#Frustrated Tony Stark

[darthbloodorange]

Treaty Solution

Rating: Teens Universe: Marvel Cinematic Universe Pairings: Steve Rogers/Tony Stark Characters: Steve Rogers, Tony Stark Warnings: Swearing, Implied Sexual Content, Mpreg (Sort of? I Guess?), Eggpreg, Xenophilia Major Tags: Canon Divergence AU, Different First Meeting AU, Crack Treated Seriously, Humour, Pre-Relationship, First Meetings, Interspecies Relationship (Not between Stony), Aliens, Tony Stark is So Done, Frustrated Tony Stark, Steve Rogers is a Little Shit, Steve Rogers Gives 0 Fucks (Well… He gave one and now has none 😂), Implied Bottom Steve Rogers, POV Tony Stark Word Count: 500 - Quintuple Drabble

Summery: That's it! Tony hates Captain America. He just met the guy, and he's nothing like the old war stories. Captain Rogers is just pure trouble.

For the: ✦ @tonystarkbingo Round 8 - Interspecies [Adopt]

Read below or on AO3 >HERE<

Tony paces, wearing a hole into the tile of the spaceship's sleeping quarters. His hands, tightly clenched, are kept firmly in his pockets. He's sure he'd start pulling his hair out otherwise, and he has an image to maintain.

Hell, how was he going to break this situation to Fury?

It was meant to be a difficult mission, yes. But fairly straightforward.

Meet the horrifyingly tentacled aliens that had shown up in their solar system. Treaty for peace. Return home, alive.

The aliens supposedly asked SHIELD for Earth's mightiest. Shield sent him and Captain Fucking America.

Tony doesn't know if the Captain America they sent him was the real deal or if SHIELD just sort of synthesized him in a lab. But he hopes it's the latter. Because this one is broken. Well, not broken... But... well...

Tony sighs, his whole body sagging. "Fuck..."

How do you tell the not-just-a-little terrifying head of a sketchy organization that you've been developing weapons for that you kind of impregnated their Captain America? Well, not him, personally. He didn't put the eggs there. But he didn't know that he had to make sure Captain America didn't go and breed with the potentially hostile Alien race they were trying to broker peace with.

Maybe he was wrong, assuming the guy was xenophobic, not xenophilic... But who'd blame him?

Tony pulls his hands out of his pockets and buries his face in them. Letting out a muffled scream.

Fury's going to kill him. Maybe Fury wouldn't do it himself... But his death warrant was signed. Maybe Fury would get that hot redhead to do it? That might be nice. Give him something pretty to look at while he goes. With his luck lately, it'll be Agent Coulson.

Tony takes several slow breaths that do nothing to settle his nerves.

Maybe he could just send Cap back to Fury and let him find out in 9 months time what happened.

...But the guy already looks 6 months along.

"Relax, Tony," The offending individual says from his stretched-out position on the bed.

Tony glares at him. "No. Nah. Uh no. First name privileges have been revoked."

Captain America rolls those damn pretty blue eyes of his. "Sure thing, Mr. Stark."

'He will not strangle Captain America! He WILL NOT strangle Captain America!!!'

"God, don't- Don't do that either. 'Mr Stark' just reminds me of my dad."

Cap just shrugs, nuzzling his face into the pillows. His right hand rubbing over the large swell of his belly.

Tony looks away, ignoring the uncomfortable feeling rising within him.

"You know, you could look just a little bit concerned about this whole situation," he says.

"We secured the treaty. Everything is on the up and up."

"It's not! Or have you forgotten the eggs in your gut?"

"I don't mind it."

"I hope it's not a chest-burster. For both our sakes."

First week of knowing Cap, he'd thought they were going to get along surprisingly well.

God, Tony hates him.

THE END

[fizz-pop-thwip]

Can Iron man dick riders take 2 seconds to use critical thinking skills. "What if it was your parents" NO ONE IS BLAMING TONY'S REACTION BUT DO YOU SERIOUSLY JUST EXPECT STEVE TO SIT THERE AND LET IT HAPPEN??

He knows Bucky has been tortured and been through fucking hell for 70 YEARS, not to mention that is his best friend, you want him to just stand and fucking watch?? They didn't 'jump tony' tony attacked first and they went as far as they needed to aka disabling Tony's weapon, that being his suit.

It makes me think that people haven't watched CATWS BC Bucky is quite literally as innocent as they can get, he was stripped of all his autonomy. He had no choice over his actions, do I need to define mind control for some people?? Seriously.

I feel like I need to reiterate like 10 times over, No one is blaming Tony but you cannot possibly blame Steve for protecting Bucky because Bucky is a victim.

[hurtcomforted]

imagine that, in the first avenger, before pre-serum steve's training montage, we get a flashback with sarah rogers to explain his perseverance. imagine that when he goes to save bucky and after losing him, we get flashbacks to them as kids.

imagine that, in civil war, instead of (or along with if that's what it takes) more of tony's daddy issues we also get to see little steve with sarah to also understand him better.

imagine we get more of steve's backstory.

[scottxlogan]

Controversial opinion here but I find it so frustrating that people would rather Emma Frost be alone and pining over someone who clearly doesn't love her the way she deserves to be loved over the idea of her being with someone who truly cares about her and her well-being. Don't get me wrong Scott is my favorite character and I really loved him and Emma together when I first started reading comics, but that bridge has been burned. Right now no matter how anyone feels about it Scott is 100% about his relationship with Jean and Emma deserves something more in her life. Tony actually has real feelings for her and their current story arc has shown considerable growth between them alone and together. They work really well so for all the haters who clearly aren't reading the comics and cling to the past I'm not saying that you can't love your favorite ship but just stop shitting on a potentially wonderful pairing for Emma. She deserves to be more than an afterthought to someone who can't give her what she needs. Tony clearly cares a great deal for her as they've pushed forward beyond their tense past and really they both deserve a bit of happiness.

Ok done. Just tired of people being jerks about saying they want Emma alone, dead, miserable pining for Scott instead of being happy.

[veliseraptor]

sometimes when i'm like. writing about character a from the point of view of character b, and character b does not like character a very much, people will read character b's feelings as mapping precisely onto my own. and this has resulted both in people feeling happy to shittalk a character I often actually really like (because they presume I agree with their dislike) or people being mad at me because how dare I slander their fave (by writing something where they're not universally beloved).

probably the funniest iteration of this was that while I was in supernatural fandom I had multiple people in the comments of fics absolutely convinced that I agreed with their hostility toward (depending on the fic) sam or dean. sometimes the same fic.

idk. just interesting to me to sort of see in that the seeds of the current trend of "narrator pov is correct and accurate pov, and if the pov disapproves or dislikes someone/thing then they're definitely morally correct to do so, and also accurately represent the author's opinions"

[callistocreations]

Why is it that TV shows used to be able to make 20 episodes a season even when their budget was $3 and a dream, and now billion-dollar companies can barely manage 8 episodes a season?

[fangirlforeversthings]

Why do the characters who did their whole life nothing else than giving, giving others love, support, appreciation, friendship, etc. only get the worst pain and suffer known to mankind back in return.

IN WHICH WAY IS THIS FAIR??!

EVEN ALLOWED?!?!?!

[huldrabitch]

I hope and don't hope they add an iron man armor with the visor/helmet up. Because if so I'm going to become the most annoying dps player in the world...

[mostlystuckony]

Tony Stark head cannon: he is terrible at wrapping gifts.

[catgirl-gerardway]

i love being autistic and all but if it could maybe NOT feel like a huge personal attack whenever someone dislikes my special interest or likes it “wrong” that would be nice

[magical-reid]

The Soldier and His Mission

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Avenger!Reader

Word Count: 1K

Summary: When a trigger sends Bucky back into the grip of the Winter Soldier, he shadows you with an unyielding protectiveness that leaves the team on edge, though he doesn't harm anyone. After days of tension and careful steps, Bucky finally breaks through the icy barrier, returning to himself in a quiet, tender moment, finding solace in your presence.

You should’ve known something was wrong the moment Bucky went still.

One second, the mission was wrapping up—just another Hydra facility wiped off the map, just another set of goons taken down. The next, something triggered him. A phrase muttered in Russian over a radio, the faintest crackle of a long-dead handler’s voice. You saw the shift in his posture before he even turned around, the telltale tightening of his jaw, the blankness overtaking those usually warm blue eyes.

Bucky Barnes was gone.

