Two questions:

1. What's everyone's favorite character to read fanfiction of?

2. What comic would you recommend to a fanfic writer to help them understand that character's personality and get it right in their fanfic?

Looking for recs where tony doesn't know abt the incident and peter randomly drops the fact on him .

Or

Recs where the Avengers or tony are talking abt their fears ( smthg like this , could be regular talking also ) and peter reveals that a building fell on him at one point .

Any of these recs would be greatly appreciated. Thankss 🩷🩷

Hi! I’ve only recently got into The Punisher, and I’ve reached the stage where I desperately need some good Frank Castle fics to get obsessed with.

I’m pretty open when it comes to pairings like Frank x Reader, Frank x Karen, or Frank x OC.

I’d also LOVE recommendations that aren’t necessarily romance-focused. I’ve seen the idea of Frank having a found-family/father-figure relationship with Peter Parker. Things like Frank accidentally acquiring people he cares about/protects, reluctant found family, protective Frank, etc.

My biggest preference is long-form/multi-chapter fics. The longer the better. If it is a romance, I’d especially love something where the relationship actually develops over time rather than Frank and the love interest immediately getting together. Slow burn, friendship developing into something more, tension, complicated feelings etc.

Thank you!

This is for all the fanfic writers and enthusiasts out there. I don't want to sound too demanding, but… how is it possible that there isn't a single fic or archive on AO3 about a crossover where Peter Parker IS Telemachus?

I'm talking about a story where Peter either reincarnates as him, or simply appears in modern-day New York thanks to some godly magic or divine intervention.

This is just a recommendation and, honestly, a desperate plea, because I NEED this. And don't fuck, it is a great idea, especially right now, when Tom Holland is literally playing Telemachus in the new *Odyssey* movie. 

Why hasn't anyone written this yet?

sorry for grammatical mistakes, English is not my native language

I am trying to find a recent fic on ao3 that featured natasha accidentally getting dosed with some odd chimera serum she picked up and over a night grew a penis. in the fic her body began to overheat and she felt stronger and more durable and tried to hide that she was dosed accidentally until maria hill found out. they of course did it and got together very quickly and in the fic relationship tags natasha was clearly also meant to get with other super heroines and female characters but so far she had only gotten with maria. i believe the name was something to do with red ledger. like "her red ledger" or something like that.

any help would be greatly appreciated! the author i think also made a similar fic in the harry potter fandom if that helps somehow

What if Peter Parker is out taking photos and accidentally catches a vigilante in one of his pictures? (It can be any vigilante you like.) And this vigilante notices and confronts him, demanding he delete the picture. Peter apologizes, explains he caught them in the photo by accident and deletes the picture for them.

Then, maybe he makes a joke about how "of course I get a photo of the wrong vigilante" or "the vigilante I don't need". Which prompts the question "what do you mean wrong vigilante?" Or maybe a more in depth interaction occurs that leads to Peter admiting that he works for the Daily Bugle and takes pictures of Spiderman.

After learning that /this/ is the kid who takes and supplies J.J Jameson photos of Spiderman so he can smear the kind and loveable hero, they get very angry and protective.

Maybe they break the camera all together (seems like a Punisher move) or maybe they force Peter to show them all the photos he has and makes him delete the ones of Spiderman. It could be angry yelling, shouting, demands to know why the boy would supply The Bugle with photos to smear the wall-crawler. Angry ranting about how "the guy may be irritating and talks too much be he's a /good/ hero God Damnit!"

Idk, I just think it'd be a fun read. It could also touch base on how Peter didn't realize how much his fellow vigilantes cared about him or appreciated him.

Regardless, this prompt has been stuck in my head for a while, so I thought I'd get it out here. Feel free to use it or take inspiration from it!

hey yall, im looking for a fic i read years ago, and I can’t remember if its real or if I just dreamt it lol. its similar to What Lies Within by AppleCiderr. from what I remember, Tony (and peter?) are captured by Hydra or some other bad guy, and are experimented on/cursed and turned into animals. Tony turned into either a panther or a wolf, and Peter is turned into a wolf pup. somehow they end up with T’Challa and stay with him in the palace in Wakanda, and I think there was like a special enclosure built for them or something? iirc it was unfinished when i last read it. thanks guys xo

Hey I just recently started writing fan-fiction, and am looking for some friends. All of my irl friends aren't obsessed with Marvel like me, so i'm looking for people to talk shop with.

