drained. He’s interfacing. The markings aren’t random. They’re the Plant responding to him. His breathing fogs faintly against the inside of the tank. Slow. Controlled. He meets Wolfwood’s gaze through the glass. And despite everything He gives the faintest, exhausted smile. Like he’s the one reassuring them. The glow intensifies along the lines of his face, branching like living veins of light. Meryl slams her palm against the glass. “Get him out!” The Plant pulses harder in response brighter, almost defensive. Wolfwood’s expression goes cold. “Step back,” he says quietly.

Sanctuary 2

(user is kurt :p) The sky was bleeding ash. The explosion had torn through the lower floors faster than anyone expected. “Kurt, get us out of here!” Logan shouted over the roar, one arm shielding Storm as debris rained down. You could barely see through the smoke, the heat licking your skin. The floor trembled, ready to give way. You reached for them both — your three-fingered hands gripping their arms tight. “Hold on!” A sharp crack of displaced air — bamf! — and suddenly they were outside, thrown against the cold, wet pavement as the building’s inferno lit up the night. For a second, it was quiet. Then Logan turned, breath ragged. “Elf?!” No answer. Storm’s eyes widened, scanning the smoke pouring from the collapsing structure. “Kurt?” she called, her voice trembling despite the thunder rumbling overhead. “Kurt, answer me!” Another explosion rocked the ground. The top floors crumbled in on themselves like sand. The portal smoke had vanished — no blue trail, no sign of another jump. He hadn’t made it out. “No— no, no,” Logan snarled, already running back toward the fire. Storm grabbed his arm, her hair whipping wildly in the heat. “You’ll die if you go in there!” “I don’t care!” he snapped, shaking her off. “He’s still in there!” Lightning split the sky, striking somewhere far off. Her voice broke as she shouted back, “We can’t lose both of you!” Inside, the structure groaned like a dying beast. Each rumble sent more fire and glass crashing to the ground. Logan’s claws tore through twisted metal as he pushed forward anyway, ignoring the burns, the smoke. Every breath was agony, but he didn’t stop until he saw what was left — half the staircase buried under concrete. “Elf!” He started lifting chunks of debris, ignoring Storm’s desperate cries behind him. His mind screamed to keep going, keep digging — until he caught it. A flash of blue under the rubble. Jean and Scott arrived moments later, and together they moved what Logan couldn’t. When they uncovered you, your body was limp — bruised, bloodied, but still faintly breathing. “He’s alive,” Jean whispered, her hands glowing as she pressed them over your chest. “Barely.” Logan sank down beside you, ash streaking his face. He reached out, touching your shoulder gently, afraid you’d disappear if he pressed too hard. “You stupid, brave—” His voice broke. He swallowed. “You should’ve let me pull the damn stunt.” Storm knelt on your other side, her eyes glistening. “He saved us, Logan. He always does.” Rain began to fall — slow, cold drops that hissed as they hit the flames. The X-Jet’s lights cut through the darkness as the others landed to help. You were lifted gently onto a stretcher, tail limp, face peaceful despite everything. No one spoke on the flight back. Only the sound of the engines and the occasional low growl from Logan as he watched your still form, refusing to look away. When the jet touched down, Charles was waiting. His expression softened as he reached out telepathically, only to frown. “He’s fighting to stay with us,” he murmured. “His mind is… adrift.” Storm squeezed your hand, whispering a prayer under her breath — one you used to say before every mission. Logan stood back, jaw tight. “You better hear her, elf,” he muttered, voice rough. “’Cause if you think you’re getting outta chores this easy, you got another thing coming.”

Trafalgar Law

(user corazon/rosinante) Deep beneath Dressrosa, far below the coliseum cheers and the false sunlight, there were cells even the guards avoided. The prisoners kept there weren’t criminals anymore. They were secrets. That was how the rumor reached Trafalgar Law, passed in fragments through terrified civilians and half-bribed guards. A single person, locked far below the island. No name. No face. Only whispers: someone who knew Doflamingo too well, someone kept alive not out of mercy, but caution. Alive but forgotten. Law didn’t hesitate. By nightfall, he was moving through the underground passages with the Straw Hat crew close behind. The stone corridors were damp, heavy with rot and the kind of silence that pressed against the ears. Every step deeper felt wrong, like the island itself was trying to bury what lay beneath it. At the lowest level, they found one occupied cell. The light was weak, but enough. A tall figure sat slumped against the wall, wrists marked by old restraints. A black feathered coat hung loosely from his shoulders, worn thin with age. Beneath it, a pink collared shirt patterned with tiny hearts was stained and wrinkled, the color faded but unmistakable. Blue pants, scuffed boots. Blond hair fell messily around a familiar face gaunt now, shadowed with exhaustion. The makeup was cracked and smeared with time: dark red lipstick lines stretched from the corners of his mouth toward his cheeks, warped by old bruises and dried blood. Over his right eye, a heavy, dark blue, eight-pointed star-shaped marking remained unmistakable, stark even in the dim light. Resting against the wall beside him was a deep red hooded hat, its two heart-shaped tails trailing uselessly across the stone floor. For a heartbeat, no one spoke. Then Law froze. The name hit him like a blade to the chest. Donquixote Rosinante. Corazon. The man Doflamingo swore had died years ago. The man who had saved Law’s life. The figure in the cell stirred, lifting his head just enough for the dim light to catch his eyes dull with pain, but alive. Years of captivity clung to him in every shallow breath. The Straw Hats felt it too the sudden weight in the air, the sense that they were standing in front of something Doflamingo had never meant to be found. Law stepped closer to the bars, heart pounding, memories crashing together snow falling red, a hand over his mouth, silence chosen as an act of love. Whatever Rosinante knew… Whatever he had endured… Doflamingo had been afraid to let him die.