The Winter Soldier stood in his place.

And yet—he didn’t hurt you.

Not when he turned to face the team, his body language bristling with danger. Not when Steve hesitated before stepping forward, his hands raised in a placating gesture. And certainly not when you cautiously called his name, your voice softer than the others.

Instead, the Soldier moved between you and everyone else.

A shield.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

Back at the Tower, you thought the episode would pass. That maybe, after a few hours, after enough familiar sights and sounds, Bucky would shake it off like he always did.

But the Soldier wasn’t leaving. And he had decided you were his mission.

Not to eliminate.

To protect.

At first, it was just hovering. You moved—he followed. You sat—he stood at your back, ever watchful. The others gave him space, exchanging worried glances when they thought you weren’t looking. Steve was tense, obviously trying to figure out how to break through, while Tony was less patient about it.

“This is a problem,” Stark declared after the first few hours, arms crossed as he leaned against the counter. “I mean, I hate to be the one to say it, but we have a fully armed, brainwashed assassin in the Tower again, and we all know how that went last time.”

“He’s not attacking anyone,” Natasha pointed out.

“Yet,” Tony shot back.

You ignored the argument as best you could, focusing instead on cooking something for Bucky—something normal, something familiar, something that might ground him. His eyes tracked you the entire time.

Then you miscalculated the heat on the stove.

The oil in the pan hissed and spat, and a second later, you hissed too as a sharp sting bloomed across your palm. You barely had time to react before there was a sudden blur of motion.

Bucky was on you instantly.

His flesh hand gripped your wrist, his metal one hovering protectively over the stove, as if it had personally attacked you. His face was unreadable, but his grip was firm, his hold gentle as he examined the burn.

“I’m okay,” you assured him, but he wasn’t listening.

Instead, he took the cold pack you hadn’t even reached for yet and pressed it carefully to your palm, his jaw tight, his brows furrowed in focus. You exchanged a look with Steve over Bucky’s shoulder, and the Captain exhaled, something like relief flashing in his eyes.

He was still in there.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

The Soldier continued shadowing you for the next two days, much to Tony’s frustration. But as Natasha had pointed out—he wasn’t hurting anyone.

Unless they posed a threat to you.

That was something Steve learned firsthand during a sparring session. You had barely landed a hit before Bucky, watching from the sidelines, had moved. The next thing you knew, Steve was on his ass, blinking up at the ceiling, while Bucky stood between you like a human wall, eyes cold and calculating.

“For the record,” Steve grunted as he sat up, rubbing his ribs, “I was letting her win.”

Bucky wasn’t convinced.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

It wasn’t until you needed a medical checkup that things really came to a head.

“Barnes, I have to actually examine her,” Dr. Cho said patiently, eyeing where Bucky stood between you and the med bay’s equipment.

“No,” he replied flatly.

“Bucky—” you tried.

“The room is secure.”

“That’s not the—”

“She does not require assistance.”

“I do require assistance,” you corrected. “Because I burned my hand and twisted my shoulder thanks to a certain super soldier overreacting in the gym.”

Bucky didn’t move.

You exhaled slowly.

“Okay,” you said, shifting tactics. “Then stay.”

That got his attention.

“If you want to make sure nothing happens to me,” you reasoned, “then you can stay here. But you have to let the doctor check me out.”

His expression was unreadable for a long moment. Then, after what felt like an eternity—

“…Understood.”

Progress.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

When it finally broke, it wasn’t dramatic.

There was no grand trigger, no huge revelation.

Just a moment of quiet.

You had fallen asleep on the couch, exhaustion finally winning after two days of Bucky’s overprotective hovering. When you woke up, it was to warm hands gently brushing over your wrist—both flesh and metal, but softer this time, as if relearning the feeling of touching you.

And then you heard it—his breath hitching.

A tiny, barely-there sound, but one filled with something raw.

You blinked sleepily, looking up.

Bucky was staring at you. Not the Soldier. Bucky.

His face was pale, his jaw tight, his eyes wide—his real eyes.

“…Doll?” His voice cracked over the word, like it had been caught in his throat.

You smiled sleepily, shifting so your fingers curled around his. “Hey, Buck.”

His exhale was shaky. His shoulders sagged. And when you tugged him down to you, he didn’t resist.

He just buried his face in your neck and held on.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

“You scared the hell out of me, you know,” you murmured later, your fingers absentmindedly running through his hair as he rested against you.

“I know,” he admitted, voice rough.

“You threw Steve like a ragdoll.”

“…Yeah.”

“…Kind of hot, not gonna lie.”

A laugh. Quiet, but real.

And just like that, Bucky Barnes was back.

[buckysm]

2:15 am (and i miss you)

ᯓ★part one, part two,

ᯓ★ Bucky Barnes x fem ex hydra AVENGER reader

ᯓ★ part one word count 6k+

ᯓ★a/n: junie’s first post— so please show some love— i hope you like!! my inbox is always open to chat! (minor edits on jan 27) (more edits on mar 11)

ᯓ★ summary: In the quiet hours of the night, you and Bucky find solace in an unexpected friendship built on sleepless conversations and cigarettes. Slowly, walls come down, and a bond forms, kept hidden from the team. But when crisis strikes, the Avengers are shocked to discover just how deep that connection runs—and just how far you’d go for each other. (i wrote this bc of a little fantasy of being in a secret situationship with bucky and the team finding out when bucky goes feral after reader goes missing during a mission)

ᯓ★ warnings/ tags/ tropes for the whole series: canon? what canon?, haters to lovers -- except you never hated him and he just resented you-- midnight rendezvous, friends to lovers, Anxiety, angst and fluff and smut,  Bucky Needs a Hug, Protective Bucky Barnes Bucky Barnes issues related to past trauma, not so platonic cuddling, slow burn, jealous Bucky Barnes Miscommunication, Mentions of torture off screen (to be added and expanded as i post part two) NOT BETA READ

These are the hands of fate/ You're my Achilles heel/ This is the golden age of something good and right and real

It started with a cigarette.

It started when he had lent you a lighter. He did not smoke, and you didn’t ask why he had one.  

For him, it started months before then.

Bucky was barely coping when you joined the team. His days were muddled by an eternal haze of anger and frustration…His life had been stolen from him, along with his memories from before. He did not feel like he deserved redemption. He had done terrible things, had had horrible things done to him.

He found himself disassociating whenever he wasn’t on a mission. He did not feel real; he couldn’t joke around and feel good without betraying his past. Yet, his past was real; it happened. But Bucky couldn’t just move on, couldn’t just exist without the churning in his gut telling him he was dirty, he was dripping in sin, tarnished by the red in his ledger, filthy to the point of no return.

When he was told about you, his body turned taut with trepidation. Two sides of the same coin. You were injected with serum just like him. Made to do things and had things done to you just like him. And he had heard of you. They had called you serpiente, the serpent, the snake. You were deadly and never made a mistake. No one knew any identifying details about you, not even your gender. 

And it was his mistake, thinking you were a man. He yearned to be understood; maybe he would find companionship in you.

But then, you were not a man. The first time he beheld you, he had just finished a mission for Fury. Secret and dirty, he felt right at home doing SHIELD’s grunt work.

You were walking down the compound, side to side with Black Widow. He had assumed you were one of her brethren; maybe you had trained with her, a black widow yourself. Tony Stark pranced a few paces before you.

“Soldier, good you’re here! Come meet our newest recruit!”

Your smile was disarmingly bright. Pretty. Bucky felt himself grow cold with fury. It was a smile that came easily to you. And your eyes, frustratingly soft. You seemed at peace with yourself, and he hated that.  

He just stared at you in response. Eyes hard. Waiting for you to react to his lack of reciprocity. You didn’t bite his hook. You just slightly pursed your lips and took his glare in stride. 

“Nice to meet you. Stark was telling me about you. All good things, so don’t worry. But I had heard about you from before—you know—we do have in common h-”

“We have nothing in common.” He snarled before walking away, fuming. How dare you? How dare you make chit-chat about the thing that haunted his life. Every waking hour, every nightmare, he was haunted by his past. And you wanted to…what? Talk about it over jokes? No. He decided you had nothing in common.

Maybe your body count was higher than his, and he chose to ignore the elephant in the room. The fact that you were a beautiful woman could be a weapon as much as it could be a vulnerability.

He hated you a bit more each time he saw you get along with the rest of the team. How dare you? 