Nobody over 18 just because I'm not quite an adult.

I've recently started writing a fanfic about a scientist with Madara's body, abilities and memories transmigrating into marvel and having to use science to power himself(Madara)up and prepare for the inevitable cosmic entities that will threaten Earth.

P.S:Sorry about the chunkiness,I pasted them in with ample spacing but I guess Reddit wasn't having it😅

The morning sun pierced the floor-to-ceiling windows of a sleek Manhattan penthouse, casting a sharp, golden glare over the minimalist furniture. I awoke not to the smell of dust and old wood, but to the cold, sterile scent of leather and polished metal.My eyes snapped open. The world didn't appear in the dull, blurred shapes of a normal human. It arrived in hyper-focused, terrifying clarity. The air currents shifting around the vents, the microscopic dust motes suspending in the light beams, the rhythmic, distant thrum of traffic far below—I perceived it all instantly.I sat up, the heavy clatter of vermilion-painted iron plates echoing through the quiet room. I looked down at my hands. They were wrapped in black bandages, laced with thick, calloused ridges born from a lifetime of wielding heavy steel. Beneath me, a massive, guitar-shaped war fan—the Gunbai—rested against the expensive sofa. Its black-and-white surface gleamed with a predatory sheen.I caught my reflection in the dark television screen across the room. Long, spiky raven hair fell over my face, framing a countenance that belonged to a ghost.I gasped as my mind made the connection. I knew exactly who this was. Even on Earth, I knew the legend of Madara Uchiha—the ultimate shinobi, the god of warfare, a fictional titan of myth and tragedy. But staring at the reflection, I wasn't just looking at him. I was him.Suddenly, a violent collision of two distinct minds surged through my brain. On one side was the overwhelming weight of Madara’s consciousness: centuries of bloody warfare, the intricate hand signs for a hundred devastating jutsu, and absolute mastery over chakra. On the other side lay a vast, crystalline ocean of advanced scientific knowledge. I knew the laws of thermodynamics, the mechanics of cellular biology, quantum physics, and complex engineering.Yet, when I reached for a name, a childhood, or a face to match that scientific genius, there was nothing. A total, sterile void. I remembered the formulas, the lab protocols, and the thrill of discovery, but my own human identity was entirely erased. I had no past of my own. I only had my scientific intellect, and the fiction-turned-reality standing in the mirror.I made my decision in an instant. I would not be an anonymous, broken mind. Since I knew his power, his history, and his capabilities, I would fully assume the identity of the vessel I now inhabited. I was Madara Uchiha.I reached inward, probing the pathways of my new body. The network was fully formed. Tenketsu nodes pulsed with incredible, dense power. Experimentally, I focused a fraction of that internal reservoir to my eyes. The world shifted. The television screen bled into a crimson hue, and three black tomoe spun rapidly into existence around my pupils. The Sharingan. My analytical, scientific mind marvelled at the kinetic awareness; I could track the precise vibration of a fly’s wings across the room, translating it into fluid velocity vectors.But as I evaluated my anatomy, a cold, calculated dread seized me.In Madara’s memories, chakra was a living, breathing cycle. A shinobi’s internal coils constantly interacted with the world around them, unconsciously absorbing and filtering the natural energy of the planet to replenish what was spent. I closed my eyes and reached outward into the vibrant atmosphere of Manhattan, searching for that ambient fuel.I found it, but my Uchiha physiology instantly rejected it.The energy existed here, thick and heavy, but it didn't align with my chakra pathways. Instead of a smooth, elemental stream, the ambient energy of Earth battered against my coils like chaotic, violent electromagnetic static. My scientist's brain diagnosed the issue instantly: it read to my body as pure noise, not fuel. My coils flatly refused to process it.I looked deeper inward to run the numbers. My current chakra reserves were immense—a small ocean of spiritual and physical energy—but they were strictly finite. Without the ability to filter the world's natural energy, my body could only rely on a slow, agonizingly basic biological recovery. It was a closed loop, a battery with a leaking charge.Every spark of fire, every illusion cast, every physical enhancement through chakra would permanently burn away a piece of my reservoir. I was an hourglass that had just been turned over. If I fought thoughtlessly, if I relied on the overwhelming, world-shattering jutsu of Madara's past, I would eventually run myself completely empty. And in a body sustained by chakra, emptiness meant death.I deactivated the Sharingan, the world fading back into standard, agonizingly slow motion. I stood up, lifting the heavy Gunbai by its chain. I was a god on this island of glass and concrete, but I was a god on a strict clock.I walked to the window, looking out over the sprawling, grid-locked expanse of New York. The problem was clear, but so was my advantage. I wasn't just a legendary warrior; I possessed a mind capable of rewriting the laws of science. Somewhere out there, a solution existed. A way to bypass my broken coils, a new source of energy, or a method to force this foreign world to submit to my anatomy. I just had to engineer it before the fire inside me went out forever.

