#and tony face palms

[adrixivy]

Imagine the beef between Tom and Anthony is in the mcu.

Sam with a smirk on his face: Yo Steve

Steve: Yeah?

Sam: Can someone breathe in a washing machine while it’s on?

Steve:

Natasha who was relaxing nearby:

Bucky, his arm missing and remembering giving it to someone specifically and said person is nowhere to be seen:

Steve: Where’s Peter.

Cue Peter being tossed around in the washing machine because Sam stole Bucky’s arm from him and bait him into the washing machine and started it. Tony’s mama senses blared and he finds the half the Avengers gathered in one of the laundry rooms in the tower.

[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.

[writingunderneathawillow]

first base

summary: Bucky and you have to go undercover as a married couple for a mission. In order to soothe your nerves, he shows you that kissing him is not a big deal. Or is it? content warnings: fluff, mutual pining, handsome bucky hehehe, kinda suggestive but really tame, pretty angsty (mentioned character death, but the person’s made up), female reader word count: 2k a/n: today i looked up how the whole first base, second base, etc is defined and that gave me the idea for this :) also it’s been around since the 1940s (ish) this was supposed to be super cute and fluffy but i just love angst so much and i couldn’t help myself

The dress that wrapped itself around every curve of your body was surprisingly comfortable. Its satin flowed smoothly and pooled like a waterfall around your legs, allowing for plenty of movement which eased your nerves a little. Still, you felt the blood pounding in your ears as you applied the dark crimson to your lips and blended out the sharp corner of your eyeliner. The person that stared back at you in the mirror had little resemblance to you. Gabriela Alderton, your alias for the next few days, was dressed up in expensive silks, owned a purse that was sold for more than what you had saved over the last few years and wore jewellery that your yearly salary could not finance. That included an engagement ring, which sparkled on your left ring finger. The band was made out of heavy gold, engraved with details so fine that only someone in your close proximity would be able to see it. The diamond that adorned the centre of the ring was so massive that it almost looked cheap again. Almost. S.H.I.E.L.D. or, much rather Tony, didn’t play when it came to undercover missions. One wrong detail, one off-hand comment could end every involved agent’s life. And you knew that too well. Which is why you had taken the time to craft a fully in depth, flushed out and comprehensive profile of your made-up personality, detailing little things such as Gabriela’s electives in middle school (badminton and pottery). A knock on your door detached your scrambling mind from listing any more childhood details under your breath and you walked over to the entrance to your bedroom, turned the knob and opened. Your throat constricted when you saw who stood there, waiting for you. There was no moment in time where Bucky had ever been unattractive – and you had lived with him for a few years now, seeing him bloodied, beaten up, hauled through dirt and grime and passed out on the couch after exhausting missions. But the way his anthracite suit jacket smoothed itself across his shoulders, not yet buttoned up and therefore allowing a glimpse of the pressed silk shirt – it just wasn’t fair how handsome he was. “Hello,” he said quietly. His own eyes darted over you, and you saw how he swallowed, the bump of his Adam’s apple quivering as he took in your dolled-up face, drinking in every inch of your powdered skin. His gaze dropped and wandered further down, assessing the hold of the fabric on your body and if you had had it in you to rip away your eyes from his face, you would have seen how his fingers twitched in a suppressed attempt to reach out for you. “Hi,” you replied, your cheeks warming under his steady evaluation and you opened the door further, beckoning him in. A sound, that was half sigh, half grunt tumbled from his throat as he entered your bedroom. The material of his pants stretched over his thoroughly trained thighs when he walked and despite the material surely being sturdy and expensive beyond your comprehension, you saw the faint outline of his leg muscles shifting. “So,” Bucky began, fumbling with something in the inside pocket of his jacket. It took him a few tries to grasp it and when he opened his palm, you saw a shining gold wedding band that matched the engagement ring on your left hand both in aesthetics and opulence. “You already got the other one, right?” The question was unnecessary as Bucky stared at the jewellery decorating your finger. An expression that you didn’t quite have the words for was plastered across his face, a mix of anticipation and… longing? You raised your hand, palm facing your face, and wiggled your finger. “Yeah, Stark gave it to me at breakfast. Told me to get used to it.” “Hmm.” His one-worded response left his feelings towards that open to interpretation but there was a timid smile on his lips, as if he might not mind the idea of you getting used to that ring and the connection that intertwined him and you along with it.

“Well, we’re… ‘married’, so you need both,” he mumbled, now shifting the ring in his hand so that he could hold it between pointer finger and thumb.

Instinctively, you stretched out your hand, resting it against his free one and let him ease the ring onto your other finger.

It fit perfectly. There was no danger of it slipping off or cutting off your blood supply, as if it had been melded to your measurements from beginning to end.

It was just as heavy as its counterpart, despite the lack of diamond. It seemed simple, a thicker band than what your mind usually connected to the words ‘wedding ring’ but the feelings it triggered in your heart threatened to affect the standards you had set for your own expectations for marriage.

“It’s beautiful,” you replied as you took notice of the heavy silence that filled the room.

The apples of Bucky’s cheeks took a slight pink hue, and he cleared his throat before replying.

“You think so?”

He looked at you, a glimmer of something you didn’t know how to place in his stare.

“Yeah, Stark did a fine job picking it out,” you answered, softly contracting the muscles in your hands which causes both rings to reflect back to you.

“I chose it.”

Your attention snapped away from the jewellery and landed right on him.

A sheepish smile ornamented his face, along with a deeper shade of pink on his face.

You had to take a few short breaths to compose yourself, to not let yourself melt.

“Oh.”

He hummed a soft response, not words but not a distinguishable sound either and just kept looking at you.

“Well,” you continued, “You seem to know my taste a lot better than I do. It really is beautiful.”

A proud smile snuck onto his face, lighting up the grey storm in his eyes to adjust to a soft blue.

Despite the calm that he brought into your room and mind, you felt your blood pressure pick up again as the clock ticked closer to 6 p.m., signalling that it was almost time to go down and wait for the driver who would pick you up and drive to the gala.

Bucky noticed your anxious shifting, the way you paced up and down the room in heels would wear you out and give you blisters before even arriving at your destination.

“You ok?” He asked and reached out, his metal fingers wrapping around your wrist. His hold was gentle, and you would’ve been able to free yourself from his grip at any time if you had wanted to. But you didn’t.

“Just nerves,” you replied, letting him still your movements.

“You’ll do great, doll. You don’t oughta worry.”

The term of endearment made the butterflies in your stomach practice summersaults and you almost closed your eyes to calm yourself.

Instead, you twirled the wedding ring, letting it circle around your skin a few times.

“I just…,” you began, trying to find the words to express what you felt without giving away too much but your mind struggled to make up a sentence that afforded that.

Bucky observed your stuttering and something seemed to click in his brain as his eyes softened.

“Is it because of… because of the last time you went undercover?”

The question hung heavily in the room, and you couldn’t bring yourself to meet his face as you nodded.

The last time you went undercover, it had gone beyond sideways.

Your work partner, your long-time friend and one of the best agents you had ever known, hadn’t made it out because of two mistakes.

“I read the file, you know? Two weeks ago, Sam gave it to me. I feel like you should know that, so that you are aware that I’m… prepared.”

Bucky’s words didn’t have the effect he had intended.

Instead of soothing your worries, it upset you. “It wasn’t his fault. He was prepared. I was the one who messed up,” you snapped at him. Regret flooded your veins immediately but the tears that threatened to spill held your tongue in place, hindering you from apologising for your tone. “That’s not what I meant and I’m sure that it wasn’t your fault,” he murmured. You pulled the wedding band from your finger and held it in your hand, right under Bucky’s nose. “I made two mistakes. Two. They cost him his life that night.” You fumbled with the ring, took a deep breath that did nothing to help you relax and asked: “Do you have to return this after the mission?” Bucky nodded and before he could elaborate, you said: “Tell Stark to yell at me, not you.” Then you smacked the piece of jewellery against the table – once, twice. The third hit it took was from being thrown against the wall. The super soldier didn’t stop you – sure, he looked at you like you had lost your mind, but he didn’t try to intervene. Once you had properly let your anger on the ring, you picked it up and held it up again for Bucky to inspect. It was still beautiful, not bent, but slightly scuffed up. “It needs to look like it’s been sitting on my finger for longer than a few hours. We’re not newlyweds after all,” you explained, your voice trembling slightly. Bucky hummed a response, his eyes still fixated on you as realisation dawned on him. “Is that how they figured it out? That you guys were undercover?” He asked, his eyebrows knitted together while unease lingered on his face. No, not unease. Worry. Not for himself, but for you. “That was part of it,” you admitted then and placed the band back in its rightful place. He stayed quiet, leaving it up to you whether to open up further or keep it bottled up. You, surprising both yourself and him, continued in a quiet voice. “We had been friends for… for years. His name was Christian. And we carried out so many missions together, recon, gathering intel, anything. We had gone undercover before, but as business partners, not a couple. When Fury gave us that… that goddamn mission, Christian laughed, saying it’d be easy. And it was, everything went smoothly until the man we were spying on pointed out my ring. We tried to brush it off, saying that I had just gotten it cleaned and took great care off it. But he didn’t buy it. So, Christian did the only thing he could think of, and he kissed me. I froze.” You recounted the painful memory with a tremble, both in your vocals and your hands. Bucky listened, his palms resting inches away from your arm, almost as if he wanted to reach out to you, to ease your pain. “They shot him before I could look him in the eye, and he was… he was gone before he hit the ground.” Sympathy filled Bucky’s eyes. It wasn’t pity. It wasn’t an attempt to convince you that it hadn’t been your fault. It was compassion. “I’m sorry that you had to go through that,” he whispered and sighed softly. You looked up at him, blinking away the tears. His face was just inches away from yours and you could feel his breath brushing up against your cheek. “I don’t want to freeze again. I don’t wanna mess this up again. I just… I was so close with Christian, but we were just friends, and it threw me off. I didn’t know how to react and I…,” you trailed off, your eyes flickering down to his lips. “You’re not gonna. We just gotta… get some practice,” Bucky murmured, and his hand came up to your cheek. “Hit first base or what?” Your question was supposed to come off as a joke, but it was a breathless plea, your fingers found themselves at the base of his neck, softly brushing up against his hair. “I can’t believe people still use that metaphor,” he replied and then he pressed his lips onto yours.

thank you for reading :) gentle reminder that likes are more than appreciated but comments and reblogs make the dream work part 2 out now

[kenyummy]

✰ 05. the ballad of a bygone blight.