He had thought, had been so sure, that the reason he was disliked was because of his past. But that wasn’t it, was it? Because you and the black widow seemed to do just fine. Maybe he was just broken, and perhaps you had been too, but you had fixed yourself just fine. Parallel wounds, yours had healed, while he had festered like a virus. How dare you?

His despise grew with each smile, each laugh, each time you were slapped on the back.

Everything came to a head when he found you on the balcony. He had thought it was his balcony. His.

It wasn’t a balcony, more of a ledge. A floor that had been destroyed during a hulk mishap had not been fixed and did not look like it would be anytime soon. 

The wind was strong. You stood at the edge, facing the precipice. You seemed so peaceful. 

He stared at your profile, illuminated by the city lights. Your expression was sad. He had never seen it like that. Your lips were tight, eyes fluttered shut. Were you about to jump?

He walked toward you, deliberately moving his limbs so that you heard his footsteps.

You turned unhurriedly, your eyes opening slowly. There was a small moment where Bucky saw you, your unguarded face. He was too involved in his stupor and had not considered the possibility of it all being a facade. But months had passed, and your mask hadn’t slipped until now.

It was only a fraction of a vulnerable moment before you schooled your features. And it angered him for some reason. Seeing you so easily slip into the practiced mask. It made him like the rest, taking you at face value, not digging deeper past your pretty face, sparkling eyes, and gleaming smile. But then he was angry at himself for not looking past and you for pretending. 

Before he could stop himself, before he could think, words were coming out of his mouth faster than he processed them. 

“Do not do that, don’t do that.”

You sighed, your mask falling to one of disdain. You looked disappointed in Bucky, exasperated. It was a look of derision; he felt scorned, yet it was better than the fake platitudes. 

“Do what? Now, what am I doing that deserves your anger?”

“Pretending,” Bucky grunted.

You rolled your eyes and scoffed. “So what am I supposed to do according to you, huh?” You walked away from the ledge toward him. He towered over you, head lowered to meet your defiant gaze. “Am I supposed to growl, frown, and hate myself for things I can’t control? Well, guess what? I've been there and done that! And, hey—guess again what happened. I hated it. So what if I am faking it? Maybe if I fake it hard enough, it’ll come true.”

“What’ll come true?” Bucky asked beside himself, snarling.

“Wanting to live, not letting them win. Because if I hate myself, then they win.” Your angry gaze wavered, turning sad. You looked away from him towards the city skyline. “I’ll go now, leave you alone to your self-hatred and whatever….” You started making your way to the battered elevator doors.

Bucky sighed, exasperated. “No, stay. I’m sorry.”

You had stopped walking away, your footsteps silent, but some sixth sense told him you had, in fact, paused.

He turned toward you. “I’m sorry.” He echoed.

You nodded, moving towards the ledge and sitting on it.

── ࣪˖  ࣪ ⊹ ࣪ ˖ ──

“Careful there, doll face.” His voice was gruff. “Don’t want you to fall off.”

You stiffened slightly, taken off guard, not for the first time tonight. The sweet nickname, coupled with his harsh voice, made heat rise to your cheeks. You decided to appear as if you took it in stride. Not wanting him to know just how much his words meant to you. Wanting to hear him call you that forever.

Because as much as you told yourself otherwise, it hurt when he brushed you off. You had looked up to him. 

You didn’t have any memories of your past before the experiments or the training, so maybe it was different for him. He had a life that was taken away from him — and you were just now learning to have one.

You heard about him, heard him even.  Heard his screams sometimes. Your handlers wanted to teach you what would happen when you didn’t behave.

It was clear he did not remember you. Why would he? He didn't know who you were when you passed each other in the hydra bases; that was part of your deal. No one expected a pretty girl to have a body count as high as yours. 

Bucky had killed about 20-something people, important ones. You knew that Natasha had a count of about six hundred and had shared the fact with you. Bucky had been Hydra’s tool and was used only in important missions. While you…were a gun for hire, basically. A knife for hire. You used your charms on men and women alike to disarm them enough. Your kills were always up close and personal. Sometimes, you have to put yourself in compromising positions to do so. Bucky never had to. 

You knew that he had to be put under a lot, had to have his brainwashed again and again, and conditioned an inhumane amount of times. His brain rebelled, and he had a life. Somewhere, deep in his subconscious, he had memories or faint encodings of a life outside.

But you were awake all of the time. You did things because there was no other option. You had to survive. You didn’t know otherwise.

You pondered in silence. And when it became too much for you, you fumbled into one of the multiple pockets on your jacket for your cigarettes. You stiffened when you remembered you had left the lighter on your bedside counter. “Damn it.”

“What’s wrong, doll.” His voice was curious, less rough. He was standing somewhere behind you. You could feel the weight of his stare.

You wanted to comment on the pet names but didn’t want him to stop, so you swallowed a snarky remark. “I forgot my lighter.”

He made his way toward you, movements swift as he sat next to you, feet dangling on the edge. You understood him now. You didn’t want him to fall. 

He slid his hand onto the pockets of his cargo pants and came out with a lighter.

You smiled at him. His eyes never strayed from yours as he placed the lighter in your hand. 

His eyes were beautiful, darker than usual under the low light.

You tore away from his gaze. Placing a cigarette between your lips, you cupped the lighter and flicked it on.

You took a drag of the cigarette, enjoying the burn. Enjoying the strong scent, stronger than other cigarettes. It made your head light.

Banner had made them for you after you expressed sadness about not being able to enjoy any substances.

You heard a sniff. He had noticed it, too.

You waited a second, leaving the smoke in your lungs, before exhaling. “It’s enhanced with something, Banner made it for me.”

He hummed. 

“You want one?” You looked at him from the corner of your eyes, not wanting to turn your face entirely.

“Thanks for offering, doll, but I don’t smoke.”

You hummed, taking another drag. “Not even before?” your question was tentative. You wanted to see if he would open up to you.

He hummed softly. “I did, yes, once or twice. But Steve couldn’t handle the secondhand smoke, so I stopped. Little asthmatic punk…”

Silence stretched out as you enjoyed the lightheaded sensation. Your limbs loosened, and you felt free. 

“D’ya miss him?” You turned fully toward him.

His eyes never strayed from the skyline as he answered, “I do. It’s different. We’ve both changed a lot. You know how it is, losing the past.”

“I don’t know, not really…” your voice was soft and resigned. 

His eyes flashed to yours. You didn’t know what to do with the full weight of his stare. “What do you mean by that doll?” His brows were furrowed. 

You sighed, not wanting to get into it. “It’s late…” You took out your AVENGER-sanctioned phone to check the time, 2:15 A.M.

“I’m going to sleep.” You lied. And you couldn’t stop more words from tumbling out of your mouth. Clumsy and rushed. “Same time tomorrow?”

A ghost of a smile pulled slightly at the corner of his lips. “See you doll face. Sweet dreams.”

“Sweet dreams, Jamie.”

── ࣪˖  ࣪ ⊹ ࣪ ˖ ──

Jamie. Jamie. Jamie. Jamie….

He had been too quick to judge, and now he couldn’t get you out of his thoughts. His sleep was fitful, but he was granted a reprieve from his nightmares. Dreaming instead of the multitudes in your eyes. 

It was a slow day in the compound. He had a routine during slow days; he would go to his favorite training room and lose himself. The training room itself didn’t lack anything, but he had marked his territory with his glares at anyone who entered. He had achieved an unspoken ownership of that particular room.

After having you torment his dreams, however, he had to see you in person. He tried to contain himself and started his routine in the training room. 

It lasted 42 minutes. 

No amount of dagger throws could get him to calm down. 

He found you on the tower’s common floor.

You hunched over a table, Banner at your side. Coming down was worth it.

“Well, good morning there, Sarge. It's nice of you to come out of your room and join the land of the living.”

And he immediately regretted it.

“Stark!” Two voices proclaimed in tandem. You and Steve jumped to defend him, Steve’s voice was sharp, and yours was a playful whine.

“What? I’m just saying, he’s acting like a teenager!” Stark’s voice was a defensive grumble. He tinkered with the toaster in the kitchen area. 

“Oh, as opposed to you, who behaves so maturely?” The tone of your voice was playful but had a hidden bite to it. Bucky couldn’t help but appreciate it.

You turned to smile at him, and Steve turned to bicker with Tony. Bucky rolled his lips and moved to grab a mug. He poured himself a cup before walking away. 