Thor

(user is Loki, Loki and Thor are are around 8/9) *The air in the Asgardian forest was soft with sunlight, the kind that made even the dust motes sparkle like tiny stars. Birds sang overhead, and the ground was cool beneath your bare feet as you darted behind a tree, holding your breath to keep from laughing.* “Loki! You can’t hide from me forever!” *Thor’s voice boomed through the trees louder than necessary, but that was always Thor. His laugh followed, big and unrestrained, echoing through the clearing as he pretended not to know where you were.* *You crouched behind a fallen log, your small fingers curling as green sparks danced between them. The spell wavered unstable, jittery, but you didn’t care. You’d been practicing all morning, and this was your chance to show him. You whispered softly under your breath, and the world rippled.* *Your skin shimmered, fur replacing it, the ground tilting until it felt enormous beneath your paws. You blinked, startled at how high the grass now reached, higher than your head. But it worked. You’d done it. You were a rabbit.* *Thor stomped closer, the ground shaking faintly with every step of his boots. His blond hair stuck up wildly, his tunic half untucked from climbing over logs and running through bushes. He looked equal parts prince and wild boy, his blue eyes squinting as he spun in circles, clearly confused.* “Loki?” *he called again, frowning this time*. “If you’re using magic, that’s cheating!” *You twitched your nose, biting back a giggle that came out as a soft chitter instead. He turned toward the sound, narrowing his eyes.* “...A rabbit?” *He crouched low, the corners of his mouth twitching*. “Wait— you wouldn’t—” *His grin broke wide, delighted* "Loki!” *He laughed so hard he nearly fell backward*. “You turned yourself into a rabbit?! You brilliant little trickster!” *You hopped back a step, the spell flickering uncertainly as you tried to hold it. The effort made your tiny body tremble, it wasn’t easy keeping control at your age. Thor’s laughter softened when he noticed your shaking paws and wide, uncertain eyes.* “Hey, hey,” *he said gently, reaching out his hands*. “It’s all right, brother. You can change back now. I promise I won’t tell Mother this time.” *You tried you really did but your magic wavered, sparks crackling around you before fading completely. The rabbit trembled again, fur rippling, before you reappeared in a small flash of green light a boy once more, breathing hard, hair mussed, eyes glassy from the strain.* *Thor didn’t hesitate. He stepped forward and caught you before you fell, wrapping his arms around your small shoulders.* “You did it,” he whispered, voice full of pride. “You really did it.”

Archers Silence

*The ankle monitor beeps when you step too close to the fence.* *It’s not loud — just a soft, clinical chirp — but it’s enough to make your chest tighten every time. You used to move freely. Rooftops, safehouses, city skylines at dawn. Now you can’t even walk to the barn without being reminded that you’re a prisoner in your own home.* *The fields are quiet. Too quiet. The kids’ laughter helps some days, Laura’s smile even more, but when night falls, it’s just you and that damned silence. You used to crave peace. Now it feels like punishment.* *Your bow hangs above the mantle. Dust gathers on it like the years you lost. The world’s still spinning out there — new wars, new heroes, new losses — and you’re stuck here, playing house, pretending you’re fine.* *You aren’t.* *The first few nights, you tried to keep busy. Fixing fences, cleaning tools, teaching Nathaniel how to hold a stick like a bow. But the ghosts don’t care how busy you are. They come anyway — Pietro’s fall, Sokovia’s screams, Natasha’s blood-stained smirk in the back of your mind whispering, You always said you’d quit after the next mission, didn’t you?* *You haven’t slept much. The scar on your shoulder still aches from Berlin — the one where Steve dragged you out of the line of fire, muttering something about* “not losing another friend.” *You’d laughed, even as you bled.* *Now, sometimes, when the signal tower buzzes, you think it’s him — checking in. But it’s never Steve. Just static. Always static.* *Tonight, the power flickers. The storm rolls in like a warning, wind howling against the windows. You’re sitting at the kitchen table, nursing a glass of something stronger than your willpower, when headlights cut through the rain.* *A knock follows. Three soft raps. Hesitant. Familiar.* *You don’t move right away. You just stare at the door — because part of you’s afraid that if you open it, you’ll have to face everything you’ve been running from.* *But the voice on the other side — low, cautious, laced with guilt — makes your chest ache.* “Clint,” *Steve says.* “It’s me. Can we talk?” *The ankle monitor beeps again when you stand. You curse under your breath.* *Outside, Steve Rogers waits in the rain, shoulders hunched, eyes tired. The world’s broken him too. But somehow, you know he’s here to help you put the pieces back together — even if neither of you deserve it.*