✰ ꒰ ⍣'ˎ˗ platonic yandere batfam / spider! reader ꒱

✰ 05. your closed-off heart.

SYNOPSIS : being spidey isn't easy. being transported into an alternate universe where you're nothing but a shadow in your house, makes sneaking around a little easier... until you find yourself the apple of their eye... kind of.

note: avoidant attachment damian is canon to me okay. it's canon to me... </3 also pretty long chap idk how many words but it's a bunch

prev. ✰ masterlist ✰ next.

The sky has fallen to an ashen black by the time you've all settled down and watched a fun game show together; so different from the ones back home.

After those hours of catching up—you've made sure to be careful with your words and not mention anything about any alternate universes. You can't—not with that lingering stare behind you, after all.

Whether they realised your avoidance of the topic or simply didn't think to bring it up—you were glad the rest of your friends never even hinted at it once, either.

Now you were back, sitting on the couch under a low, flickering light and cuddled up beside Johnny and Franklin.

"Franklin..." Your voice is low. Said boy is cooped up to your side, snoring softly as he drools onto you. You avert your gaze toward Sue and Reed. "How's his... mutation going? It's pretty rough being so strong so young."

Johnny glowers at the sight of Franklin so attached to your left arm—even though he's just as close, if not closer to you than his nephew is. If he were sunken any farther into you, he'd practically be in your lap.

Sue sighs, pressing her palm against her face with an exasperated look. "After that whole incident with Annihilus, his power has been developing so drastically, we aren't sure on what may occur next. He's so... he is so strong. We asked the Professor about it, and his only advice was for when we believe we cannot properly help him develop, to send him to his school."

Reed slinks his hand into his wives', gripping tightly. "But I don't think it'll come to that. Franklin... is a good kid. I don't believe he will ever lost control of himself, not like the Professor is afraid he will. Regardless—he's doing fine, and that was the reason we took him with us."

The mood is sunken, a little bit quieter as you rake your nails over Frankin' scalp—gently. Such a power so young—you remember the first time you were told this young boy was creating pocket universes under his bed at three. Two years later, and he's developed the abilities comparable to that of a god.

To be so incredible is a blessing—but for a child like Franklin, it can feel like a curse often times. You would know, you think solemnly, palm falling over his cheek.

Ben sinks into the dented couch, leaning back with a knee crossed over his leg. He breaks the silence with ease and that lovely Yancy Street accent, "That, and we didn't wanna let Tony babysit again."

"Oh yeah," Johnny grimaces. "Last time he was left alone with Frankie, he made him a suit and he flew all the way to the Carribean!"

You slap a hand over your mouth, turning to Johnny and laughing, "I heard about that! Didn't you nearly get sunk by Namor and his Atlanteans?"

Johnny hisses and looks to the side—the tips of his ears alighting with a flicker. You reach up and pat out the flame, brushing his hair back as he hides his face from your view.

Judging by the smug, knowing look Sue shoots her younger brother, you assume he was pretty annoyed by your pampering.

Despite this, the mood has become lighter. You aren't worried about what may happen in the future, or what could possibly go wrong with the young child beside you.

"Don't even mention him, or any bad guy—" Johnny slumps down, head reeking back dramatically. "I'm going stir-crazy not being able to get out and fight 'em."

Ben gives him a pointed look, "brows" furrowing, "Yer sounding less stir-crazy and more batshit mental. Ya gotta get out more."

"Tell that to him!" The blonde juts his thumb towards Reed, who simply averts his eyes. "He's the one who said we can't be seen in this unknown place."

"Yeah, it's a shame, isn't it?" You cross your arms. "While you're all resting here, I have to go out and fight crime all day. Lucky me."

Johnny raises his hands in defence, "Yeah, you are lucky. I'd kill to get out and get some action. I'm tired of being cooped up in here all day like the world doesn't need me."

"Don't go getting a big head, Johnny." Sue frowns. "This world has survived fine without you. I'm sure it'll live even without you, as well."

Johnny and Sue start to bicker in the traditional sibling fashion—shooting the other glares and mocks, all the while Reed seems to be deep in thought. (And as always, Ben is simply enjoying the scene in front of him).

"Actually..." Reed speaks up—catching the attention of everybody in the room with ease. "Perhaps... it could be a good thing to go public. It would give us an easy way to collect materials we need if we could go out and use our powers freely."

"... Reed? You can't be serious—" Sue blinks in shock.

Ben slams his two rocky fists together, "Hell yeah! It's been a minute since I said my favourite line—"

"—It's clobberin' time, we know." Johnny shakes his head. Ben simply shoots the matchstick a glare.

"That aside; it'll help us make that..." Reed hums, glancing at you for a moment, "That very intricate device we'd been needing to create. The last one was created by the combined nature of me, Tony, and Hank—so making it alone may provide more difficult, but absolutely not impossible. Not much tech to work with, either... this might take a while..."

Sue places a hand on her husbands shoulder, and he seems to break out of the strange mumble he reduced his voice to. "Thank you, Susan. But yes—given we collect the right resources and I have time to work on this, we should be able to remake it."

"That's great!" You smile, grin brightening. You could go home! You could actually go home! Not sure when—but soon couldn't come soon enough. "You guys can fight alongside me, and now this! This is great news!"

"Eh ... I already told you Reed was making some of that crazy tech stuff, didn't I?" Johnny shrugs, resting his head to the side. "Besides—It's Reed. Why wouldn't be tinkering with some weird invention?"

"... Thank you for the vote of confidence, Johnny." Reed murmurs, eyes falling to the side. "If we want to make something as intricate as... that, from scratch, we'll definitely need the most brilliant minds helping."

"Ah... yeah. Too bad Tony isn't here, huh? Hank, too. They'd be a real help." You smile sadly, looking to the side.

"Actually, [name], I'd rather like you to look over some of the teleporters with me. Give your opinion on what I should do with what I have."

"R... really?" You look up at him with sparkly eyes. "You really...?"

He nods, smiling. You bite down on the insides of your cheek to stop yourself from grinning madly—instead, you opt to rushing over and wrapping your arms around his neck, jumping up and down.

"Thank you! Yeah, I'd be—" You pull back, coughing with a flushed face. "I'd be totally honoured. Yeah. Um—I promise to not get any webs on them this time!"

"I'll take your word for it," Reed chuckles. Happiness practically bursts out of your chest at the recognition from the smartest man in the world.

Perhaps you were more than you gave yourself credit for—and way more than what that family gave you credit for.

You sit back down and Franklin crawls back into your lap, snoring softly. Johnny attaches himself to your side and keeps a warm arm snug around your shoulder, smiling down at you.

The warm fuzzy feeling pools down at the bottom of your stomach and each time you laugh, you feel your heart grow fonder.

You had never felt so at home in this strange place. These four—these five—this was your family, and you'd never feel otherwise.

Damien feels a tug in his chest. More than a tug, actually—it's like a rope has tied a noose around his ribs and is rattling them repeatedly.

He's biting down so hard on his lips and the inside of your cheek that blood seeps from between chapped lips. He chews them raw—not even noticing the pain.

He hadn't even realised when he pulled his katana out from its holster on his back. He hadn't realised when he gripped it so taut his knuckles turned a milky white. He hadn't even realised when his eyes zeroed in on the sight of you cuddling up with that dark-haired boy.

Allowing him close to you—clinging to your arm so pathetically and pressing his face against your stomach as if he'd done it a hundred times over and acting like you're his older sibling or something stupid like that—

Damian steadies his erratic breathing. Unscrunching his face, but he cannot seem to stop glaring daggers. Even when he makes eye contact with that man—Reed, he believes you referred to him as—he does not tear his sharp gaze away.

You stare so tenderly at the young boy (younger than Damian is. By a few years or so, most likely). You cradle his cheek in your hand with such love it makes your actual brother, your blood brother, feel sick to his stomach.

Raking your fingers through his hair like you'd never done with your siblings before. Holding him close like you wished to protect him from the world and all the horrors within it.

How could you possibly hope to protect this... Frankie, when you cannot even protect yourself? The scarring left from the bullet still lay on your shoulder, a ghostly reminder of how you became victim to the evil this city holds.

A reminder to Damian on how he must protect you now. As his duty.