He barely heard Stark’s remark on his parting, mentally berating himself for caring about the hurt look that soured your face when he did not return your smile. He shouldn’t care; caring was dangerous. It made him vulnerable and put him in a position where he could be easily hurt again.

He had to be careful; he did not want to break down the walls he had put up protecting himself and others from himself.

── ࣪˖  ࣪ ⊹ ࣪ ˖ ──

You almost didn’t show up. Hurt but not surprised by his attitude.

You paced the room you had on Natasha’s floor. She was not home, leaving you to pace away your conflicting thoughts.

Your heart had skipped a beat when he showed up. He never showed up; he was a ghostly presence in the compound. Part of the team, but never there for ‘team building exercises’…

It was 2:14 when you rushed to the elevator, a pounding of indecision in your chest. You told yourself it was curiosity. You needed to know more about him, needed to figure him out - maybe then you would be able to understand why he made you want…-

The silent elevator ride left you time to think.

He is hurt, just projecting/ This could end badly/ This could end with a friendship/ He was an asshole/ He just needs a friend/ At the cost of your sanity?/

Two inner voices argued with each other in the back of your mind. You let them.

The elevator stopped, the doors slid open, and there he was. The voices went quiet as soon as your eyes fell on him.

He leaned against a thick construction support post, overlooking the city skyline, his back to you.

“Nice of you to join me, doll.”

DOLL?! Asshole, he dared to call you doll- yet acted coldly toward you in public?! You grunted angrily, mimicking his usual blasé attitude and walking to stand beside him, not looking at him.

As you stared at the beautiful Manhattan skyline, a storm of anger raged inside you.

“Is everything alright, doll?” His voice was softer, and you weren’t as angry anymore.

Yes, he hadn’t smiled at you, but what exactly made you expect that from him? Yes, he called you doll, but he was from the forties. Plus, he hadn’t smiled at you before. And-what?  You had one conversation, and suddenly, you expected him to smile at you? You were delusional! This man was set in his ways and maybe bored, but it meant nothing. He was bored and lonely, and you were overthinking everything. You were new at this, at socialization. Genuine socializing. You socialized a lot for your HYDRA days, but this was new. You were used to having the upper hand and being in control.

You sighed out your exasperation, letting your tense shoulders loosen.

“Mhm…” your eyes never strayed from the city.

You stood in comfortable silence. You were an expert at working yourself into a stupor. But honestly, you were about… twenty twenty-one (you lost time during HYDRA). Yet you felt emotionally stunted- of course, you did. You never had the chance to actually develop skills people your age did.

“This feels like a dream. Like I am hallucinating being free, and I will wake up from passing out due to torture and be back in my cell…” Words tumbled out of your mouth. You were also bored and lonely. Faking your way with the others made you exhausted.

He made no response, but you could tell he understood. And that was enough.  You fumbled for your cigarettes. He slid a lighter from his pocket, handing it to you wordlessly.

You took it from his hand, inhaling to light your smoke. 

“You know? It’s dumb… but I sometimes feel like screaming at them… like something deep inside me yearns to scream, kick, and throw whatever is around- to get out all my pent-up energy; maybe then I can pass out from exhaustion and sleep. And yea- the novelty of being free, and being in the fucking Avengers is slowly wearing off, and I just-” you sighed, you were talking, and maybe he wasn’t even interested in hearing you whine. “And whatever, I should be grateful… it’s dumb…” You stopped yourself. Letting the chilly New York air into your lungs. 

“No, doll, it’s not dumb.” He turned to look at you, forcing you to face the full weight of his gaze. He was devastatingly beautiful. Your inhale was sharp. “Don’t feel bad about being angry. It’s valid to feel this way.”

You smiled then, “Look at you, giving emotional advice. Who knew you were a big softy underneath that grouchy, grumbling exterior.”

He scoffed, but you could tell there was no real meaning behind it. Your smile grew.

His eyes lowered to your lips for a charged moment before looking back to the city. “Those who can’t do, teach-”  His lips tugged slightly upwards, a glimpse of a smile.

You took a drag of your cigarette, staring unashamedly at his profile. “What do you do when you are not brooding? Like, what does one do for fun around here?”

“At two am in the morning, doll, those who aren’t sleeping…” he trailed off, a soft pink brightening his cheeks.

“Are what?” your grin was teasing.

“Are you on a mission or something?” His voice came out slightly strangled. 

“Or something…” you murmured, a yawn escaping you.

── ࣪˖  ࣪ ⊹ ࣪ ˖ ──

 “So, you really liked big band music? Kind of… classy for a guy who threw himself off buildings.”

 “Hey, a man can appreciate good music and bad decisions.”

── ࣪˖  ࣪ ⊹ ࣪ ˖ ──

 “Stark’s fine, sometimes… but his ego’s bigger than his bank account.”

 “If I had his money, I’d buy a planet and avoid people altogether.” You sighed, 

 “Doll, you’d get bored in two days.”

 “True. I’d need at least one grump to frown at me.” 

He couldn’t hide his soft grin.

── ࣪˖  ࣪ ⊹ ࣪ ˖ ──

 “Paris. You think it’s as romantic as everyone says?”

“Probably less if I was there...”

 “You’re right. You’d make it a lot more broody.”

“And you’d make it a lot more… sneaky. You’d blend into the shadows and pickpocket tourists.”

── ࣪˖  ࣪ ⊹ ࣪ ˖ ──

 “I could live off this forever.” You spoke around a mouthful of pizza

Bucky grimaced. “Takeout pizza? You call that food?”

 “Says the man who probably ate spam for dinner in the ’40s.”

“Now, doll, it was a delicacy back then.”

 “Spam’s not a delicacy in any era, Barnes.”

── ࣪˖  ࣪ ⊹ ࣪ ˖ ──

“You ever thought about getting a pet? Like a dog or something?”

Bucky raised an eyebrow. “Me, with a dog? Not sure I’d be a good influence.”

“Nah, they’d see through you.”

“I’m more of a cat person.”

── ࣪˖  ࣪ ⊹ ࣪ ˖ ──

 “I like the quiet moments just before dawn. No one’s around to bother you.”

“Night’s better. Everyone’s already asleep. Feels like you’re the only one left.”

 “Until you realize someone like me is lurking in the dark.”

 “Yeah, lucky me.”

── ࣪˖  ࣪ ⊹ ࣪ ˖ ──

 “So, any weird phobias? Mine’s spiders. Too many legs.”

Bucky shrugged. “Needles. After Hydra? No thanks.”

You nodded. “Yeah, makes sense. But hey, at least you could crush a spider for me. And I can catch all your bulk when you pass out at the sight of a needle.”

“Ha, ha.” 

Someday, you’d get a real laugh out of him.

── ࣪˖  ࣪ ⊹ ࣪ ˖ ──

 “If you weren’t a super soldier, what would you do?”

“Maybe a mechanic. Fixing cars, quiet life. You?”

 “Bartender. People tell you their secrets. It’s like espionage, but with cocktails.”

 “Sounds dangerous, doll. What’s in the drink?”

You grinned. “Depends on who’s asking.”

── ࣪˖  ࣪ ⊹ ࣪ ˖ ──

“I keep getting these flashes… Steve dragged me to Coney Island, insisting I’d love it. Turns out, I hate roller coasters.”

You rolled your lips, deciding on what to say. “I don’t have any memories of before Hydra, but I dream about falling. Maybe I would love roller coasters.”

“I’ll take your word for it, doll. I prefer solid ground now.”

── ࣪˖  ࣪ ⊹ ࣪ ˖ ──

“You ever feel like the idea of ‘freedom’ is just another way to trap us? Like, what do we even do with it?”

“I dunno. Still figuring that out. But it beats following orders like a puppet.”

“Yeah. I just wish freedom came with an instruction manual.”

“If it did, doll, I’d probably ignore it. I don’t need another piece of paper dictating my life..”

── ࣪˖  ࣪ ⊹ ࣪ ˖ ──

You were late, and Bucky was ready to leave when he heard the elevator doors open. You held a full white plastic bag.

“Honey, I’m home, and I brought dinner!” you had a slight spring in your step; he turned toward you, and a smile of pleasure and relief made its way into his expression without his consent. Your steps faltered slightly, your brows furrowing for a moment before a beaming smile took over, your eyes twinkling.  It was real, not a sarcastic grin, a smile! Your response only made his smile more pronounced -slightly, but still-.