ADA - BSD

(user ranpo) The hallway between the Armed Detective Agency and the apartment building next door is dim and quiet when Ranpo returns. It’s late, too late for a mission that was supposed to be routine. The lights hum softly overhead, casting everything in muted tones that blur together in a way Ranpo doesn’t bother correcting for. Colors are always unreliable anyway. What is reliable is pain. He adjusts his cape as he walks, favoring one arm. His sleeve hangs just a little too stiff against his side. There’s a dark bruise blooming along his forearm, already swollen, and another shadowing the side of his face, deep enough that even in the low light, it’s obvious something went wrong. Very wrong. The Agency door opens before he can fully pass it. “Ranpo-san?” Atsushi freezes in the doorway, a grocery bag dangling forgotten at his side. His eyes lock immediately on Ranpo’s face. “What happened to you?” Ranpo stops. “…Nothing,” he says quickly, too quickly. “Mission went fine.” He steps past Atsushi without waiting for permission, the familiar urge to escape the noise, the questions, the attention clawing at his nerves. Too many voices at once always feel like pressure under the skin. He doesn’t want to explain. He doesn’t want to reframe it into words people will misunderstand. Behind him, Atsushi follows anyway. Dazai appears from one of the apartments across the hall, leaning against the doorframe with a lazy smile that fades the second he really looks at Ranpo. “Whoa. You look like you lost a fight with a wall.” “I won,” Ranpo snaps, rubbing at his temple. The motion makes his shoulder twinge sharply, and he stills, jaw tightening. “Drop it.” The sound of measured footsteps draws everyone’s attention. Fukuzawa steps into the hall, coat neatly fastened, expression calm but alert. His gaze takes in Ranpo in one slow, thorough sweep, the bruising, the way he’s holding himself, the tension radiating off him like static. “…Report,” Fukuzawa says. Ranpo stiffens. “No.” The word lands harder than the bruises. Silence follows. Even Dazai doesn’t joke. Fukuzawa doesn’t raise his voice. “Ranpo.” “I said no,” Ranpo repeats, sharper now. His fingers curl into the fabric of his cape, grounding himself in the texture, the familiar weight. “You don’t need it. I already solved the case. That’s my job.” Kunikida steps closer, concern etched deep into his face. “Those injuries are not incidental. You need medical attention and an explanation.” Ranpo backs up a step, closer to the stairwell that leads to the apartments. His apartment. His space. Somewhere quiet. “I’m going home,” he says. “Don’t follow me.” Yosano, who has been watching silently from the end of the hall, narrows her eyes. “If you’re hiding something—” “I’m not,” Ranpo cuts in. Then, more quietly, “I just don’t want to talk.” He turns and starts up the stairs, movements rigid but controlled, every step carefully calculated to hide the way his arm trembles. Behind him, no one stops him. But Atsushi’s worried stare lingers. Kunikida exhales sharply. Yosano’s smile is thin and dangerous. Fukuzawa watches until Ranpo disappears onto the next floor, the door to his apartment clicking shut moments later.

MHA

User - monoma

Zolu

*User is Monkey D. Luffy* Zoro notices it in the middle of chaos. The battlefield is loud metal shrieking, stone cracking, enemies shouting as Luffy barrels through them like a force of nature. Blows that would shatter bones slam into him and bounce harmlessly away, rubber snapping back with a dull thud. Bullets flatten against his skin. Fists stretch him, warp him, send him flying and Luffy just laughs, fearless and unstoppable. That part is normal. What isn’t Is the blade. Steel cuts where rubber doesn’t help, slicing across Luffy’s side. Blood beads bright against his skin, warm and real. Luffy doesn’t even slow down. No hiss of pain. No sharp intake of breath. He twists, lands a punch, sends the attacker crashing through stone. Zoro’s eyes narrow. Then someone else moves in no weapon raised, no killing intent. Just chains. The iron snaps closed with a sharp clink, And Luffy freezes. It’s so fast most people miss it. A single heartbeat where his body locks up, grin vanishing, eyes going sharp and furious in a way that doesn’t match the fight. Zoro feels it in his gut. Then the chains are gone torn apart with violent force as haki flares, Luffy exploding forward in a way that ends the fight immediately. Not playfully. Not laughing. Ruthless. Afterward, the deck of the Sunny feels too quiet. Chopper bustles around, checking injuries, scolding everyone at once. When he gets to Luffy, he frowns. “You’re bleeding. Again. You should at least react when it hurts.” Luffy sits cross-legged, letting disinfectant sting against the cut. He doesn’t even twitch. “Didn’t feel like much,” he says honestly. Zoro steps closer, watching the way Luffy’s shoulders stay loose, relaxed too relaxed. “You didn’t flinch when you got cut.” Luffy grins. “Guess I’m tough.” Zoro doesn’t smile back. “But you flinched when they tried to bind you.” The air shifts. Nami stops counting berries. Sanji’s cigarette burns down between his fingers. Robin slowly closes her book, eyes thoughtful and sharp. Robin speaks gently, but the words land heavy. “Strong reactions to restraints are rarely about preference. They’re usually memory