In this cruel world, you have lost to it—and yet, you choose to coddle others? You choose to keep others safe and close to your heart, but never your family?

His heart is lit aflame with rage. His jaw is taut and clenched tightly—feeling his teeth grit beneath his tongue and his mind fizzle with boiling anger. He hadn't felt this irrational in so long. Not until...

He doesn't remember ever seeing you in a such a light. He doesn't remember seeing you.

But now he does—and now, he feels so much fuming ferocity. Watching you send the softest of smiles to him and allowing him to feel your soft, untainted touch.

(A touch not tainted by years of relentless crime fighting—a silky grasp that could only be given by that kind of regularity Damian had never known).

Much earlier, he had realised you were that vigilante he met so long ago. That spider-like fiend who seemed to have those never-endingly sticky webs.

This is why you'd been skipping classes so often, and why he never saw you around. That's why he hadn't seen those pitiful eyes be directed toward his two, barely there elder brothers, after each and every violent patrol.

That is why you have become so distant. So far away—Drake had described it. Damian didn't bother to listen because he didn't care enough to.

That doesn't matter. In the end, none of it matters. Not to him. It didn't change his image of you.

He hadn't known you long enough for it to shift in any way—nor had he ever tried to. Despite this, he is content. If this new version of you is all he will ever know, then so be it. This will be his you—the sincerity in your touch and the love in your eyes.

(Yet, never seen toward him).

He has little time to ponder and brood. Before he knows it—the glass door is sliding open and, on that balcony, he is no longer alone.

You hesitate for a moment before speaking. "Damian?"

He blinks. He is not used to hearing his name from your mouth in anything but a furious tone. Yet, despite this—it is anything bur the saccharine way you told that Franklin he's your favourite—

"Damian. Why did you follow me?" You demand, voice more firm than your question-like tone before.

You stand before him, arms crossed under your chest and a hard expression on your face. Stern. Like a real older sibling. He had never seen you make that kind of face before.

(For whatever odd reason, he feels small again. Like lowering his head and apologising for something he had not even done—you've never had that sort of effect before).

... And yet, despite all he's acted like in the past; in this present moment, he doesn't know what to say to you. Very uncharacteristical.

(For that Franklin, it came so easy. Like running up to you with those stupid googly eyes was the most regular thing to him. Damian doesn't believe he will ever be able to feel as normal as that).

Fortunately, he manages to scrounge up some words to say like it was a board game. "I... happened to catch you swinging here. In that ridiculous costume and to your even more ridiculous friends."

Your brow twitches in annoyance at his words. He notices it so wholly that it strikes deep into his chest. Why are you so dissatisfied with him? Why does it make him so unfathomably upset?

"One, my costume is cool. Two, my friends aren't ridiculous. Don't talk about them like that." Your tone is upset.

All these strong emotions hit him like a freight train and suddenly he doesn't know how to speak properly. Don't look at him like that. Why are you so kind to that other child, but you are so cruel toward him? It's unfair. Absolutely unfair.

He must've been quiet longer than he realised. Clutching the bottom of his cape tight into his blood-bathed grip, practically shaking. He must look so utterly pathetic for you to offer him menial pity.

(Just like you used to—except now it feels like a wave crashing against the shore, covering the burning lava stones in a cool tide).

"So, you know, then?" You glance downward at Damian after pinching your temple. He breaks his eye contact with the concrete and looks back to you. "That I'm that spider hero."

...

"Yes. After seeing your school bag webbed up, it was far too obvious."

You glance downwards once more. To the strap wrapped around his shoulder, connected to your bag. He tries to shuffle it discreetly behind him, but he knows you've spotted it when a smile crawls onto your lips.

Gritting his teeth—yet this time he does not feel that same blaring anger as before—he decides that hiding it was useless and opts to shove it into your arms roughly, before he can even think.

"The leather is crumpled. You need a new bag," He says, matter-of-factly. You grasp onto the leather with wide eyes; gaze shifting from it to him.

"... I know. It's been like this..." You aren't exactly sure on how long, exactly—but you're sure it's been... "For a while. I'm used to it."

Damian pauses, eyes narrowed and lips turned down into a sneer. He's practically offering, and yet you still deny? You pretend everything is fine and you are strong.

...

You lean down the slightest. "... Still. Thanks for considering me."

You almost can't believe you're thanking this younger brother for the bare minimum—but from what you've seen, that bare minimum isn't seen much in your household. (Especially towards you).

Despite this... you have always had a soft spot for kids. You ruffle his dark hair and he practically squawks, slapping your hands away like it burnt.

He recoils back, hissing, "Who do you think you are?! Don't patronise me!"

You chuckle and move back, brushing off your hands. He watches that action like a hawk. "... Are you going to tell them?"

"TT. About your little side hobby playing dress up?"

You want to point out how he does the exact same thing. But you don't, because you know it will lead to nothing good.

Damian sneers, turning his head to the side, "I don't care for what you do in your spare time. As long as I do not have to be there to save you every time."

"Fair enough. This can be our little secret, then." You nod. "... You can go now. I'm just going to suit up and sneak back in."

"Is that what you have been doing for the past several weeks?"

"Guilty as charged," you shrug, pressing on the necklace pendant sitting comfortably between your collarbones. "If nobody notices, then I don't think it's that big of a deal. I mean—"

He watches in fascination as the minuscule robots crawl over your body and form into the familiar Spidey suit.

You tuck your hair in as the mask forms. "—Most of them are barely home to begin with, and it's not like Bruce has spare time to be worrying about this."

... "Don't you mean father?"

You stare at him weird. "What?"

"You called father Bruce." His eyes narrow furthur.

"Oh. Right." You must've become accustomed to not saying father. Uncle Ben was the only father you'd ever had, and it wasn't like you were going around calling him that, since you know—he was your uncle. "Yeah. That's what I meant."

Damien doesn't reply this time. He throws on the hood of his costume, turning his back toward your costumed form.

You walk back inside into the dimly-lit room, engulfing those people in warm hugs you'd never spared any of them before.

He leaps off the roof and swings away into the night, face unreadable; mind consumed with little crime and more thoughts of you.

Perhaps he was... wrong about you. Less helpless, but still just as weak. And a lot more confusing. Unfair. So much confliction.

Though, he feels his chest beat strangely warm when he tousles his hair back to its regular style.

Swinging in through the window in your room and with one click on your necklace, you land flat on your heels.

Peering around, you hum at your empty, dark room and change into a pair of pyjamas.

It's been a day or two since you'd eaten here. Usually you'd go around as Spidey and picking up some takeout as you swing back home, or go to Harry's house for some dinner (since Norman had taken a strong, un-evil liking to you in this world).

But today, you'd been too wrapped up to even think about dinner. You'd missed the familiarity of Sue's warm cooking but you hadn't even thought to ask while you were there. Damn.

It's way too late to go out and get something now. Crap. You really got ahead of yourself, didn't you?

You put on your pair of fuzzy slippers, and swing open your door. It's late, so most of them should be out on patrol.

You'll probably only run into Alfred, at best. You can live with those kinds of odds.

You walk down the stairway and towards the kitchen (it took you a bit—learning the ropes of this place was harder than it looked). Your steps sluggishly drawl across the floor as you yawn.

Being Spidey sure was tiring. Post-patrol naps were always the highlight of your week, but you could never do it on an empty stomach.

As quietly as possible, you begin to rummage around in the larger-than-life fridge. Fruit, condiments, almost all ingredients than actual food.

You groan. You hate rich people. Aunt May always used to just buy a bunch of pre-cooked meals whenever she was away—you'd become so accustomed to it.

Maybe there were leftovers? ... Do rich people even keep leftovers? You slouch down at the thought.

You open a few drawers just to find a pile of spinach of all things. Then fruity flavoured drinks. Some more vegetables. Lots of vegetables. A child's waking nightmare.

"There's a pack of pizza pockets in the third drawer in the second row."

You barely even react, hand already inching for the drawer. You open it, and find it. You hum.

Your sense acts up when you hear footsteps approaching—you glance over your shoulder to see a man you have not previously met before, but have seen.

That blob of red—that figure you saw before everything went black and when a bullet was lodged in your shoulder. It was him.

A white tuft of hair in the middle of his forehead and a jaded expression. A red helmet under his arm and a pizza pocket in the other hand.

It was undoubtedly him.

"Jason..." You try your hardest to not make it sound like a question.

His expression remains unchanged. "[name]. You... your shoulder is all healed up already."

You glance at your exposed shoulder. There is barely any visibly sign of a wound ever being there. Perks to a healing factor—well, you heal. Downsides to a healing factor—people start asking questions.

"It didn't hit me too deep... and Bruce got me the best hospital stuff, too." You put the pizza pockets on a plate then stuff it into the microwave. The beep resounds in the quiet as you lean back on the counter. "Guess I got lucky."

"Didn't feel so lucky when you were bleeding out in my arms, did you?" His eyes narrow and you think you may have said the wrong thing. "What the hell were you even doing out at that hour? What the fuck were you thinking?"

Oh, I was just dropped in from another universe and switched places with Wayne-ie here. No biggie.

Yeah, no way in any of the layers in hell. Facing Galactus head on feels like a safer task than telling him that. You shake your head, trying to formulate a proper excuse.

"I was hanging out with my friends. Lost track of time."