“It’s good that you don’t smile; if you did, people would pass out on the spot.”

He couldn’t stop the small laugh coming out of his mouth. “Not you?”

“Not me, I’m made of stronger stuff.” You sat beside him, a bit farther from the ledge than usual. 

He followed suit, crouching in front of you. He noted the way you eyed his legs, your inhale, and the way you had to force yourself to look away.

“I wonder what would make you pass out.” His mouth ran away from his brain.

“Maybe take me to a fancy restaurant, and then you can try to find out.”

The thought made his heart race, and he stopped thinking about it. You were joking, it was friendly— you weren’t serious.

“I could, we could go on a few dates, and you would end it when you realize I’m too old and bitter for you, doll. Maybe it’s best we stay here at 2:15 A.M., where I can lend you a light.”

Your face soured to a pout. “Well I like my men a little bit older. But if you are telling me I’m not your type, and you like old ladies, well then I can handle rejection, not the worst thing I’ve lived through.” Your smile was sarcastic, yet he could tell there was hurt behind your eyes.

“No, doll, I don’t think anyone could reject you even if they tried.” 

── ࣪˖  ࣪ ⊹ ࣪ ˖ ──

Your heart raced at his words, caught off guard by their raw sincerity. You weren’t used to hearing compliments, not ones that felt real. A flippant remark was on the tip of your tongue, ready to deflect the tension, but it got stuck.

“You ever think about it? You know… dating?”

He snorted softly, “Who would date me? I’ve got more shit to deal with than anyone would want to deal with.”

You grinned. “Hey, at least you’re mysterious. I’m more… ‘potential assassin.’”

 “Ah, the classic ‘will she kill me on the first date’ dilemma. I can hide the metal arm, but you can’t hide the serial killer smile.”

You laughed loudly, shoving him playfully.

── ࣪˖  ࣪ ⊹ ࣪ ˖ ──

It was a few weeks after the initial meeting, and meeting had become a habit, a tradition of sorts. 

You gave him a shy smile when others were present, and he reciprocated with a soft look in his eyes. 

He knew he was being obvious with his staring, but he couldn’t help himself from looking at you.

He leaned on the counter, eyes flicking to and from you. He beheld as you smiled and laughed with the rest. He was jealous that you weren’t bestowing a smile upon him, but he held none of the contempt from before.

He sensed an annoying presence beside him.

“Hey, creep, why don’t you join us for drinks tonight? As luck would have it, even your star-spangled ass is joining us.”

Said star-spangled ass turned to glare at Tony, his expression turning into a smile as his eyes shifted toward Bucky.

“Yeah, come with us, you’ll have fun, we promise.” 

A myriad of yeahs chorused from the rest of the team, including you. Heat rushed to his cheeks as he looked at the ceiling. “Whatever.” He muttered.

“Well, that wasn’t a no!” you grinned, acknowledging him.” Your smile was so bright he couldn’t take it. 

He sighed and grumbled incoherently before turning to hide his blush and walking away.

── ࣪˖  ࣪ ⊹ ࣪ ˖ ──

You smiled to yourself as he retreaded. 

Natasha bumped your shoulders together. “He stares at you so much, I have no clue if he hates you or wants you. Maybe both!” 

“Nat, don’t be rude; it’s probably because I’m new.”

She smirked, “Sure.” You hadn’t been new for a while.

── ࣪˖  ࣪ ⊹ ࣪ ˖ ──

He was anxious. It took him forty minutes to place where the tight feeling in his chest was coming from. But it came down to you. It always came down to you as of late.

Steve had an arm around his shoulders and was babbling on about how much fun these rare night outs were, where everyone was present.

He didn’t know what he expected, but you weren’t talking to some guy. Enthusiastic hand gestures and a dazzling smile on your face as some random guy looked at you with an entranced smile.

He felt bile rising in his throat. 

He wanted to turn around and walk away, but that would have been too obvious. So he walked in with his stomach dropping with anguish.

He was out of it, sipping a drink that Steve had handed him. His taste buds not even processing the taste of his drink.

“Yo! Joe Goldberg, knock it out with the serial killer stare.” 

He felt a smack on his shoulder. He reluctantly tore his eyes away from you.

“What are you talking about?” he grumbled. Smooth. Real smooth.

Even though she was shorter than him, Natasha towered over Bucky. “I don’t know your problem, but you have to check it. It’s getting really weird.”

He felt a hand fist in his heart, tight. He downed the drink and sighed. Think Bucky. Think. “It’s not like that.” He was quiet for a few moments, formulating a response.

“Well, then explain why you keep staring at her like you want to strangle her.”

“I don’t want to— fuck.” He placed the empty glass on the table. “She’s also from Hydra.” He stated.

“Yeah, duh.” Natasha looked at him with contempt.

He needed to fix the fact that she thought he was some sort of obsessed weirdo…. He wasn’t!

“She’s so normal, happy. And she…” he trailed off. 

Natasha’s expression shifted to one of understanding. “Oh.”

“Yeah.” He looked to Steve, who tried to make it seem like he wasn’t listening to the conversation.

“Bucky, you’re-” Natasha placed a friendly hand on his shoulder.

“I’m going to get another drink.”

── ࣪˖  ࣪ ⊹ ࣪ ˖ ──

You could tell something was wrong when you stepped out of the elevator. He was quiet, not the usual kind, brooding. You acted like you always did, but you could tell his heart wasn’t in it. 

“Bucky, is everything alright?” your voice was soft.

His reply was an irritated huff. You waited for a few moments, letting him have his space.

The night was cold, and you had worn thick cotton clothing. He wore a hoodie and pants; they looked comfortable, but the man in them did not.

You hummed and moved closer toward him. He leaned on a pillar,

“Big mission tomorrow, huh?” You shifted tactics. It wasn’t odd for him to have a quiet night, where you just sat in companionable silence. This was different, though… he was angry about something. Some insecure part of you told you he was mad at you. But there wasn’t any foundation to that, was there? 

He grunted in response. He was making you anxious. You sighed loudly, deciding to smoke or go to bed. The stilted silence made you anxious, a pressure hard on your chest. You tried to exhale it out, but it wouldn’t budge.

You let him wallow next to you for a few minutes before giving up and turning to face him. You placed a soft hand on his forearm, about to say goodnight. He flinched harshly, and your heart twisted. He grimaced, eyes shifting to you before flitting away. 

“Bucky, if you need, I-” Your voice had a nervous tinge, and you hated it. You were glad when he interrupted you.

“Go to sleep, doll.” His voice was sad, his face resigned. 

You furrowed your brows, studying his expression. You had the urge to kiss him on the cheek for good luck but knew that you would break if he flinched away.

“Goodnight Jamie…”

── ࣪˖  ࣪ ⊹ ࣪ ˖ ──

You walked away, turning your head twice to smile at him sadly. He held your gaze as the elevator doors closed, removing you from his field of vision. Taking you away from him. 

“Fuck.” His voice was soft and defeated. He looked at the city skyline. His eyes glossed over. He wanted to get the self-hatred out, to hit the wall, break his knuckles, and kick at the litter on the floor. But he let it sit, let it fester in his chest. A leech that grew bigger as it fed on the churning,  loathsome thoughts overwhelming his brain.

He crumpled with the ease of a paper, falling to the ground.

His limbs splayed as he lay on his back, staring at the ceiling. He couldn’t take it. Any of it. He always told himself he was strong. He was The Winter Soldier, for fuck’s sake! And here he was, crying over a girl. But that wasn’t it. Or it wasn’t just that. It was the fact that he was too soft for all of it. And he was still somewhat human at the end of the day. He still had emotions, and he was starved for comfort. He lacked connection. And he was okay without it. Having gone so long without it, he had grown used to the lack. But then you had come into his sanctuary and ruined everything, and he let you. He felt a kinship with you. You had gone through hell and back, had walked the same road as him, and you smiled so big, your eyes twinkled so bright. He couldn’t help but fall into your orbit. Admiring you from afar. 

Maybe it was better when he hated you; it was something he was used to and comfortable. He did not know what to do with all these feelings; he hadn’t felt them before, not even in the 40s. He was happy then; it was normal for him to smile. He didn’t know how to appreciate it. Yes, there was war, but there was hope, and Captain America was there to save him, but then Steve wasn’t there anymore. And any sliver of hope was quickly crushed under gleaming leather Hydra boots. He would die someday on a Hydra mission; he had made peace with that. But Steve did save him, a little too late. He wasn’t Bucky anymore and did not feel like he had any right to the mantle of Captain America’s best friend. Some parts of him still wanted that, but all of him yearned to be your Jamie.