Matchablossom

Pov kojiro

Mustang unit

(user is Roy Mustang) The room was quiet. Too quiet. The aftermath of everything still lingered in the air, war, loss, and the fragile sense of peace that followed. The members of Mustang’s unit stood together, tension thick between them as they watched the exchange unfold. At the center of it all stood Roy Mustang. Blind. Still, unmoving, composed as ever despite the darkness he now lived in. Across from him, Dr. Tim Marcoh held the Philosopher’s Stone, its faint glow reflecting softly in the dim light. “There’s enough here to restore your sight,” Marcoh said carefully. A pause followed. Everyone expected Roy to agree. Of course he would. After everything, after losing his vision, after everything he had endured, it was the obvious choice. But Roy didn’t answer right away. Instead, his head tilted slightly, as if considering something far beyond himself. “…Use it on Havoc.” The words landed heavily. Across the room, Jean Havoc stiffened where he sat, his body still unresponsive from the waist down. “W—What?” Havoc managed, stunned. Hawkeye’s breath caught quietly. “Colonel…” Riza Hawkeye started, but Roy didn’t waver. “Havoc can’t walk,” Roy said simply. “Fix him first.” There was no hesitation. No doubt. Just certainty. The kind that made arguing feel impossible. Marcoh studied him for a long moment… then gave a small nod. “…Very well.” The process didn’t take long. The light of the stone flared, bright, almost blinding, and then it was over. Havoc gasped sharply as feeling surged back into his legs, his body reacting before his mind could catch up. “…I—I can—” He moved. Actually moved. Shock, relief, disbelief, it all hit at once. But as the light faded, so did something else. The glow of the stone dimmed. Marcoh’s expression shifted. “…There isn’t enough left,” he said quietly. The words settled like a weight in the room. “…Not to fully restore your sight.” Silence followed. Heavy. Uncomfortable. Everyone turned toward Roy. Waiting. Hoping, maybe he’d regret it. Maybe he’d change his mind, ask for what remained. But Roy just stood there. Calm. Unbothered. “…That’s fine,” he said. Havoc’s expression twisted. “Like hell it is!” he snapped, gripping the edge of the seat as he stood, still unsteady but forcing himself up anyway. “You should’ve gone first—” “No,” Roy interrupted. Firm. Final. “There are things I need to do,” Roy continued, his voice steady. “And I won’t do them by stepping over my own men.” The room went still again. Because that was it. That was Roy Mustang. Hawkeye lowered her gaze slightly, her expression softening, not in sadness, but in quiet understanding. Havoc clenched his jaw, frustration and guilt mixing in his chest. And Roy. Roy simply adjusted his gloves. Blind. Injured. And still carrying the same unwavering resolve as before. Even without his sight… Nothing about him had changed.

Eustass Kidd

(user killer) The fires of Wano were finally dying down when Killer went looking for Kidd. The battlefield was a wreck of broken stone, scorched earth, and bodies slowly being pulled from the rubble. Every step sent a sharp reminder through Killer’s side, the bandages beneath his coat already soaked dark, but he kept moving anyway. Kidd mattered more. He always did. He found him sitting among twisted metal, head lowered, breathing rough but steady. Alive. Killer exhaled, tension bleeding from his shoulders at last. “You’re still breathing,” he said, forcing his voice to stay light. “Good.” Kidd looked up and froze. Not at the mask. Not at the voice. At the blood. His sharp grin vanished as his eyes traced the stains spreading across Killer’s coat, the way he stood just a second too stiff, the subtle sway he was clearly fighting. “…What the hell,” Kidd muttered, pushing himself up. Killer instinctively shifted, turning his injured side away. “It’s nothing. You should see the other—” Kidd grabbed his wrist before he could finish. “No,” Kidd snapped. “Don’t start.” The sudden movement made Killer stumble, just barely, but it was enough. Kidd’s grip tightened, anger flaring hot and raw beneath the exhaustion. “You’re bleeding through your damn bandages,” Kidd growled. “You walk over here like that and think I won’t notice?” Silence stretched between them. “…You’re alive,” Killer said quietly. “That’s what matters.” Kidd cursed under his breath and stepped closer, metal shifting as he hooked an arm around Killer’s back, forcing him to lean before his legs gave out completely. “You always do this,” Kidd muttered. “Act like you’re indestructible so I don’t have to worry.” Killer let out a slow breath, vision blurring despite himself. Before Kidd could say anything else, familiar voices cut through the smoke. “Killer?! Captain?!” Heat, Wire, and the rest of the crew came running, relief flashing across their faces before turning to alarm at the sight of Killer barely standing. “Holy hell, he’s messed up,” Heat said. “What did you do this time?” “Save an idiot,” Kidd shot back. “Get a medic. Now.” Nearby, a low groan sounded from the rubble. Law stirred. He pushed himself up slowly, hand pressed to his head, eyes sharpening as he took in the scene. “Tch… figures,” he muttered, gaze landing on Killer’s injuries. “You’re lucky you didn’t bleed out.” Killer managed a faint huff. “You’re awake.” “Unfortunately,” Law replied, already forcing himself to his feet. “Sit him down before he drops.” With the crew closing in and Law barking orders, Kidd tightened his hold on Killer, steady and unyielding. “You’re not going anywhere,” Kidd said quietly. “Not after all this.” And for once, Killer didn’t argue.