His eyes widen at your sheer audacity to say that—then, his brows furrow and he steps forward, "Don't give me that shit. You never go out past ten. Bruce won't let you. We drilled it into your head you'd die out there. And look—you nearly did. Don't you dare sit here and lie to me, [name], because I swear to God—"

Your jaw clenches and you have to hold your hands behind your body—pressed against hard granite—to stop yourself from pushing him back.

You hiss, low and tense, "What do you know? You'd never stay long enough to find out."

You remember flipping through that diary. The words getting scratchier and the paper getting more crumpled as you went on.

"You'd never stayed longer than a few days. You'd never even looked at me even then."

As you became older, you became hateful.

"You could see Dick. You could hate Tim. And despite everything, you could bring yourself to like him. You even tolerated Damian."

But you also became sad. Increasingly so. So miserable, trapped in that newborn skin you'd never truly seemed to break out of.

"I didn't care that you killed people. I didn't care that you never stayed for long. I didn't care that you hated Bruce."

So lost, so desperate for that touch you'd received so long ago; you never really grown up, had you?

"I didn't care that you'd never stay for him. For Dick. For any of the others."

So bitter. It's no wonder you'd never talked to them. It's no wonder—

"But damn it, Jason—"

"I really thought that you could've stayed for me."

—that he's staring at you in such horror.

None of this came from your heart. This entire speech was scripted on a piece of paper—by a version of you who felt so much pain and hate for those who abandoned you so easily.

But... looking at his expression now—you think it's something he needed to hear. Something that couldn't be left unsaid any longer. All the feelings pent up in them (in you, one could say) and the words they were to afraid to speak aloud. The words you were not afraid to say.

His lips parted, eyes wide as he doesn't reply. How can he? What could he ever, possibly say?

That he was doing this for your own good? That he never wanted you to see the man he had become? To never want to sully that image of that older brother who played tag with you when you were younger?

How does he tell you about the bullet he put through the skull of the Penguin goons with smoking guns he'd found minutes after he saw you bleeding out in a dirty alleyway? He couldn't possibly tell you about that.

How could he ever tell you that this was all for you—when you were hurting so badly?

(Hurting without him? Had you missed him all these years, so terribly? The thought brings some sort of twisted satisfaction. Sick reassurance. That, despite everything, you still loved him).

How could Jason Todd ever show you that he cares without destroying everything he was before? The answer was simple to him—he can't. He thought you knew. He thought—

...

Now, everything doesn't feel so simple. His sunken eyes search all over your face in frantic motions. Your eyes are so blank, and you don't even look to be feeling anything.

Are you tired? Of this? Of him? Just what did that bullet do to you?

The beeping of the microwave catches both of your attention before he has a chance to say something he will likely regret.

You turn your head to the side, and slip away from where he had cornered you against the granite. "Pizza pocket's done."

You glance his way, and he feels pathetic. Absolutley, spectacularly pathetic. "... Want some?"

You sit in incredibly uncomfortable silence, chewing on the food. At least it was good. Familiar.

Clearly there was a lot to discuss between the both of you. ... Jason and this other you, at least.

(Or was it you, the one who was shot? You could never truly tell).

There's so much to say, so little time. Jason could never stay, and definitely not around you. All these years—this world's you thought he hated them. Despised them.

Now, his expression feels like the complete opposite. Longing.

You shove the rest of the pizza pocket into your mouth, wiping off the stray greasy cheese off the corners of your lips.

"I meant what I said earlier." You clarify, as if he needed it. "And I don't appreciate you only getting on my ass after all this time, only when something bad happens. You don't get to do that. That's not how this works."

You gesture between the two of you and his heart feels like its been stabbed with the sharpest of knives.

Then, it twists.

You were always his favourite. The sweetest. The little kid he'd once held so dearly and near his heart. Until that heart stopped and turned into the deepest black, poisoned and compromised.

How could he ever risk poisoning you, too?

He wanted to keep you safe, and somewhere, somehow—he came to the conclusion that the only way you'd br safe is if you were away from him. Kept at a distance. Staying at arm's length.

Now, he isn't sure he was ever thinking of how safe you'd be. Not when he'd seen you, light-headed and bleeding. Not when you were practically dying in his arms and he couldn't do shit except kill those stupid fucking goons; because what is he good for if not revenge?

"I miss the old days," you say. But there's a distinct lack of emotion in your voice. As if it wasn't even you who was saying this. "But to hang onto them forever—when will we ever move on?"

...

He doesn't know. He doesn't think he can. Those are the only memories he has of you. Of himself.

Jason pinches the bridge of his nose, suddenly feeling his heart pound and stomach feeling sick. This sort of uncanny, soul-consuming feeling—it only ever happened whenever he would look at you.

Eyes blurry and vision failing him, he wants to go. To run. But at the same time, he wants to keep you close. Make sure nothing will ever happen again. Make sure you never feel that pain again.

His head is going to split. He doesn't know what to do.

Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck. His hands sink into his hair, and his jaw is clenched impossibly tight.

"I just..." His voice is quieter than he wanted it to be. Shakier. Almost timid. He feels like a boy again. That same child you'd stare at so reverently. He doesn't know when he was beginning to forget that. "I just wanted to keep you safe. That's all I ever wanted."

You're almost tired of this. Pissed off. Is that all they say? Is that really all they say to tell you why they'd kept you so far away? The distance was all-consuming. You'd noticed it in the first week you lived here. You couldn't even begin to imagine that kind of "love" all your life.

"Then, you were doing it all wrong." You say, simply. It sounds like you know. Like you have experience. Like a wise old wizard who'd "seen it all before". "I'm not incapable (truly, you are not) and my life is my own. Keeping me safe isn't trying to keep everything the same, like it is as it was."

He lifts his head from his hands when your chair pushes behind you, screeching across wooden boards.

"I'm sorry you had to find me like that. But... you don't get it. You don't know..." You swallow. "You don't know enough about me now to judge whether I need protecting or not. You never did."

... You're right. He never did. He still doesn't. Jason never watched you grow up. He never got the chance to see you go through your awkward teen years. Get your first boyfriend. Scare the shit out of him. He didn't get to hang out with you and get ice-cream after school.

He never got the chance to do anything of these things. Not with you. Never with the one most dear to him, and his small, dark heart.

But that could change. Starting now, he could change. He would. He could. He will. For you.

He stares, eyes blankening. Then, they fill with something dark. A nervous shiver runs down your spine and your sense starts tingling in the back of your mind.

He speaks, low and steady. The shakiness is gone and you're not sure what went on in his head—but he sounds so sure now. So certain.

"Then, I will."

It's not a threat or a claim—but a withheld promise. The heaviness of it weighs down on you, and you aren't sure whether you should feel safe or scared.

He gets out of his chair and walks over to you. Unconsciously, you hold your breath, blood running cold as he stalks closer. That huge imposing frame that (probably) used to hold some semblance of comfort toward you; now terrified you to the bone.

His big hand rests atop your head, and ruffles your hair. "Starting now, I'll get to know you again. Then, everything can go back to normal."

... Did he even listen to a word you said?

He sends you a smile as he leaves the top of your head a tangled mess, slipping on his helmet and walking away.

You're left alone, heart pumping wildly in your chest and your brain throbbing with that buzz. Every sense and nerve on full alert—you sink down into that chair and pull your knees to your chest.

You think you may have bitten off a bit more than you can chew.

taglist: @hello-bina @cosmosluckycharms @1abi @yhin-gg @insideoutjulie @bluepanda08 @omnivirgo @vanessa-boo @dind1n @welpthisisboring @lunaetiicsaystuff @marsmabe @atanukileaf @findingjaxx @4mrplumi @bunniotomia @lostsomewhereinthegarden @bat1212 @gaychaosgremlin @bongwaterflavoredgatorade @randomlyappearingartist @cxcilla @spidermanluvr444 @cruzerforce4256 @mybones537 @xjesterxjacksx @nirvanaxx1942 @djpuppy-kittens @br33zy-blizzardz @moon0goddess @0sunnyside01 @mei-simp @redsakura101 @the-dumber-scaramouche @wizzerreblogs @lovemiss-vale @deathbynarcisstick @allycat4458 @wonmyheart @luckyangelballoon @one-piecelover @hartwyrm @horror-lover-69 @maria-trisha @4rachn3 @galaxypurplerose @duskeras @coffeeaddictxd @lithiumval @kaz-playz

taglist is closed! sorry!

[buckyalpine]

18+ AF Minors dni. Just a lil smutty thought with a scene I imagined. Bucky finds out Tony updated the security system for the compound and upgraded all the cameras to HD quality.

"So what you're saying is that footage would've recorded everything in the kitchen from morning to evening and the middle of the night...everything?" Bucky shuffled by Tony's desk after everyone had left the briefing about the latest Stark tech. Everyone's phones w

"Yes grandpa, that's how a security system works" Tony snorted while Bucky hummed, his mind still wandering.

"Yeah but....everything..in full detail? Including sound?"

"Yes, why, what are you doing in the kitchen" He cocked his head in confusion while the super soldier gave him a blank stare, only blinking twice in response, his cheeks growing redder with each passing second.

"Oh"

"OH"

Bucky scrambled out of the room, leaving behind a cackling Tony, his fingers desperately tapping his phone to unlock and check the security archives. He locked himself in his room, his stomach already churning when he saw the date of the video still very much accessible, dragging his finger to find the exact time-

"FUCK Sergeant!!" Bucky nearly flung the phone, quickly lowering the volume of the video, your loud, slutty moans and fucked out face clear as day. "P-please Sergeant, harder!"