And now bitter and traumatized, he held a flower in his calloused hands, and he didn’t know if he was worthy of it. He couldn’t breathe.

He was going to die here, and he couldn’t go in peace because he wanted to see you one more time. He couldn’t stand up, he couldn’t move; he keened in pain like a puppy. 

Pathetic, get up. Voices from Hydra spewed venom, wracking through his psyche. He clenched his jaw and groaned from deep in his throat.

Broken…unworthy…killer…tainted…

── ࣪˖  ࣪ ⊹ ࣪ ˖ ──

The mission was successful. The team had divided in two, his group had finished earlier.

He felt better, exhausted. It had been a long mission. He was covered in grime and blood. 

It was rare for him to get to the point of exhaustion, but he had dived head-first into hand-to-hand combat, not letting up, ignoring the black widow’s knowing looks. 

Freshly showered and changed into sweats, Bucky let himself fall face-first into his too-soft bed. Days of restless sleep and today’s exertion weighed his body down and pulled his mind into sweet oblivion.

He awoke with a start, looked at the clock, and sat up. 3:22 A.M. 

He had stood you up. He rushed to the elevator and up to the floor. His thoughts raced with self-criticism and hatred. He breathed out a frustrated sigh, you weren’t there.

Of course, you weren’t there – he had been over an hour late.

He grumbled to himself all the way down to the common floor. His footsteps skidded to a stop when he found all the lights on and a flurry of activity.

Hawkeye typed furiously into a computer; Black Widow paced the floor, her hands fiddling with tech stuff. Steve was curled over a tablet, his hands clenched around the edge of a countertop.

Bucky stopped. The other team hadn’t come back.

“What’s wrong… where is she?” His chest felt tight.

Steve motioned at him to come near while the other two ignored him.

“Look, Bucky, I know you have some fondness for her, but I need you to calm down. She’s — uh— she’s missing…”

His ears started ringing; he didn’t hear anything after that. He took deep breaths, running his hands through his hair. It was longer, and he needed a haircut. Maybe you could cut his hair. Yeah, that sounded nice. 

He stilled. Breathing in deep, “Give me the details. I’ll have her back with me within the hour.”

He didn’t recognize his voice. Black Widow and Hawkeye had turned to stare at him with wide eyes. 

“Bucky, calm down, she’s alive from what we can tell, we can’t deal with y- we have to focus on finding her right now.”

“I am focused. I will find her.” His voice was gruff, and the language wasn’t English. He was reverting back…

Iron Man decided it was the best moment to walk in.

Bucky, The Winter Soldier, turned around with intent. He had some inkling of what he must have looked like, a menace— because Iron Man was opening his mouth to make some snarky remark, his jaw clenching shut, hands rising in surrender. 

“Где она, где моя кукла?” Where is she? Where is my doll?. 

His voice had a deadly cadence. He spoke and meant death.

“She’s okay, Wanda has her.” Black Widow had placed the radio on a table. She walked toward The Soldier slowly.

Wanda, the deadly witch, saved from Sokovia. He remembered her. She was strong. Not strong enough. 

He leveled his eyes on her. “скажи мне где, или ты умрешь.” Tell me where, or die.

Her eyes grew hard. “Calm down, soldier. There is no need to threaten anyone.” 

The tension was palpable then, rising… rising-

The Doors opened to you limping… being supported by the witch and the doctor. 

His shoulders slumped. He shifted toward you, but something blocked his path. He looked down to see Steve’s arm pushing against his chest. The enemy’s stance was on the offense, about to attack, to keep her from him. He was about to threaten his best friend,  The Captain, to move when-

“Jamie…”  

His gaze flashed toward you. You pushed away from them, limping— stumbling toward him.

He met no resistance this time as he rushed softly toward you.

Your knees buckled as he wrapped his arms around you. You collapsed against him. 

You sobbed softly- and he broke. His arms were strong and soft as he held you close.

He didn’t care about anything. He didn’t care how the scene looked. He didn’t care that they all knew for certain now. He loved you.

He just needed to know you were okay.

He held you as you shook, “I thought, I was back there Jamie, I- thought I wasn’t going to to see you again. I thought he would get lonely, and- and- I was going to miss you- they- they- I didn’t care about any of it. I just thought about you….” You sobbed, trying to get words out. “I got out. I killed them all, I couldn’t face it, couldn’t face not- I killed…” For you. 

“Kukla…” Doll. “you’re here, you’re okay, let’s get you to the infirmary. You are hurt and bleeding…”

His voice was so, so soft —dense with remnants of Russian. His arms holding you together.

He ignored it all, ignored the dropped jaws and furrowed brows. You came first. He had shown you his vulnerability, but he first had to be sure his Achilles heel would be okay.

Please remember to leave your kind thoughts in the comments, and if you enjoyed support with reblogs, ok thanks for reading be back with part two soon!!!!

[buckyalpine]

CEO Bucky takes his anger out on his secretary (ft smut)

Imagine CEO!Bucky accidently taking his anger out on his already stressed out secretary. He gets mean and you will deal with it because I wanted this angst turned smut to go from chest itching to stomach fluttering. 

-

Your stomach twisted in knots looking at the pile of papers you had stacked on your desk, the phone still ringing while new messages popped up in your email inbox every 5 minutes. The files had to be organized by the next meeting and the number on the phone display was one you couldn’t ignore. The back to back messages were from various investors, each person insisting they were a priority over the others. You kept the receiver between your ear and shoulder, your hands flying around your desk madly between papers and tapping your keyboard. 

You quickly added a few more meetings to the calendar before hurrying to your bosses office to remind him of one he had later that afternoon. You hesitated before knocking at the door, the closed doors indicating he was busy, but you knew he’d want a heads up about the meeting. 

“Mr. Barnes, you have a meeting with Stark Enterprises at 3:30-

“Didn’t I tell you to move this meeting to next week?” Bucky snapped, blue eyes glaring at you while you blinked in confusion. “Well?” 

“N-no” You shook your head, you’d never missed an email before and you’d always been on top of scheduling changes on time. Bucky mumbled something under his breath before waving you off, the shrill sound of his phone going off. 

“Barnes” Bucky grunted, answering the phone without looking back at you, leaving to you scramble away and figure out if you could rearrange the date with Tony Stark. 

Which was a mess in itself. 

You had to argue back and forth, pleading to no end for a different day with Starks assistant only reluctantly agreeing after nearly half an hour. 

“You really should be more responsible, can’t believe Barnes has the likes of you working under him” the woman on the phone clicked her tongue before slamming down the receiver, cutting the call. You sighed, taking in a deep breath to calm the tightness you felt in your throat, you didn’t have time to break down now. 

You printed the up coming contracts for Bucky to sign, organizing them by name and highlighting the places he had to sign so he didn’t have to bother finding the space for signatures. You scurried back into his office, dreading the tense click of his jaw, your nerves increasing even more. 

“Sir, these are your papers-” You stumbled over the corner of the rug, scattering the papers onto the floor, your heart hammering out of your chest when you saw Bucky irritatedly run his fingers through his hair. 

“For fucks sake, y/n, I’m already stressed, don’t screw more shit up!” He growled, eyes hardening at the sight of the papers strewn across the floor of his office while you stayed frozen on the spot. Your eyes glossed over, quickly scrambling to the floor to grab the documents, mumbling apologies over and over again, hoping none of your tears stained the paper. The sight of tears streaking down your face broke Bucky out of his frustrated state, instantly regretting the tone he’d used with you. 

“Fuck” Bucky cursed under his breath, getting out of his chair to help you but you’d already managed to pick everything up, immediately trying to scramble away.

“Y/n” 

You didn’t stop, unable to take more of Bucky’s wrath, continuing to hurry towards the door, desperately trying to hold down your sniffles and aggressively wiping your cheeks. 

“Y/n” 

Bucky sighed, gently reaching out to grab your arm and pulling you to face him, his feeling even worse when you kept your eyes trained on the floor, your arms wrapped around yourself. 