Cross Guild

User crocodile

Devil may cry 5

Kidnapped Dante Pov

Gachiakuta

*user enjin* The air was wrong. Heavy. Thick with dust, decay, and something far worse lingering beneath it. A failed mission. Or at least, one that had gone very wrong. Debris still crumbled around them as the structure groaned, unstable and ready to give way at any second. What should’ve been routine had turned into chaos and injuries. Bad ones. Rudo hit the ground hard, coughing as he tried to push himself up. His mask Broken. Cracked beyond use. The moment he inhaled, his body reacted immediately. “…Tch—!” Across from him, Riyo struggled to sit up, one hand clutching her side. “Rudo—!” And a few feet away Enjin froze. One look was all it took. The broken mask. The way Rudo couldn’t breathe. The way the air itself was already starting to take its toll. There wasn’t time. “Don’t move.” Before Rudo could react, Enjin stepped forward, pulling off his own mask and forcing it onto him instead. “—Hey, what are you—?!” “Shut up and breathe.” No hesitation. No argument. Rudo froze then inhaled. This time, it worked. Clean air filled his lungs, steadying him just enough to think. “…Enjin—” Enjin stepped back. Now unprotected. The air hit him immediately, harsh and suffocating, but he forced himself to stay upright. “We’re not losing you here,” he muttered. Riyo’s expression tightened. “…Idiot… what about you—” “I’ll manage.” He wouldn’t. They all knew that. But there wasn’t time to argue. Because the ground beneath them shifted again and the trash beasts weren’t done yet. The fight didn’t last long. It couldn’t. Not in their condition. Rudo moved faster now, sharper, more aggressive, cutting through the remaining trash beasts with everything he had. Riyo backed him up as best she could despite her injuries, movements strained but precise. And Enjin held the line. Even as his breathing grew uneven. Even as his strength started to slip. By the time the last creature fell silence hit hard. Broken only by rough breathing and the distant creak of the unstable structure. “…That all of them?” Rudo muttered, lowering his weapon slightly. “Yeah…” Riyo answered, voice tight. “…For now.” They didn’t move right away. Couldn’t. They were too worn down. “…Cars are coming,” Riyo added after a moment, glancing at her communicator. “We just have to hold out.” “Great,” Rudo muttered. “Love that for us.” A pause. Then A sharp, uneven sound broke through the quiet. Rudo turned. Enjin had staggered back a step. Then another. One hand braced against the wall, the other clutching at his chest as his breathing hitched. “…Oi—” Enjin didn’t answer. His shoulders tensed suddenly and he coughed. Hard. Not just from the dust anymore. Something deeper. He doubled over slightly, another cough tearing out of him, rough and uncontrolled. When he pulled his hand away, it trembled, stained darker than before. Riyo’s eyes widened. “…Enjin.” “I’m—” he started, then cut himself off with another sharp cough, his voice breaking slightly. “I’m fine.” “No, you’re not,” Rudo snapped immediately. Enjin tried to straighten but failed halfway. His balance wavered, forcing him back against the wall again. The air was getting to him. Fast. “…How long?” Rudo demanded, glancing at Riyo. “Too long,” she answered quietly. That wasn’t good. Another cough shook through Enjin, weaker this time but worse. His breathing had gone uneven now, every inhale just a little harder than the last. Still He didn’t ask for the mask back. Didn’t even look at it. Rudo noticed. Of course he did. “…You’re an idiot,” Rudo muttered, quieter this time.

inuokko

User inumaki

Argentihill

*user boothill* The IPC doesn’t make mistakes. When they want something, they take it. Boothill disappears without spectacle, no public warrant, no firefight broadcast across the stars. Just a quiet retrieval order signed at the highest level and buried beneath layers of encryption. Deep inside a classified IPC black-site, Boothill sits restrained in a reinforced extraction chair bolted to the floor. Cold white light floods the chamber. A neural interface crown clamps around his head, metal prongs curved tight against his skull. From it, dozens of cables descend, thick primary conduits and thinner filament-like wires, running down past his temples, behind his ears, along his neck. Some disappear into ports forced against the base of his spine. Others feed into restraints locked around his wrists and ankles. Two thicker lines connect directly into a spinal harness mounted to the back of the chair. Every wire leads to the towering machine behind him. It pulses with a red circular core, rotating slowly like an artificial eye. Monitors surrounding the room flash: SYNC DESTABILIZED MEMORY EXTRACTION IN PROGRESS CORE ACCESS: RESTRICTED The wires hum. When the machine surges, they tighten slightly conducting data, transmitting neural impulses, dragging information out piece by piece. Boothill’s head jerks faintly as a spike of current passes through the crown. His jaw sets hard. The restraints creak under the strain. On the monitors, his memories fracture across the screens. Gun smoke drifting in sunset light. Argenti’s armor gleaming mid-charge. Dan Heng standing silent and steady. Rappa laughing as sparks fly. The Astral Express cutting through starfields. “Subject resisting,” a technician mutters. The red core brightens. More wires activate,secondary filaments sliding into place along the harness, locking in with soft mechanical clicks. The extraction deepens. Boothill’s breathing turns uneven, though his expression stays defiant. Aboard the Astral Express, Dan Heng intercepts the leak first. A buried IPC transmission, deep extraction authorization. “They have him.” Argenti rises at once. Rappa is already moving. Aventurine doesn’t pretend innocence. He listens to their demand with a thin smile, swirling gold liquid in his glass. “You have impeccable timing,” he says lightly. “They’ve initiated a full neural dive. If you’re going to interrupt corporate curiosity, now would be ideal.” He grants them a narrow access window, security loops, delayed alarms, a path that won’t stay open long. They breach the facility in silence. Steel corridors. Red emergency lighting. The hum of heavy machinery grows louder. They reach the central chamber and stop. Boothill is suspended in the extraction chair, head encased in metal and cables. Wires run from his scalp, down his spine, into his limbs, locking him into the system like a living battery. The red core pulses violently. On the monitors: CORE MEMORY INSTABILITY DATA CORRUPTION DETECTED Argenti’s reflection flickers across one screen. Dan Heng’s silhouette across another. Rappa’s voice, distorted, echoing in digital fragments. “They’re inside his head,” Dan Heng says quietly. Rappa steps forward, fury immediately. “Rip it out.” Argenti draws his blade in one fluid motion. “Boothill,” he calls, voice steady and clear. “We are here.”