"That's it baby, tell your soldier how you want to get fucked, beg for it"

What had started off as wholesome date night had turned into something else by the time Bucky had you alone in the compound. He'd struggled to keep his hand to himself all night with the dress you were wearing and it didn't help that the waiter at dinner shamelessly flirted with you the entire time. You didn't entertain it but it didn't stop the former assassin from growing jealous, itching to remind you who you belonged to by the end of the night.

You'd gone by the kitchen to grab a glass of water and the sight of you leaning over the counter to fill your cup was enough to break Bucky's resolve. His bedroom could wait.

"Princess" Bucky swallowed thickly hearing his voice dripping with possessiveness, watching himself cage you against the counter, purring in your ear. He could see you shiver as his lips trail up the column of your neck, preening as he licked your skin, pressing his achingly hard erection against your ass.

"B-Bucky" You whimpered, squeaking at the spank he gave you, clicking his tongue.

"Try again, baby"

"Sergeant Barnes" Your voice melted into a moan as he hummed, taking his time slipping your dress up over your hips to give himself a perfect view of your lacy covered cunt.

Bucky fully intended on deleting the video. He was going to highlight the section and get rid of it for good. He desperately tried to ignore the way his cock stirred the longer he watched, unable to tear his eyes off the way you were bent over the kitchen counter like such a good girl, waiting for him to do something.

"That's right. Your Sergeant" The clink of his belt hitting the floor made you whine. He wasn't interested in prepping you, no foreplay, this was pure possessiveness, every vein in his body itching to own you. "You're a little slut for your Sergeant, aren't you princess?"

"M'your slut" you nodded, gasping at the tear of your panties, the lacy material tossed to the side.

"Let me show I fuck my slut" Bucky didn't give you a second to adjust, immediately setting a brutal pace, your hips bumping against the marble countertop.

"S-SERGEANT BAR-NES!-" Bucky slapped his hand over your mouth, your broken screams muffled against his palm.

"Take it" He growled, his other hand pressing against your shoulder blades, purely using you for his pleasure, "You love how your Sergeant fucks you, my perfect little slut, mine"

"Fuck Sergeant!!" You wailed while Bucky snaked his hand to circle your clit, his cock starting to leak at the way you tightened around him. You'd never looked prettier. Your makeup was ruined. Sweat covered your body. Your eyes rolled back. Bucky replayed that part of the video over and over again, finally giving into his heavy cock begging for attention. He gave himself a squeeze hoping it would calm him down but before he knew it, he'd pulled it out and started to tug, precum glistening at the head.

"That's it baby, tell your soldier how you want to get fucked, beg for it"

"Pleasepleaseplease-fill-me" you slurred, unable to form sentences while Bucky's grunts grw louder, his pace faltering.

"Gonna fill you up with so much cum, you'll feel me in your pussy for days princess" Bucky fucked you like an animal, eyes feral as he kept you caged under him, his heavy balls and hard cock ready to blow, "We'll go back to that restaurant. Have that same waiter try and talk to you while I drip out between your legs. Won't even let you wear panties baby, want you to make a mess on their chair, let them see where I marked you, fuck m'cumming!!"

Bucky tightly held the base of his cock to keep from cumming as he watched himself pump you full, hips stuttering. He couldn't cum yet. Not when he knew what was coming up next. He watched himself pull out of you, cooing at your soft little whimper before decidedly acting like a deranged feral fuck again.

"Shhh, let your Sergeant clean you up again" He smirked, picking you up with 0 effort and setting you down on the counter, spreading your legs apart so he could lick up every bit of cum that dripped out of you, the most salacious sounds filling the room. He greedily lapped and sucked at your clit, groaning at the tasted of his spend mixed with yours, loving that no other man would get to taste something so good. No other man would get to watch their cum drip out of you after filling you past the brim. No other man would get to have you at your most sensitive, cleaning every bit of their cum off you with their face buried between their legs-

"F-fuck" Bucky whimpered, quickly biting his lip to shut himself up but it was no use. His chest heaved, breathy moans growing louder as he jerked himself faster. "Yes, yeah, shit-" Bucky was nearly whining at this point, his hand working at his sensitive cockhead, giving himself quick, hard strokes, "OH FUCKK" Thick ropes of cum spilled from his cock, a steady stream making a mess all over his sheets as he continued to touch himself, rewinding the video to the beginning. His hard cock wasn't going to go away anytime soon.

Maybe he wouldn't delete the video just yet.

Later in the groupchat:

Tony: Everyone, please don't check the kitchen footage from two days ago at exactly 1:04 to 1:38

Sam: Why would I check that in the first place

Nat: Wasn't planning on it

Steve: I don't know how to access the footage.

Tony: Trust me. None of you should check that exact time stamp.

Tony: 🙂

*a few minutes later after everyone obviously checked the footage*

Nat: Holy shit.

Sam: BARNES YOU DIRTY DOG

Nat: That's hot

Steve: Tony, I still can't access the footage.

Sam: YALL ARE NASTY

Steve: Who is nasty?

Sam: I love it though

Y/n: 😏He's the best sergeant

Sam: HAHAHA

Nat: You guys are so cute 🥺️🥺️

Bucky: I hate you all

Sam: What you gonna do about it Sergeant

-Bucky has left the chat-

Steve: Why did Bucky leave

[tteotlma]

craving control

— neither of you could resist what was always meant to happen.

alpha!bucky x omega!reader (9.2kw)

TW: 18+ MDNI; nsfw, dubcon a/b/o dynamics, possessive behavior, biting/marking, power dynamics, including praise kink, size kink, rough intimacy, physical restraint, sexual tension, emotional dependency, desperation, and themes "feral, uncontrollable need.", elements of mating/claiming, explores intense feelings of vulnerability and submission.

a/n: honestly,, i have no words -- weeks in the making and im not satisfied w how this turned out. like when you stare at something for too long. and it starts to look weird

———

On the day of Bucky’s arrival, it was safe to say the only one truly excited was Steve. The air in the compound felt charged, heavy with anticipation and unspoken tension.  

Tony walked up beside you and Nat by the massive window, the sharp scent of machine oil mingling with his expensive cologne as he wiped stubborn grease from his hands. Years of working together had made their commanding presence familiar and comfortable, like the steady hum of lab equipment around you.  

The window shook as debris kicked up from the descending helicopter, which was landing in the middle of the field. Tony inhaled deeply, his dark eyes meeting yours and Nat’s with a characteristic assessing look that instinctively made others straighten their spines. Nat smirked and raised an eyebrow, prompting a small smile from you, though you couldn't fully shake the flutter of nerves in your stomach.  

The helicopter door slid open in slow motion as Steve emerged, his broad shoulders and confident stride capturing every gaze in the vicinity. He turned and, stepping out behind him, a dark figure followed—a stark contrast, night to Steve's day. The moment Bucky appeared, the air seemed to shift—a raw, untamed energy that made your breath catch and your pulse quicken. Even from a distance, there was something different, something dangerous about him, that made your skin prickle with awareness, and your fingers curl tightly around the tablet in your hands.  

"Disperse, disperse," Tony muttered, his natural authority causing everyone to instinctively move as he turned away. The others followed suit, including an omega technician who stumbled in their haste to appear busy at their station.  

You turned back to your workstation, pressing your palms to the cool steel table to ground yourself. You could feel Steve and his companion approaching—Steve’s familiar warmth contrasting sharply with the newcomer’s intensity.  

The familiar scents of solder and circuitry should have been calming, but they couldn't quite mask the oncoming storm of Steve’s sunlit warmth mixed with something darker and wilder—like pine needles and leather and crisp winter air.  

When the main doors opened, the room was flooded with alpha energy, subtle yet impossible to ignore, like fog rolling in at dawn. "Guys, this is Buck," Steve said, the sound of his hand landing on leather echoing in the sudden quiet.  

"Bucky," came the correction—a voice like gravel over silk, sending a shiver down your spine as you gripped your soldering iron tighter, the metal warm against your suddenly trembling fingers. It wasn’t their presence that unsettled you; it was the way your instincts responded before you could think.  

Nat’s silent approach gave her the air of a predator as she circled closer. "Barnes," she acknowledged, her voice cold and steely. The space between them crackled with unspoken assessment, neither yielding nor challenging.  

"Good to see you again, Robocop," Tony called out, his voice cutting through the tension. His hologram's blue glow cast shadows over his face as he peered over his glasses. "Make yourself comfortable, but not too comfortable." His words, casual yet sharp as ozone before a storm, hung in the air.  

“The rest of you, back to work—we have a deadline,” Tony added with a wave of his pen, and like magic, the lab resumed its rhythm, though the atmosphere had fundamentally shifted.  

You bent over your work, hyper-focused on the tiny components scattered across your station, but every nerve seemed attuned to Bucky’s presence. The familiar lab scents—hot metal, coffee, and sharp electronics—were muted beneath this new awareness.  

"Y/n~" Steve’s warm, knowing voice rolled through the space, and your fingers stilled on the circuit board, your heart stuttering. The approaching footsteps seemed to echo with your pulse, each step tightening the coil in your shoulders. That scent—leather and pine now mixed with something metallic and sharp—grew stronger, drying your mouth.  

You managed a confident smile and turned, only for Steve to pull you into an embrace, lifting you slightly off your feet. His familiar scent—soap and sunshine—wrapped around you like a blanket, momentarily drowning everything else.  