“I’m sorry, p-please d-on’t yell” You choked out, still trying to hold your composure together, fighting the way your body wanted to break down into sobs 

“It’s okay. I’m sorry, I’m sorry” his heart broke seeing the tears collecting in your lash line, his thumb swiping away the ones that spilled out. “M’sorry baby” he wasn’t sure where the pet name came from but he couldn’t help it, letting it naturally roll off his tongue. You were still rigid, refusing to look at him, nearly flinching when he pulled you closer, tilting your chin up to meet his steel blues. 

“Look at me” He spoke softly now, as if he were trying to coax a small animal out of hiding, his touch gentle, “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have yelled at you”

“It’s okay” you shrugged, slipping out of his hold, quickly wiping your face and going back to work as if nothing had happened. Even though he’d apologized, his words rang through your mind for the rest of the day. 

In fact, they stuck with you through the entire week. 

Bucky hated the way you didn’t even look at him anymore. He missed your soft good mornings and shy smile whenever he walked into his office. Now all you did was keep your head down, freezing in fear as soon as you heard his footsteps. And it was all his fault. 

He despised that he made you feel scared of him, his own anger being the cause of upsetting you when you had been nothing but sweet from the day he’d met you. You were also the best he’d ever had; no one else had ever come close to how brilliantly you worked; you never missed anything. He nearly spat out the coffee that was placed on his table, missing the perfect cup you made for him every morning. 

You only spoke 1-2 words, retreating from his office as soon as you got what you needed, your eyes always trained on the floor, looking away from him. He couldn’t take it anymore, feeling more guilty each day; he couldn’t go on any longer without your sweetness. 

You blinked at the baby pink roses that sat in a basket on your desk along with a little bear placed on top, a small hand made I’m Sorry heart sitting in its furry hands, clearly in Bucky’s handwriting. You traced over the soft teddy holding it in your hands before going to his office. Before you could say anything, Bucky was up and out of his seat, desperately hoping you’d hear him out. 

“M’sorry y/n” His soft eyes were filled with sadness and regret as he reached out to hold your hands in his, not wanting you to run off again, “I’m so sorry angel, there’s no excuse, I shouldn’t have yelled at you” 

“It’s fine” You whispered, still avoiding his gaze. 

“Hey, it’s not fine” Bucky shook his head, cupping your face to make you look at him, “It’s not baby, I shouldn’t have ever treated you that way. You do everything for me, I shouldn’t have taken out my anger on you” 

“I shouldn’t have messed u-

“Don’t, absolutely not. You never do sweets, it was me who messed up. Never you. Will you forgive me, doll?” Bucky nervously bit his lip while you gave him a small nod, that adorable shy smile he loved so much making its way to your lips. 

“God, I missed this” He whispered, his thumb tracing over your lips, chuckling at the tiny confused pout you gave him after.

“What did you miss” 

“This little smile you always have whenever you’re around me” Bucky smirked at the way you grew more bashful, doe eyes darting about, “Do you have any idea how much I love when you look at me like that?” 

“Mr-Mr. Barnes” Your breath hitched in your throat as his hands slowly moved to hold your waist, pulling you closer. Your hands made their way to his chest to ground yourself, forgetting how to breathe as he pressed his lips against yours. It started off soft and slow; his sweet tongue turning sinful as he walked over to his chair, pulling you to straddle him without breaking apart once. You let out a needy whimper feeling him harden under you though Bucky was still focused on kissing your soft skin, his lips fluttering across every inch. 

You’d never been this close to Bucky before, the intoxicating scent of his cologne making your heart race, his calloused large hands roaming your body. You hadn’t even realized you were grinding down on his thick bulge until he let out a groan, stilling your hips. 

“Keep that up bunny and you’ll make me cum in my pants like a little boy” Bucky let out a strained chuckle, using every bit of his self restraint not to tear your clothes off. 

“Please?” You wiggled against him again, needing to be closer, Bucky’s resolve slowly crumbling. How could he hold back when you were practically humping your soaked needy cunt right on his erection. 

“Please what, sweets” 

“Need you Sir” your voice had melted in a whine and that was all it took. The sound of his belt buckle hitting the floor caused more arousal to dampen your panties, nearly drooling at the sight of his cock as he pulled it out. 

“Are-are you sure?” He checked with you once more, not wasting a second ripping your blouse off as soon as you nodded. He threw your bra off next before lifting your skirt up and pulling your panties to the, rubbing his fingers through your folds. 

“Sir, pleasee” 

“I got you, I got you baby. Wanted to make love for our first time angel, give you a bed with rose petals n’ champagne over ice” He whispered, recounting every fantasy he’d thought of from the day he’d met you, “Wanted to make you feel good baby, throw your legs over my shoulders and nurse off this little clit”

He rubbed your sensitive bundle of nerves, continuing. 

“N’ then you’d be my sweet pillow princess. I’d let you lie down all night while I fuck your soul angel. I’d give you my cum all night, pump you full of my cream” 

“Need you now” You whimpered, clutching onto the lapels of his blazer, not that you didn’t want everything he was telling you but you couldn't wait. 

“Alright baby, c’mere” He pulled you closer, your bare chest pressed against his as he rubbed his swollen cockhead to gather your slick before breeching your tight hole, his hips gently pushing up till he was buried to the hilt, “That’s it, shhh take all of me” 

Bucky gave you a second to adjust to his size, his wide hands splayed across your body to hold you in place as he began to thrust up. You gasped in pleasure, your voice melting into a moan as he picked you up and placed you on his desk, pushing your thighs to hit your chest, hitting an even deeper angel. 

“OH GOD-MR-BARNES” You wailed as he fucked you harder, his heard thrown back, tie loosened, tightening the grip he had on your legs, keeping you spread out wide open. He groaned at the sight of his thick cock disappearing in and out of you while you moaned and sobbed on his desk, taking everything he gave you. 

“That’s right baby, say my name, let everyone know who makes you feel this good” He grunted through gritted teeth, holding off his orgasm while bringing his thumb to rub your clit again. 

“I-I’m gonna-OH-GOD-PLEASEE

“Fuck you sound perfect” Bucky moaned feeling you choke his length, fluttering and pulling him deeper as your orgasm washed over you, his own release dangerously close. “God you feel so fuckin’ good when you cum baby. One more angel, just one more” Bucky practically pleaded with you, speeding up his fingers till he saw your eyes roll back, silent screams leaving your mouth as your juices soaked his balls. 

“Fuck m’cumming so hard for you baby” He groaned, giving you a few more sloppy thrusts before stilling and spilling ropes of cum into you. He kept his cock inside while bending down to pick you up and sit back in his chair again. He sat with you for a while, petting your hair and kissing you, whispering sweet nothings. 

“Ready to go?” He whispered, looking down to see if you’d fallen asleep while you snuggled into him with your eyes closed. 

“Too tired sir” You pouted, nuzzling into his chest, refusing to move, your body too fucked out to even stand. 

“I got you baby” Bucky smiled, shrugging off his blazer and wrapping you up before carrying you away in his arms, ready to take you home, right where you belonged “Gonna make love to my pretty girl” 

[wewringmagicfromtheordinary]

#okay but you know that arresting people for a war crime without trial is also a war crime#so that’s all of team IM and Sharon and Ross#and the other Ross#the only people who did not commit war crimes#(until EG anyway the time travel nonsense is garbage)#is Steve Bucky Sam and Scott#also T’Challa I think#he has diplomatic immunity anyway lol#literally everyone else is a war criminal#(listen I know I said until EG but I’m including Clint’s serial killing here)#(also Wanda purposely set the hulk on a rampage in Johannesburg and also did mind control on the avengers so that’s war crimes)#if we put all these people on trial the only people that are getting off are Steve Sam Bucky Scott and T’Challa#everyone else is on the raft#anti tony stark#anti cacw#cacw#+.+ via cosmicmechanism

I need to talk about this scene. This scene actually, physically hurt me when I watched it in theaters, and cemented Iron Man as a bad guy in my head.

Sam Wilson saw his friend get shot out of the air. He was too late to save him; he watched his wingman die, and he was powerless to do anything.

So imagine how he feels when the shot that was meant to hit him hits Rhodey, who begins to plummet towards the ground. He immediately dives after him with zero hesitation, but he’s just not fast enough. He even apologizes to Tony, although he has nothing to apologize for.

And do you know what Tony does?

He shoots him. Point blank.

I don’t care if Tony didn’t know about Riley. It doesn’t matter. Sam Wilson just risked his life going after Rhodey, probably having flashbacks the entire way down, and he fails. Again.