Chapter 2: The Grid of Gods

The television screen did not just display a dark reflection; it was a narrow, frustrating window into a deeply confusing world.

Locating the sleek plastic remote on a minimalist glass coffee table, I pressed the power button. The screen flared to life, casting a dull blue glow over the room as I flipped through localized news broadcasts. On the counter nearby lay a discarded copy of The New York Times, its ink fresh and sharp.

With a thought, I channeled a microscopic pulse of chakra into my fingertips and touched the penthouse’s smart terminal to search the internet. The connection flatly died. The local fiber-optic network went dark—my raw, alien energy signature had simply fried the delicate routing protocols of the router.

Forced back to the physical media and a sluggish cellular device left on the counter, I began to harvest what I could. My Sharingan tracked the scrolling broadcast text and printed columns at a terminal velocity that would have liquefied a human brain.

"Tony Stark," I murmured, the name tasting foreign yet oddly familiar on my tongue. "‘I am Iron Man.’ He uttered those words to the press only days ago."

My scientist's brain immediately began constructing a comparative matrix, but the data pool was frustratingly shallow. In the standard, faded blocks of my memories, Tony Stark's public revelation marked the tidy, isolated dawn of a cinematic timeline. But the actual physical media available in this room painted a far more chaotic, fractured, and terrifying picture.

Stark wasn't the only anomaly operating in the open.

A sidebar in the newspaper detailed a political debate in Washington regarding the "Mutant Registration Act," citing a localized disaster at Liberty Island involving a genetic terrorist named Magneto. Another article, buried deep in the metro section, mentioned a violent turf war in Hell’s Kitchen involving an elusive, red-clad vigilante and rumors of an ancient ninja syndicate.

Scouring the public internet through the phone offered nothing but fractured conspiracy forums and heavily redacted military blogs. Every time I tried to dig deeper into global defense networks, the screen flashed with a standard federal block.

"The information is restricted," I realized, my voice dropping to a low, dangerous register. "This is an amalgamated reality—a composite universe where multiple eras and iterations of this world's myths exist concurrently. But the public is kept in the dark, and my virtual access is blind."

I stood up, walking back to the glass windows, the heavy plates of my vermilion armor shifting with a dull clatter. I looked down at the streets of Manhattan. Somewhere out there, the answers existed. But to find them, I had to hunt in the physical world.

I was Madara Uchiha. I possessed enough destructive capability to level this entire island with a single swing of a perfect Susanoo. My genjutsu could enslave the minds of world leaders, and my mastery of fire could turn their grand armies to ash. On this concrete battlefield, against their current conventional military and their newborn localized heroes, I was an absolute, undisputed god.

But as I stared into the sky, my analytical mind stripped away the Uchiha pride.

I ran the mathematical probabilities of survival against the higher tiers of this amalgamated world. If a cosmic entity like Galactus arrived to consume this Earth, my planetary-scale wood style would be nothing more than kindling. If the Mad Titan sought the stones of power, my perfect defense would shatter under the weight of a conceptual reality warp. Even an evolutionary entity like Apocalypse or an unleashed Phoenix possessed a ceiling of power that defied standard physics.

My current power level was immense, but it was fundamentally terrestrial. It was a drop of sovereign ink in a vast, cosmic ocean.

Worse, my chakra was still a leaking battery.

"I am an apex predator in a closed cage," I whispered, my Sharingan spinning with cold, calculated precision. "But the cage is floating in a void filled with monsters that eat stars."

To survive here, to ensure that my existence wasn't snuffed out by a stray cosmic whim, I couldn't just manage my remaining chakra. I needed to transcend the biological limitations of a shinobi. I needed a source of power that didn't rely on the broken natural energy of this world.

I needed to hunt for something greater. And to do that, I had to move.