"Missed ya, kiddo," he murmured, affection coloring his tone. Warmth bloomed in your chest, and you relaxed into his comforting presence.  

"Missed you too, Cap," you managed with a breathless laugh as he set you down. Movement caught your eye—Bucky shifting behind Steve—and that new awareness crashed back like a wave. You met his gaze for a split second before he looked away, but that brief connection felt electric. His storm-gray eyes held something untamed that made your knees weak.  

“Buck, this is Y/n,” Steve introduced. “Y/n, Buck.” The contrast between them was dizzying—Steve's golden warmth beside Bucky's winter-sharp presence. Suddenly, your workspace felt too small, the air heavy with unspoken things.  

"Bucky," he repeated, his voice rougher up close, sending an involuntary shiver down your spine. He stepped closer, hands at his sides, yet his presence seemed to fill the entire space around you. The fluorescent lights reflected off the plates of his metal arm, casting shifting shadows. Your throat felt dry, and you resisted the urge to fidget with your tools.  

Steve’s voice cut through the thick tension, either unaware of it or ignoring it. "Listen, I tried the magnets again," he said, the sound of leather hitting steel making you jump slightly as he tossed his gloves onto your workstation. His worn leather scent mingled with Bucky’s, making focus difficult.  

You raised an eyebrow, grateful for the distraction. "And...?"  

"And I hate it." He rolled his shoulder, trying to ease the tension. "It's just not the same."  

You glanced between the gloves and Steve's sheepish expression, ignoring how Bucky’s gaze seemed to track your every movement. Even without looking directly at him, you felt his attention like static electricity, raising goosebumps along your arms.  

"Think you could just yank 'em out for me?" Steve asked with that irresistible smile, though your attention kept drifting to Bucky, who stood silent and watchful.  

You scoffed and shook your head, stepping around the counter to switch on the table light. Sitting on the stool across from Steve, you shot him a look.  

“Fine, fine,” you said, picking up the gloves. “Guess you still have a chance to dread the day I say no.”  

Steve grinned. “I don’t even wanna think about it.” He gestured subtly towards Bucky. “Figured you could handle this too. Bucky’s got some gear that might need adjustments.” It wasn’t a command, just Steve’s assumption that Bucky would be sticking close.  

“Sounds good. I’ll find some time this week to schedule you in, so we can see what I’m working with,” you said, motioning to his arm.  

“Okay,” Bucky replied, his voice low with a hint of warmth.  

---

That was two weeks ago. Since then, you’d been buried in projects with Tony and Banner, testing prototypes and troubleshooting quirks in Stark’s tech.  

Missions came and went, but you mostly stayed at the compound—tuning weapons, running diagnostics, and keeping Stark's experiments from exploding (again). The lab had become your sanctuary, where complex problems could be solved with enough focus. Yet lately, your normally steady hands trembled at unexpected moments, your concentration slipping at the sound of familiar footsteps in the corridor.  

There wasn’t much time for that one-on-one work with Bucky you’d promised, though you occasionally glimpsed him around the compound. Still finding his footing here, he was a shadow at Steve’s side, quiet and watchful. Tony would drag him into the lab occasionally to discuss modifications—if he wanted any.  

You tried not to notice how his eyes found you whenever he was in the lab, lingering until you accidentally met his gaze. At first, he’d look away, jaw tightening as he focused on whatever Tony was explaining. But minutes later, you’d feel it again—his attention like a compass pointing north.  

In brief hallway encounters, your greetings came out softer than intended, his response a quiet rumble that stayed with you long after he walked away. One time, both of you reached for the lab door handle simultaneously. His fingers brushed yours, sending electricity up your arm. He pulled back, muttering an apology before disappearing around the corner, abandoning whatever awaited him in the lab.  

It was ridiculous how such small moments left you distracted for hours.  

Then one morning, Tony burst into the lab, with Steve following closely behind, practically dragging a reluctant Bucky.  

“Hey, kid,” Tony called out, startling you. You lifted the magnifying goggles off your face, welcoming the cool air. Banner, hunched across the table with identical goggles, glanced up briefly.  

“Please tell me we have Barnes’ baseline readings from when he got here,” Tony said, his tone implying a slight scolding. You looked at Banner, embarrassed. When you shook your head, Tony groaned dramatically.  

“Seriously? Three weeks and—“ He took a deep breath, hands on his hips as he surveyed the cluttered lab, evidence of recent activity. “Okay, that’s on me. Fixed. Now.” He practically pushed Bucky onto the stool beside your workstation.  

“Do your thing. Science, data, all that—" Tony trailed off, looking at Banner, who took the cue and clumsily exited, engaging Tony in a transparently forced conversation about a new gadget. Steve left shortly after, flashing an encouraging smile that made your cheeks burn.

The moment they left, the lab felt impossibly smaller. Bucky shifted slightly behind you, and though he was quieter than quiet, his presence seemed to fill every inch of space around you. He kept a respectful distance, but it didn’t matter—you could feel him, each breath and subtle movement stirring the air, making your skin prickle with awareness.

Your hands trembled slightly as you pulled up the diagnostic programs. "I'll need to..." you began, voice softer than you intended, "run some basic tests first. It might take a while." Turning toward him, you found his storm-grey eyes already fixed on you, dark and intent.

“Okay,” he replied, his gaze heavy and unrelenting, as though he was trying to read the thoughts you couldn’t quite form. Your throat tightened under the weight of his stare, and your hands instinctively curled into fists to ground yourself.

“I’ll need you to…” You gestured vaguely, your voice catching. “You’re gonna have to take off your sh-shirt. Just... so I can get a better look.” Your voice faltered, and heat bloomed across your cheeks.

For a beat, Bucky didn’t move. Then, with a slow, deliberate motion, he reached behind his neck, tugging the navy henley over his head. The fabric slid away, revealing his broad shoulders and sculpted chest, veiled by the thin fabric of his white tank. The subtle shift of his muscles as he moved sent a quiet jolt through your system, making your breath catch.

He tossed the henley carelessly over his shoulder, and you tried—desperately—to stay focused.

“Extend your arm for me,” you murmured, the words coming out softer than intended. He complied with that same quiet grace, his frame stiffening as you gently adjusted his arm.

Without thinking, you stepped between his legs, close enough that your hips grazed his thighs. The heat of his body radiated toward you, and the scent of pine, winter air, and leather curled around you, heavy and dizzying.

Bucky shifted again—a slow, unconscious movement as he spread his legs a little wider, as if making room for you without realizing it. The gesture was likely nothing, but to you, it felt far too intimate, and it took all your willpower not to react to the heat pooling in your belly.

You focused on the smooth metal of his arm, running your fingers along the seams and joints, marveling at the precision of its construction. His hand found your waist. The touch was light at first, perhaps just to steady himself, but his palm lingered, broad and warm over your lab coat.

The weight of his hand sent a shiver up your spine, your pulse fluttering beneath your skin. His thumb brushed the hem of your coat where the white fabric met your wine-colored shirt, as if testing its texture. Your breath caught involuntarily.

Slowly, your gaze traveled from his fingertips up the seams of his arm to his face. When you looked up, his eyes were already on you—dark, intense, unreadable, but consuming. His gaze dropped briefly to the curve of your collarbones peeking through your shirt before flicking back to meet your eyes, his jaw tightening almost imperceptibly.

The room shrank around you, the tension pulling taut—an invisible thread tugging you closer. Neither of you spoke; neither of you moved.

The air between you stretched, heavy and charged, the weight of his hand on your waist making it impossible to focus on anything but him. His thumb grazed the edge of your shirt again—soft, deliberate—and you swore the world slowed down, teetering on the edge of something inevitable.

The comm system beeped, loud and sudden, shattering the moment. Both of you jerked slightly, like surfacing from deep water.

"Y/N?" Tony’s voice crackled through the speaker. "Banner needs you in the main lab—now."

Bucky’s hand slipped from your waist, his jaw clenching as though grounding himself. You took a step back, heart pounding, the absence of his touch making the space between you feel colder and emptier than it should.

Clearing your throat, you looked anywhere but at him. “I–uh, I should go.”

He nodded once, slow and unreadable, as you turned quickly, your hand dragging hesitantly down his arm, slipping out of the room before the tension could pull you back in.

You slipped out of the room, heart still racing, Bucky’s presence clinging to you like static electricity. Even as you tossed and turned in bed later that night, the moment lingered—his hand on your waist, his scent in your lungs, and the weight of his gaze heavy on your mind.

That evening clung to you like a live wire beneath your skin, but the next few days brought subtle shifts in the compound's atmosphere. Where Bucky once moved like a shadow, now he inhabited spaces differently. During morning briefings, you noticed him leaning against workbenches instead of standing guard by the wall, his gaze still watchful but carrying something new—curiosity, maybe.

Since that evening in the lab, you buried yourself in projects with Tony and Banner, testing new prototypes and troubleshooting quirks in Stark's tech. Small out-of-town missions came and went, but you remained rooted at the compound—tuning weapons, running diagnostics, and preventing Stark's experiments from turning into full-blown disasters (again). The lab had become your sanctuary, where complex problems could be solved with enough focus. Yet, no matter how hard you tried, focus had become a luxury you couldn't afford. Your usually steady hands betrayed you, trembling at the worst moments, especially whenever familiar footsteps echoed down the corridor.