And Tony doesn’t care. He shoots him, and he’s so close that the force of the shot sends Sam somersaulting backwards.

Sam did nothing to injure Rhodey in any way, and even tries to help, and Tony. Fricking. S h o o t s. H i m.

How can you support or stan this disgusting man?

[thollandsgirl2013]

Hi! Can I request a Peter Parker X Stark! reader and she wants to try on Pete’s spidery suit and web shooters and he thinks she looks really good in it so he kisses her and Tony comes in and thinks they’re doing some weird type of role play?❤️

Hello there! I had so much fun writing this one! I'll probably say it turned out to be one of my favourite fics. Thanks for requesting! Hope you enjoy reading it too.

----------------©®©®©®©®----------------

𝐒𝐮𝐢𝐭 𝐔𝐩, 𝐁𝐮𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐜𝐮𝐩

Parings → Peter Parker x Stark! Reader

Warnings → Fluff, Humor, Slight Spice, Making Out, Overprotective! Dad! Tony, Embarrassment, Light Suggestiveness.

Summary → You blackmail Peter into letting you try on his Spider-Man suit. It fits too well, leading to making out—and Tony walking in.

"Pleeeaaase, Pete?" You whined, leaning over his desk with the best puppy dog eyes you could muster.

Peter didn’t even look up from his notes, his pen gliding across the page. "Nope."

You groaned dramatically, throwing yourself back onto his bed. "Why not?! I'm the one who worked on half of your suit!"

"Keyword: half," Peter quipped, turning his chair slightly to smirk at you. "Mr. Stark did the heavy lifting, and, oh yeah—it’s my suit."

You sat up on your elbows, pouting. "That’s not fair! I bet it would look so cool on me."

"It’s not about looking cool, babe," he said, finally turning to fully face you. "It’s dangerous tech, Y/N. The suit has all kinds of built-in features, and I don’t want you accidentally webbing yourself to the ceiling or activating instant-kill mode."

You rolled your eyes. "As if I don’t know how the tech works! I built most of it with Dad. I probably understand the suit better than you do."

Peter gave you an unimpressed look. "That’s debatable."

Frustrated, you crossed your arms. If begging didn’t work, it was time for drastic measures. You sat up, narrowed your eyes at him, and smirked. "Fine. You leave me no choice."

Peter arched a brow. "Uh-oh."

You stood up, placed your hands on your hips, and announced, "No kisses for a month."

Peter froze. "Wait. What?"

You grinned, seeing his reaction. "Yep. No kisses. No sex. No cuddles. No cute little nose nuzzles. No hand-holding. No forehead kisses. Nothing."

His jaw dropped. "That’s—That’s cruel and unusual punishment!"

You fake-sighed, placing a hand over your heart. "Well, if my boyfriend refuses to let me try on the suit that I worked on, then I guess I have no choice but to take extreme action."

Peter looked genuinely distressed now, running a hand through his curls. "That’s so unfair. You can’t just—"

"And!" You interrupted, pointing an accusing finger at him. "You’re so ungrateful! I spend hours helping you upgrade that thing, and you won’t even let me try it for five minutes?" You dramatically turned away, placing a hand over your forehead. "Oh, the betrayal!"

Peter groaned loudly. "Ugh! Fine! "

You immediately spun around, grinning. "Wait, really?"

He gave you a deadpan look. "Yeah, yeah, whatever. Just—just don’t break anything, okay?"

You let out an excited squeal, doing a little happy dance before rushing over to grab the suit from where he pulled it out of his closet. "This is the best day of my life!"

Peter crossed his arms, watching you with a defeated sigh. "You’re ridiculous."

"You love me."

"Unfortunately, yes."

You snickered before holding the suit up in front of you, inspecting it. The fabric was smooth under your fingers. "Ooooh, I feel powerful already."

Peter rolled his eyes. "Okay, just—put it on already before I change my mind."

You nodded and started unzipping your hoodie, shrugging it off before kicking off your sweatpants. You were left in just your bra and panties when you noticed Peter had gone completely silent.

You turned to see him staring.

Blatantly.

His lips were parted slightly, his brown eyes locked onto your figure as if he had just seen the most captivating thing in the world.

You smirked. "Pete."

No response.

You snapped your fingers. "Peter Parker, my eyes are up here."

He blinked rapidly, his face immediately flushing. "I-I wasn’t—! I was just—!"

You crossed your arms, tilting your head playfully. "Just what?"

"Admiring my girlfriend," he admitted, looking sheepish but utterly smitten.

You rolled your eyes, though you couldn't hide your grin. "Uh-huh. Sure, Romeo. Now turn around."

Peter huffed dramatically but turned his back to you. "You act like I haven’t seen you in less."

"Yeah, well, you don’t get to ogle while I’m trying to be Spider-Woman for the day," you quipped, stepping into the suit.

As soon as you pulled it up over your shoulders, it felt huge. The fabric sagged, the arms hung loosely, and the legs were way too long. "Oh my God, Peter, your body proportions are so weird."

He laughed. "Hey! I have a perfectly normal body proportion, thank you very much."

You pouted, looking down at yourself. "It’s so baggy! Ugh, I look ridiculous."

Peter turned around, smirking. "You could always take it off."

You shot him a look. "Nice try." Then, you pressed the spider emblem on your chest.

Immediately, the suit shrank.

The fabric adjusted perfectly to your body, molding to every curve, every inch of your skin. Your stomach, chest, legs—everything was snug.

Peter stopped mid-breath.

His eyes traveled from your legs to your ass to your chest, and suddenly, his Adam’s apple bobbed. "Uh…"

You turned to the mirror, blinking. "Oh. Damn."

The suit hugged you perfectly. The fabric stretched in all the right places, highlighting every dip and curve of your body. Your ass? Amazing. Your boobs? Fantastic.

Peter made a strangled noise.

You turned to him with a smirk. "You okay there, bug boy?"

His mouth opened and closed like a fish out of water. Then, without a single word, he took two long strides forward, cupped your face, and kissed you.

It wasn’t just a peck. No, Peter devoured you, his lips molding against yours hungrily. His hands found their way to your jaw and waist, pulling you against him as he deepened the kiss.

Your hands gripped his shoulders, melting into him as he pressed you against the wall. His hands started wandering—one settling on your jaw, tilting your head up, while the other slid down to firmly grab your ass.

You gasped into the kiss, breaking apart for just a second. "P-Peter—"

"You look so hot in my suit," he mumbled against your lips, kissing you again, voice breathless and desperate.

You giggled between kisses. "I knew it!"

Peter groaned, nipping at your bottom lip as his hands squeezed your ass. "Not fair," he muttered, moving down to your jaw, leaving soft kisses.

You shivered, wrapping your arms around his neck. "I mean, if you wanna keep making out with me in your suit, I’m not stopping you—"

Then.

The door opened.

"Ay, kid, I need Y/N for a sec—WHAT THE HELL?!"

You and Peter immediately froze.

Your dad, Tony Stark, stood in the doorway, eyes wide, mouth open, looking horrified.

You and Peter were practically glued together—your arms around his neck, his hands on your ass, both of you looking like deer caught in headlights.

Tony blinked. "What. The. Actual. Fuck."

"Dad!" You yelped, shoving Peter off you.

Tony raised his hands, shaking his head rapidly. "Nope. Nope. Nope. I do not wanna know why you’re in the Spidey suit and sucking face with Spiderling. I do not wanna know what kinda freaky roleplay stuff you two are into."

You turned bright red. "IT’S NOT—"

"Oh my God," Tony muttered, rubbing his temples. "I need bleach. No, I need therapy. I need Pepper."

Peter, looking about five seconds away from fainting, squeaked out, "M-Mr. Stark, I—I swear—"

Tony pointed at him. "You. Out."

Peter blinked. "But… this is my room—"

Tony turned his glare up to maximum dad mode, eyes narrowing dangerously.

Peter swallowed hard. "I'm out."

And with that, he bolted straight out of the door.

"You. Family meeting. Now."

You groaned, burying your face in your hands. "Kill me now."

Tony sighed, mumbling to himself as he walked away. "Why couldn't she date a nice, normal guy from down the street?"

From the hallway, Peter called out, "I am a nice, normal guy!"

You groaned again. "Oh my God, Peter, shut up!"

‎∗ ࣪ ˖༺ 𓆩☆𓆪 ༻˖ ࣪ ∗

[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.”