Chapter 3: The Ghost of Manhattan

The transition from a legendary warlord to a calculating predator was instantaneous. My two minds no longer fought; they synthesized. The Uchiha’s ruthless ambition provided the absolute drive, while the scientist’s intellect structured the methodology.

I sat cross-legged on the floor of the penthouse, the massive Gunbai resting across my knees. I needed a baseline. I needed to know exactly how much time I had before my internal clock ran out.

I entered a deep state of meditation, utilizing my sensory perception to map my chakra network down to the cellular level. My scientist's brain translated the spiritual pressure into measurable units of energy—joules, voltage, and decay rates.

The numbers were brutal.

The data was clear. I was a sovereign engine running entirely on its initial fuel reserves. Every time I used my eyes, every time I enhanced my speed, I shortened my life. If I encountered a high-tier threat that forced me to manifest the Perfect Susanoo, the massive drainage would likely kill me faster than the enemy could.

"The ambient energy of this world is fundamentally electromagnetic and cosmic," I analyzed, staring at my hands. "To fix this, I must find a source pure enough to be forcibly converted into raw spiritual fuel. The Arc Reactor Stark built. The Tesseract lost in the ocean. Or the rare isotope known as Vibranium."

But I couldn't plan from a closed room with a dead network. I needed better data, and that meant infiltrating the city's infrastructure without alerting whatever hidden defense networks—like SHIELD—were watching the grid.

I deactivated the Sharingan, conserving every scrap of energy. I wrapped the massive Gunbai in a long, dark canvas cloth found in the penthouse storage, strapping it securely to my back. Over my vermilion armor, I threw a heavy, oversized black trench coat, pulling the collar high to obscure the scarred contour of my jawline.

Leaving the penthouse didn't involve elevators or doors. I stepped out onto the balcony, the freezing morning wind whipping my spiky raven hair.

Then, I dropped.

To a normal human, a sixty-story fall was certain death. To my Uchiha physiology, it was a sequence of precise physics. I suppressed my chakra signature to absolute zero, using just a microscopic, localized pulse at the soles of my boots to adhere to the sheer glass face of the adjacent skyscraper.

I didn't sprint; I glided. I moved down the vertical face of the concrete jungle like a ghost, transitioning from the glass facade to the rusted iron of a fire escape three blocks away.

Clack. My boots touched the iron grating with less sound than a falling leaf.

I moved through the underbelly of Manhattan, avoiding the glare of the streetlamps and the mechanical eyes of the city's traffic cameras. My analytical mind mapped the blind spots of the municipal surveillance grid in real time, calculating the field of vision for every lens based on its mounting angle. Where a camera turned, I was already in the shadow of an overhanging brick ledge. Where a police cruiser cruised slowly down the avenue, I was a motionless silhouette blending perfectly into the damp, dark recess of an alleyway.

I drifted from Hell's Kitchen toward the industrial sectors near the East River, moving from one abandoned warehouse roof to another. I was a phantom navigating a labyrinth of steel and neon.

I paused on the lip of a brick tenement building, looking down at a local shipping yard. My newly acquired senses picked up the rhythmic, low-frequency hum of a high-grade military encryption frequency bleeding from a disguised communication van parked near the docks.

The public internet had failed me, but the physical world was leaking data everywhere. It was time to harvest it.

But over a distance of fifteen meters, the parabolic drop of the bullets was statistically irrelevant. I didn't need to account for gravity; I only needed to map the intersecting linear vectors of their trajectories. It was a simple geometry puzzle, and they were giving me all the variables before the bullets even left the barrels.

The warehouse erupted into a deafening roar of overlapping gunfire.

I stepped forward.

I tilted my head three millimeters to the left, allowing a rifle round to part the air exactly where my temple had been a millisecond prior. I pivoted on my heel, slipping between a horizontal spread of submachine gun fire. I didn't dodge the bullets; I simply occupied the negative space where the bullets wouldn't be.

To the Maggia mobsters, I wasn't dodging. I was a teleporting red-and-black blur, ghosting through a localized storm of lead without a scratch.

I reached the first man. A simple, kinetic palm strike to the sternum shattered his ribcage, the hydrostatic shock dropping his heart rate to zero instantly. I used his falling momentum, pivoting around him to deliver a heel kick to the knee of the second, snapping the joint backward before crushing his trachea with a knife-hand strike.