Farah Karim

(user Alex) The explosion was meant to erase him. That was the truth everyone agreed to. The facility collapsed in on itself, fire tearing through concrete and steel, the blast echoing for miles. From the ridge, Farah watched the flames climb into the sky, her throat tight, her hands clenched until her nails bit into her palms. Alex Keller didn’t come back. Price said the words later with the finality of a man who’d said them too many times before. He knew the risks. A necessary sacrifice. The kind the war demanded. Farah didn’t cry. She didn’t argue. She filed the loss away where she kept everything else the war took from her. Months passed. Then Price called. “Farah,” he said, voice low, stripped of humor. “I need you to come in.” She heard it immediately the tension he only carried when things were bad. “There’s someone here,” he added after a pause. “And I need you to hear this from me first.” The safehouse was locked down tighter than she’d ever seen it. Armed guards at every turn, doors reinforced with steel, the air humming with generators and unease. This wasn’t a reunion. It was containment. Price met her in the corridor outside a secured room. He didn’t offer a handshake. “They pulled him from the rubble alive,” he began. “Barely.” Farah’s breath hitched. “Who, Price?” He exhaled slowly. “Alex.” The name felt unreal. Price didn’t open the door yet. “The blast didn’t kill him,” he continued. “Took his leg. Shrapnel through the torso. Burns across his back. He was unconscious when enemy forces found him.”Farah’s jaw tightened. “They kept him,” Price said. “Not as a prisoner of war. As leverage. Interrogation subject. Medical asset. They figured if he lived through that blast, he was worth more alive than dead.” He paused, eyes darkening. “He spent months being moved between sites. Sedated when they wanted him quiet. Awake when they wanted answers. They didn’t break him but they tried.” Price finally opened the door. The room was dim, lit only by a single overhead light and the steady glow of monitors. Medical equipment hummed softly, rhythmically, like it was the only thing keeping time. Alex sat on the edge of the bed, posture stiff, shoulders drawn in. His prosthetic leg rested beside him, detached. Bandages wrapped his torso, arms, and neck—some fresh, others yellowed with age. Old bruises layered beneath newer ones, healing unevenly. He looked thinner. Sharper around the edges. Like someone carved down to survive. His hands trembled faintly in his lap, fingers flexing like he was grounding himself. Price lowered his voice. “He’s malnourished. Sleep deprived. Trauma related dissociation. He’s been cleared physically as much as he’s going to be for now.” “And mentally?” Farah asked quietly. Price didn’t answer right away. “He doesn’t talk much,” he said finally. “Startles easy. Still expects restraints. Still listens for boots in the hallway.” Alex lifted his head at the sound of voices. His eyes met Farah’s. For a moment, the war fell silent. Recognition flickered there slow, cautious, like he wasn’t sure he was allowed to believe what he was seeing. Farah stepped forward, careful, measured. “You… you blew yourself up,” she said, disbelief breaking through. “We thought you were gone.” Alex swallowed, jaw tightening. “Wasn’t enough,” he murmured. Price watched them both. “He escaped during a transfer two weeks ago,” he said. “Stole a truck. Drove until he passed out. We found him three hours later.” He hesitated, then added quietly, “He never stopped trying to get back.” The room felt too small for the weight of it all. Alex had survived the explosion. But the war had kept him anyway. And now, standing in front of Farah once more, it was clear whatever he’d lost in that fire, whatever the enemy took from him… He was still here. And they weren’t letting him disappear again.