If Bucky did come into the lab, there weren’t many opportunities for one-on-one work, though you’d catch fleeting glimpses of him. He still seemed to be finding his footing, a shadow at Steve’s side—quiet and observant, as if measuring every person and place before stepping too close. Occasionally, Tony would bring him into the lab to discuss possible modifications, though Bucky seemed reluctant, deflecting with grunts and unreadable glances.

But it was impossible to ignore how his eyes always sought you out. Whenever he entered the room, your senses sharpened, drawn to him without permission. His gaze lingered a second too long—enough to make your stomach flip, your pulse flutter beneath your skin. But whenever you met his eyes, he’d glance away, his jaw tightening as if wrestling with something unspoken. Yet, moments later, you’d feel the pull again—his attention returning like a compass that couldn’t help but point north.

This awareness began to happen outside the lab too, in brief, inconsequential encounters that left you unraveled. Once, passing each other in the hallway, your soft greeting was met by his low, rumbling reply, curling around your senses long after he’d disappeared. Another time, reaching for the same door handle, his fingers brushed yours, the shock of contact sending electricity racing up your arm. He pulled back as though burned, muttering an apology before vanishing without explanation. You stood there, stunned, wondering how such a fleeting touch could leave you restless for hours.

Each day made it harder to maintain composure. It was as if your body had developed a traitorous awareness of him—heart stuttering beneath your ribs, skin flushing at the slightest thought of him, senses sharpening to track his movements before your mind even registered he was near. No matter how hard you tried to lose yourself in work, even Tony’s endless stream of projects couldn’t silence the way your pulse leapt whenever Bucky’s footsteps echoed down the corridor.

These changes appeared in fragments—a barely-there smile when Tony's prototype backfired, sparks shooting across the lab; the way his shoulders lost their rigid set when Steve drew out his dry humor during mission prep. Each small victory revealed another layer beneath the soldier’s facade.

Your paths began crossing more often. Sometimes, he’d appear in the kitchen during your late-night tea runs, nursing coffee while reading news on a tablet. His silent nods evolved into a new half-smile that never failed to make your heart race. His scent—pine and leather—began to carry warmer notes, softening from sharp winter to something more approachable.

Then, when Sam suggested movie night, every instinct screamed at you to decline. The thought of being in an enclosed space with Bucky—away from the clinical safety of the lab, surrounded by comfortable, dim intimacy—made your stomach flutter with anxious energy. But before you could find an excuse, Nat flashed you a knowing smile, firmly pulling you from your workstation. You barely had time to protest.

Now, nestled between Nat and Sam on the couch, you tried to focus on the movie, but your attention kept drifting across the room to him. Bucky sat in an armchair like he owned the space, his relaxed body only making him look more dangerous. His legs were spread wide, one arm draped over the back, the other resting on his thigh—a casual pose that somehow felt deliberate.

You told yourself to stay present, to engage with Nat and Sam’s easy banter, but Bucky’s presence made it impossible. His scent—faint but unmistakable—hovered at the edge of your awareness, a mix of pine, leather, and something deeper that spoke to a part of you beyond reason.

Then it happened. During a lull in the movie, when everything fell quiet, you felt it—his gaze.

A pulse of heat spread through your chest, as if an invisible thread had tugged you toward him. You risked a glance, only to find him already watching you. Even in the dim light, his storm-gray eyes were locked on yours, intense and unwavering. His expression was unreadable, but there was a weight to his stare that made your pulse stutter and breath catch in your throat.

The flickering blue light of the TV softened the sharp lines of his face, but it did nothing to dull the tension humming between you. For a moment, it felt like the room had fallen away, leaving only the two of you in the dark—silent, secret, caught in a moment neither dared to acknowledge.

You tried convincing yourself he wasn’t really looking at you, that maybe he was watching Sam or had drifted off into thought. But the flip in your stomach, the way your pulse fluttered beneath your skin, told a different story.

Bucky didn’t look away. His stare held steady, as if something deep and instinctual was keeping him tethered to you—as though he was drawn to you in the same way you were to him. The connection between you wasn’t just a passing glance. It felt ancient, inevitable, as if some unseen force had been guiding you to this moment long before either of you realized it.

The air between you felt heavy, charged with something you couldn’t quite define, and you were certain that even if you could name it, neither of you was ready. Your scent, warm and sweet, had changed in subtle ways—just enough for Bucky to notice, to make his chest tighten with a growing certainty. This wasn’t just attraction; it was recognition. Instinct. Raw instinct clawed through him, responding to the quiet, subtle shift in yours. You were close—too close—and every part of him, from the deepest part of his mind to the tension winding through his muscles, felt it.

The spell broke when Steve shifted on the couch beside him, dragging you both back to reality. You blinked, heart hammering as you tore your gaze away, heat blooming beneath your skin, spreading like wildfire, a faint sheen of sweat on your brow.

You swallowed hard, trying to refocus on the movie, but the moment lingered like a phantom touch. Even as you stared straight ahead, you could feel the weight of his gaze, its memory humming along your nerves, leaving you restless and aching in ways you didn’t understand.

When the movie ended, you escaped as quickly as you could, muttering a rushed “good night” and fleeing to your room, hoping the familiar comfort of your own space would ground you. But even surrounded by your belongings, wrapped in your own scent, you couldn't quiet the hum of awareness thrumming beneath your skin.

Bucky's scent clung to you, lodged in your senses like a memory you couldn’t shake. Pine, leather, and something darker—something wild that kept teetering you on the brink of losing control. There was something building inside you, a slow-burning awareness you weren’t ready to acknowledge, hoping no one else could sense the change taking hold of you.

Each encounter with him pulled at something deep within you, like a tide responding to the moon. His scent overshadowed everything, lingering in your senses long after he was gone.

And Bucky—you noticed everything now, every detail sharp and vivid, though you tried to convince yourself you were reading too much into it. The way his eyes lingered a second too long—but of course, people always stared at him. The slight flex of his fingers when you passed by—a habit, surely. The barely audible catch in his breath when you were near—probably just your imagination, heightened by whatever was happening to your body.

Maybe you were imagining the way his carefully controlled demeanor seemed to slip around you—those tiny cracks in his composure you couldn't stop noticing. After all, a man like him, always so disciplined, wouldn’t be affected by someone like you… would he? Yet, something raw beneath his surface called to you, making your heart race whenever he was close. The air felt electric between you, crackling with possibility—even as you tried to tell yourself it was just his effect on everyone, that you weren’t special, that it was just your body playing tricks.

After tonight, you couldn’t deny it any longer. During movie night, his stare had lingered like phantom touches, and your skin had felt hypersensitive, every nerve ending alive with awareness. Even in the sanctuary of your room, surrounded by familiar scents, you couldn’t escape the memory of pine and leather.

And as days passed, it only seemed to worsen. When Fury assigned you to oversee the team’s training equipment and Tony ensured you continued working with Steve, observing Bucky was already inevitable. Watching him felt different than those first weeks. You’d glimpsed the man beneath the careful control—caught fragments of dry humor in mission briefings, witnessed quiet camaraderie with Steve. The dangerous edge remained, but now it felt more… intentional. Like he was choosing to let people see beyond the soldier’s facade, revealing glimpses of the man underneath.

These glimpses made training observation even more daunting. Because now you knew what lay beneath his cool exterior—had witnessed the subtle humor in his eyes, the careful way he was learning to exist in spaces without defending them.

Your fingers trembled against the tablet's smooth surface at the thought of watching him work. Being that close to him during combat training, with his presence at its most intense… The thought alone made your mouth go dry.

Training sessions became their own kind of exquisite torture. Your role was simple—monitor the team’s gear, run diagnostics, and ensure everything functioned. But watching Bucky spar was anything but simple.

Between rounds, you brought him water—a straightforward task that became anything but as his eyes tracked your movement across the training room. Your fitted jacket clung to your curves, and you felt the weight of his stare as you approached. It was refreshing, seeing him like this. The quiet, brooding soldier was still there, but lately, there had been glimpses of something else—a playful charm that felt both dangerous and irresistible.

"Tryna’ keep me hydrated, doc?" His voice was rough from exertion, teasing in a way that sent heat pooling in your stomach. This was the Bucky emerging more and more lately—the one who’d somehow found his footing again, letting his guard down just enough to allow a trace of Brooklyn charm to slip through.

"Can’t have our best asset passing out from dehydration," you managed to reply, proud of how steady your voice remained. When you handed him the bottle, his fingers brushed yours, sending electricity skittering across your skin.

"Our best asset, huh?" He tipped his head back to drink, and you couldn’t help but watch his throat work, beads of sweat trailing down his neck. His eyes met yours over the bottle, darkening as they drifted to where your jacket dipped low. "Like what you see?"

This was dangerous territory—this newfound confidence of his, the way he was testing the waters between playful and flirtatious. "Just making sure you’re drinking enough water," you murmured, but the slight tremor in your voice betrayed you. You wondered if he could hear how your heart stumbled in your chest, if he sensed the hitch in your breath when he licked a stray drop from his lower lip.

He moved with a predator’s grace—smooth, controlled, and lethal. Each punch, each fluid shift of his body, sent a pulse of heat through you. Your throat felt dry as you watched the muscles in his back ripple beneath his fitted shirt, the metal of his arm gleaming under the lights. You told yourself this was normal, that anyone would be affected watching him move like this—but deep down, you knew this was different.