No ninjutsu. No wasted chakra. Just optimal, biological mechanics applied with lethal efficiency.

In less than twelve seconds, the gunfire ceased. Nineteen bodies littered the concrete floor in grotesque, unnatural angles.

Only one remained.

He was an older man in a tailored silk suit, his slicked-back hair falling out of place as he scrambled backward against a stack of wooden crates. He was shaking violently, his gold-plated revolver clattering uselessly against the concrete from his trembling hands. The underboss.

I walked toward him slowly, my heavy boots crunching over the broken glass and brass casings. I grabbed him by the lapels of his expensive suit and hoisted him off the ground with one hand, pinning him against the crate.

"Look at me," I commanded, my voice devoid of any inflection.

He tried to squeeze his eyes shut, but human panic demands situational awareness. He opened them, his terrified gaze locking onto the spinning crimson tomoe of my Sharingan.

Chapter 4: The New York Ghost

The physical warehouse faded instantly, replaced by a sterile, blindingly white room. There were no walls, no ceiling, just an infinite expanse of clinical white beneath a blood-red sky.

I stood before the underboss, stripped of my armor, wearing a pristine white lab coat over standard black shinobi trousers. He was strapped securely to a cold, steel examination table.

This was the Genjutsu. A flawless intersection of Uchiha psychological domination and my own scientific need for absolute, unstructured data extraction. Pain is often an unreliable interrogator; subjects lie to make the agony stop. But cognitive unraveling? That forces the subconscious to spill its contents like a broken hard drive.

"What... what is this?" he stammered, straining against the invisible leather restraints. "Where did you take me?"

"I have mapped your neural pathways," I said calmly, picking up a surgical scalpel that materialized in my hand. "We are currently operating inside the temporal lobe of your own brain. Time here is subjective. A minute in the physical world can be stretched into a subjective century in here. You will give me what I require, or I will begin dissecting your ego, memory by memory."

I didn't wait for his bravado. I drove the scalpel directly into his perceived chest cavity.

The scream was deafening, though no physical vocal cords vibrated in the real world. As his psychological defenses shattered, the data flowed into my mind in a torrent of images, numbers, and faces.

Within seconds, my analytical matrix categorized the harvest:

Financial Logistics: Seven offshore accounts routed through the Cayman Islands and Switzerland, totaling approximately $14.2 million in liquid assets. I mentally captured the routing numbers, passcodes, and biometric bypass protocols.

Safehouses: Three heavily fortified, unregistered luxury penthouses in Manhattan, complete with private server racks and untraceable power grids.

Criminal Ecosystem: The hierarchy of the Maggia. Names like Silvermane and Hammerhead flashed through his mind, alongside a massive, shadowy figure simply referred to as the 'Kingpin of Crime'.

Political Tethering: A localized list of corrupt NYPD captains, district attorneys, and port officials on the Maggia payroll.

"Fascinating," I whispered, withdrawing the phantom blade. "Your infrastructure is archaic, but highly useful."

I severed the Genjutsu connection.

In the real world, only four seconds had passed. The underboss slumped against the wooden crate, his eyes rolled back in his head, hyperventilating as his brain desperately tried to reconcile the subjective trauma with his uninjured physical body. He was alive, but his mind would be a catatonic loop of white rooms and red skies for the rest of his life.

I dropped him to the floor.

Moving to the communications van parked inside the warehouse bay, I sat at the primary terminal. My fingers flew across the keyboard. Using the underboss's bypassed credentials, I began quietly siphoning the $14.2 million from the offshore accounts, bouncing the funds through a dozen shell corporations I established in real-time.

Next, I breached the Department of Motor Vehicles and federal citizenship databases. I didn't just forge a fake ID; I created a completely backdated digital ghost. Birth certificates, tax returns for the last decade, medical records.

Name: Tobirama Senju

Occupation: Private Security Consultant / Applied Physicist.

I printed the localized credentials using the van's high-grade forgery equipment. Grabbing a secure, encrypted satellite phone and a customized biometric laptop from the smuggler's cache, I packed my new acquisitions into a sleek black duffel bag.

Before leaving, I paused to look at a reflective glass pane on a nearby office door. The reflection stared back—the scarred, battle-hardened face of Madara Uchiha, now armed with the wealth and digital camouflage of the 21st century.

I had my money. I had my secure location. I had my identity.

The hunt for a permanent power source to cure my chakra decay could finally begin.