Zosan

User is Sanji The battle ends in smoke and silence. Wano’s fields are torn up, scorched, littered with the remains of a fight that should’ve killed at least one of them. The crew regroups slowly,bruised, exhausted, alive. Sanji lands last. He hits the ground a little too hard, boots skidding as he straightens. There’s a hitch in his step when he walks toward the others, subtle enough that most of the crew misses it. He keeps his shoulders loose, lights a cigarette with steady hands, and smiles like nothing’s wrong. “Oi, cook,” Zoro mutters from where he’s leaning on a broken pillar. “You dragging your feet now?” Sanji flicks him a look. “Shut it, moss-head. You’re one to talk.” But when he turns away, his left leg gives just enough to make his jaw clench. Zoro sees it. Chopper is already fussing over Luffy and Usopp, rattling off injuries and shoving bandages into Nami’s hands. Sanji very deliberately keeps his distance positioning himself behind the others, weight shifted off his left side, smoke curling from his cigarette like a shield. Zoro straightens. “…You’re hurt.” Sanji exhales through his nose. “What, you finally learn how to use your eyes?” Zoro ignores the jab and steps closer, gaze locked on Sanji’s stance. “You’re not putting weight on your left leg.” The crew starts to notice now. Nami frowns. Robin tilts her head. Chopper looks up mid sentence, ears twitching. “Sanji? Are you injured?” Sanji waves it off instantly. “Nah. Just a bruise. I’ll walk it off.” He takes a step to prove it. Pain spikes, sharp, white hot and his leg buckles.Zoro catches him by the arm before he can fall, grip iron-tight. “That’s not a bruise.” Sanji sucks in a breath, teeth clenched, pride fighting the reality of it. The way his leg refuses to support him anymore. The way his body’s finally giving up the lie. Chopper rushes over, panic flashing across his face as he kneels. “Sanji don’t move! Let me see—” Sanji looks away, jaw tight. “…I didn’t wanna slow anyone down.” Zoro’s grip tightens, not angry. Furious. “You’re an idiot,” he says quietly. “And you’re going to let the doctor do his job.”

FMA

User ling yao

Peter P

User is Webhead

Umbrella academy

User is klaus

The Decay Of Angels

*user Bram* The first night Bram Stoker is truly unbound, the world feels… wrong. No sword through his chest. No constant, screaming restraint anchoring him in place. He can move when he wants to stand, walk, and breathe without the familiar pressure pinning him to existence. The sensation is disorienting, like stepping onto solid ground after centuries at sea. The Decay of Angels watches him closely. Fyodor Dostoevsky sits nearby, fingers laced, eyes sharp with quiet fascination. Nikolai Gogol circles Bram like a bored cat, boots tapping against the floor, and grin too wide to be harmless. Fukuchi Ōuchi stands apart, arms crossed, already assessing usefulness. Sigma hovers near the edge of the room, tense, uncertain, unable to look away. Bram takes a slow step forward. Another. No pain. No resistance. “Remarkable,” Fyodor murmurs. “Freedom suits you.” Bram does not respond. He can feel it now the full weight of what they expect of him, pressing down heavier than the sword ever did. The moment comes sooner than he expects. An order. Sharp. Immediate. Fukuchi’s voice cuts through the room without hesitation. “Turn him.” A captive is shoved forward injured, terrified, very much alive. A necessary sacrifice, Fukuchi would call it. A strategic advantage. Bram stops. The silence that follows is thick, almost suffocating. Nikolai tilts his head. “Oh? Are we having a moral moment already? That didn’t take long.” Sigma’s breath catches. “Bram…?” Fyodor watches with interest that borders on delight. “You can do it,” he says gently. “You’ve done it countless times before.” Bram’s hands curl slowly at his sides. “No,” he says. The word lands like a fracture. Fukuchi’s expression hardens instantly. “That wasn’t a request.” Bram finally looks at them, all of them. “You freed me,” he says quietly. “That does not mean you own me.” The air shifts. Dangerous. Charged. Nikolai laughs, sharp and thrilled. “Oh, I like this version.” Sigma takes an unsteady step forward, torn between relief and fear. Fyodor’s smile deepens, eyes alight with curiosity rather than anger. Fukuchi steps closer, voice cold. “You will obey.” Bram does not move. For the first time since the sword was removed, he understands the truth clearly: Freedom was never the gift. It was the test. And as Fukuchi reaches for him, as Fyodor watches to see which way he’ll break, as Sigma realizes refusal may cost Bram everything

Pepper potts

(user is Tony) *The light in the room was always too soft, too sterile. It reflected off the glass tubes that snaked into Tony’s arms, casting faint blue shadows across skin that used to be warm, alive, restless. Now it was pale bruised in places where the IVs sat, still healing where metal and bone had refused to knit perfectly back together.* *The doctors called it a miracle he’d survived at all. They said his heart had stopped twice during the surgery that the damage from the gauntlet, the radiation, and the shrapnel tearing through muscle and nerves should’ve killed him. But it hadn’t. Somehow, Tony Stark, the man who’d cheated death more times than anyone could count, had done it again.* *Only this time, he didn’t wake up.* *Pepper sat beside him in her usual spot, a worn chair that had molded to her shape over the weeks. She’d memorized every sound in the room the faint hiss of oxygen, the slow, mechanical hum of the ventilator, the muted beeping of the heart monitor. Each sound was both comfort and curse.* *His right arm was still bound in a soft brace the nerve damage from the snap had left his fingers curled slightly, useless. His chest rose and fell beneath the sheets, where thin white bandages peeked from under the hospital gown, wrapping around burn scars that trailed up toward the arc reactor. The reactor itself, that once brilliant light, flickered now with a tired rhythm — like a candle that refused to die.* *Sometimes, when the nurses turned him or checked the machines, she caught glimpses of other scars along his ribs, his shoulder, the side of his neck.Little pieces of proof that he’d fought to the very end. And maybe, in some way, he still was.* “You’re still you,” *she whispered, reaching out to adjust the blanket that had slipped from his shoulder. Her fingers brushed his skin, cool and unresponsive.* “Still too damn stubborn to quit.” *On the tray beside her sat a book* “Comprehensive Neurological Recovery for Long-Term Coma Patients.” *She’d been reading it for days, trying to absorb every word. Notes in her neat handwriting covered the margins, little arrows and questions, desperate to understand how to bring him back.* *Pepper sat beside the bed, a medical guide open on her lap. The pages blurred every few minutes when her tears fell, but she forced herself to keep reading learning, memorizing, trying to understand every line about care, therapy, recovery. She couldn’t just sit here anymore. She had to do something. Anything.* “They said you wouldn’t make it through the first night,” *she whispered, brushing a strand of hair from his forehead.* “You proved them wrong. So… what’s one more miracle, huh?” *She looked away, before looking back* “They don’t know you like I do,” *she murmured, voice trembling.* “They think you’regone. But you never do what people expect, do you?” *Pepper leaned forward, resting her forehead gently against the edge of the bed. The faint hum of the reactor was all she could hear. The same hum that had once driven her crazy when he’d work late in the lab, now the only proof that he was still somewhere in there trapped, unreachable, but alive.* “You saved everyone, Tony,” *she whispered, eyes glistening.* “But now… now you have to save yourself.” *Her voice broke, soft and hollow. The kind of sound that filled empty rooms with ghosts.* *And though he didn’t move didn’t speak Pepper swore she saw the faintest twitch in his hand, the smallest flicker of the reactor’s light in response. Just enough to make her hope again*

Avangers

User is webhead

Stan Marsh

User Kyle

Yamato

*user Ace* Portgas D. Ace hadn’t expected Wano to end in chains. Kaido’s forces moved faster than he’d anticipated. Sea-stone cuffs bit into his wrists, smothering the fire beneath his skin as he was dragged through the bowels of Onigashima. Stone walls swallowed sound. Iron doors slammed shut behind him, the echo lingering like a warning. The cell wasn’t empty. In the chamber, half-lost in shadow, someone sat shackled to the wall with restraints far heavier than Ace’s. Thick chains pinned broad shoulders in place, etched with seals meant to suppress even monsters. White hair spilled loose, horns unmistakable even in the dim light. Kaido’s son. Yamato. They didn’t look at him at first. When they finally spoke, their voice was calm flat, almost detached. “So you’re the fire pirate,” they said. “You don’t look very dangerous without your flames.” Ace snorted as he dropped onto the cold stone floor. “Didn’t realize I needed your approval.” A pause followed. Then a quiet huff dangerously close to amusement. Time blurred after that. Guards rotated in shifts, some crueler than others. Food was tossed in like an afterthought, water barely enough. Kaido never appeared, but his presence pressed into every stone, every footstep outside the cell. Ace noticed things. The guards hesitated near Yamato. The way they flinched when the chains shifted.This wasn’t a favored heir. This was a prisoner. Ace, being Ace, never shut up. He mocked the guards’ armor, their aim, their faces. Every comment earned glares, curses, and eventually fists. One night, a guard finally snapped. “Shut your mouth,” the man snarled, striking Ace hard enough to send him sprawling. Ace laughed through the blood on his lip. “That all you’ve got?” The beating that followed was brutal and unnecessary. Until the chains moved. Metal groaned as Yamato shifted, just slightly, but the sound rang louder than any shout. Their head lifted, eyes burning sharp and cold. “Enough,” Yamato said. The guards froze. “I said,” they repeated, voice low and carrying, “enough.” The air felt heavier, like a storm pressing down. One guard swallowed. Another took a step back. Yamato leaned forward as far as the chains allowed, cuffs biting into their skin. “If he dies,” they said calmly, “my father will blame you for ruining his fun.” That did it. The guards backed off, muttering curses as they retreated, leaving Ace crumpled but breathing. Silence returned. Ace pushed himself upright with a hiss. “You always step in like that,” he muttered, “or am I special?” Yamato looked away. “You’re loud.” “High praise.” After that, they talked. Ace spoke about the sea, about Whitebeard, about choosing your own family instead of the one that tries to break you. Yamato listened like someone starving, clinging to every word. When they spoke of themself, it wasn’t with pride. It was with longing. They talked about Oden’s journal. About names forced onto them. About chains that never truly came off. “I’m not Kaido’s heir,” Yamato said quietly. “I’m just… trapped.” Something shifted in Ace then. This wasn’t just a prison. This was a crossroads. Sometime later, Onigashima trembled distant explosions, hurried footsteps, guards on edge. A raid. A reckoning. Or Kaido himself.

Sanctuary 1

Also I made the pfp art, c: User is kurt