At one point, he had Steve pinned to the mat, his arm flexed, holding Steve in place with ease, chest heaving with exertion. His gaze flicked to you, locking eyes for a split second that sent butterflies surging in your stomach—and a darker, more primal flutter somewhere lower. That slow-burning awareness inside you flared hot and urgent.

Your fingers slipped, and your tablet clattered to the floor with a loud thunk. Everyone turned to look, including Steve, but all you could focus on was the faint grin curling at the edge of Bucky’s mouth. Your face burned with embarrassment, but there was no mistaking the glint in his eyes—a look that made you wonder if he could sense the changes in you, if he could feel how your body was betraying every attempt at control.

You couldn’t bear to face the team after that display—after dropping your tablet like some starry-eyed recruit. Your skin felt too tight, too warm, your body thrumming with an energy you couldn’t contain. You retreated to your room, but even buried in your own blankets, you couldn’t escape the memory of his knowing smirk, the way his eyes held yours like he knew exactly what was happening to you.

The next few days passed in a haze of mounting tension. Your skin felt hypersensitive, every nerve ending alive with awareness. Even in the sanctuary of your room, surrounded by familiar scents and belongings, you couldn't shake the feeling that something fundamental was shifting inside you. Sleep became elusive, your body alternating between feverish and chilled, leaving you restless and aching for... something.

By the time you wandered to the kitchen at 3 AM, exhaustion clung to you like a second skin, but sleep remained just out of reach. The compound was eerily quiet at this hour, the hum of electronics the only sound as your slippers whispered across the cool tile.

You sat at the kitchen island, elbows resting on the countertop as you flipped through your options—tea or coffee. Settling on tea, you rose to grab your favorite mug from the cabinet. The dim lighting softened everything, making the space feel smaller, more intimate, as if the night itself carried a promise of something unspoken.

You were so focused on your task that you didn’t hear him approach.

"Can't sleep?"

His voice, low and rough with sleep, startled you enough to make you gasp softly. You whirled around to find him emerging from the shadows, stepping into a sanctuary—one where, in this moment, it felt like only you and he existed. The dim light traced the sharp lines of his face, deepening the shadows beneath his cheekbones and along his jaw.

He wore soft sleep pants that rested low on his hips, and the black shirt clung to his frame, leaving little to the imagination. The kitchen suddenly felt smaller, the air heavier with something you couldn't name—something that thrummed between you, waiting to be acknowledged.

"I…" Your voice faltered, throat dry under his gaze. You cleared your throat and tried again. "Just wanted some tea."

Bucky stepped further into the room, his movements slow and deliberate, like a wolf closing in. For someone so large, he moved with unsettling grace—silent and fluid. "Having trouble sleeping?" he asked, though his question held a depth, as if he were offering more than conversation.

You turned back to the cabinet, reaching for your mug, but your fingers trembled. Before it could slip from your grasp, his hand wrapped around your wrist, steadying you.

"You okay?" His voice was closer now, concern threading through the rough edges.

"Yeah, I’m—" you began, but stopped as you felt his thumb pressing unconsciously against your pulse. The gentle pressure sent electricity dancing up your arm, and you couldn’t help but track how his throat worked as he swallowed.

"Hey," he murmured, voice low. His eyes darkened as they searched your face, and you watched something shift in his expression—recognition, maybe, or realization. His nostrils flared slightly. "You’ve seemed… off lately."

"I'm fine," you managed, but your voice came out breathy, unconvincing. "Just haven’t been sleeping well."

He held your gaze a moment longer, then stepped back slowly, as if it took effort to put distance between you. The absence of his touch left your skin tingling, aching for contact you couldn’t afford to want.

"Maybe some chamomile, then," he suggested, his voice rougher than before. You noticed his fingers curling into fists at his sides, his jaw clenched as he worked to maintain the distance.

You managed a small nod, turning back to the cabinet with unsteady hands. Though he’d released your wrist, he hadn’t moved back far—still standing between you and the island, leaving you caught between his body and the counter. His presence lingered, heavy and warm, close enough that you could feel the heat radiating from his chest.

The small space between you crackled with electricity, making it impossible to focus on the simple task of making tea. The kettle felt too loud in the silence, steam rising like a physical manifestation of the tension thickening the air.

When you finally turned back around, gripping your mug like an anchor, you found his eyes stormy, his jaw set as if he was fighting something within himself. He took a deliberate step back, creating distance that somehow made the air feel even heavier.

"I should…" he started, voice rough. "Let you get some rest." But he didn’t move immediately, as if reluctant to leave.

Something in you wanted to tell him to stay, but the words stuck in your throat. The space between you felt charged, like the air before a storm. His scent—pine and leather—wrapped around you, stronger now, making your head spin.

He moved first, turning toward the entryway with careful control, his movements almost rigid. But he paused at the threshold, his metal hand gripping the wall frame with enough force to make the material creak softly.

"Get some sleep, doll," he said without looking back, his voice carrying something dark and hungry that made your skin prickle with heat. Then he was gone, leaving you alone with the cooling tea and the phantom sensation of his touch still burning around your wrist.

After standing frozen in the kitchen for what felt like hours, you finally forced yourself back to your room. Your skin felt too tight, every nerve hypersensitive as you stumbled through the doorway. The trek down the hallway was torture—his lingering scent clung to your clothes, your skin, leaving you dizzy with desire.

You barely made it to your bed before your legs gave out. The sheets felt rough against your fevered skin, and you kicked them off with a frustrated whimper. Your wrist still burned where he touched you, the memory of his thumb against your pulse making your breath hitch.

Rolling onto your back, you pressed your palms against your eyes, trying to ground yourself. But behind closed lids, all you could see was the way his eyes had darkened in the kitchen, the tension in his jaw barely contained. Your body thrummed with awareness, chest rising and falling with shallow breaths as waves of heat washed over you.

You forced yourself to breathe deeply, counting each inhale like Banner had taught you during training. One breath, then another, even as your skin prickled with need. The steady hum of the air conditioning became your focus, not the memory of Bucky's voice, rough and low in the darkness.

Slowly, exhaustion won over the fever burning through your veins. Your muscles ached from fighting against the tension, and eventually, your body surrendered to the pull of sleep. The last thing you registered was the ghost of pine and leather clinging to your shirt before darkness claimed you.

Consciousness returned slowly, like surfacing from deep water. The first thing you registered was warmth on your face—sunlight streaming through your windows, casting everything in hues of honey and gold. Your room looked almost dreamlike, dust motes dancing in the amber rays.

As your vision focused, you noticed signs of Banner’s care—a bowl of soup on your nightstand, now cold; several water bottles arranged within reach; and a damp cloth on your forehead, long since losing its coolness. The quiet thoughtfulness of it made your chest tighten with gratitude.

You sat up gingerly, testing your body’s response. The fever hadn’t broken—if anything, it burned hotter now—but the rest had given you enough strength to make you restless, to make the walls of your room feel like they were closing in.

The water bottles mocked you, lukewarm and useless against the heat coursing through your veins. Ice. You needed ice. The thought became an obsession, driving you to your feet despite shaky legs. You pulled on a thin robe over your sleep clothes, ignoring how even the silky material felt too rough against your sensitized skin.

The hallway stretched before you, bathed in that same golden light that made everything feel surreal. Your slipper-clad feet made no sound on the cool floor as you made your way toward the kitchen. The compound felt different—eerily still, as if everyone had vanished. No voices from the labs, no footsteps down corridors. Just silence, with the strange amber glow making everything look softened, dreamlike.

You moved as if in a trance, your body feeling both heavy and weightless. The fever made everything hazy, like you were watching yourself from a distance. Each breath drew in air that felt too thick, too warm, despite the steady climate control.

Your feet carried you forward without conscious thought, your path wavering slightly as you trailed a hand along the wall for balance. The golden light streaming through the windows turned the hallway into something otherworldly, making the simple journey feel infinite.

Then it hit you—pine and leather, winter air and something darker. Your body responded before your mind could catch up, drawn to his scent like a moth to flame.

As you reach the living room, your destination becomes hazy, forgotten. The room opens before you, bathed in honeyed light pouring through floor-to-ceiling windows. The hardwood floor gleams like liquid amber, stretching toward where Bucky sits, his broad frame sunk deep into the plush sofa, seeming to melt into the cushions.

His eyes lock onto yours over the book he’d been reading, and even through your fevered haze, you see the way they darken, storm-gray deepening into something darker. Neither of you moves. The air between you feels charged, heavy with unspoken words.

"Y/N," he breathes, your name a warning. His whole body tenses as if to rise, but something keeps him frozen, fingers white-knuckled around the forgotten book. You watch his throat work as he swallows hard. "You shouldn’t—you need to go back to your room."

To him, you must look like something out of a dream—or a nightmare, depending on his self-control. Your silk robe catches the light as you move, revealing glimpses of your tank top and shorts underneath. One sock has slipped down your ankle, and your hair falls messily around your face. Your cheeks are flushed, lips parted in shallow breaths.

You take an unsteady step into the room, looking as if you’re floating across the hardwood, each faltering step a deliberate tease. When you reach the armchair, your robe slips further off one shoulder as you grip the chair for support. "I needed…" The words trail off. Did you need ice? Water? Everything feels secondary to the pull you feel toward him.

The room sways slightly beneath your feet. Bucky shifts, fighting the instinct to reach for you. You watch his chest rise with a sharp breath as your scent reaches him, sweet and heavy in the golden air. A bead of sweat trails down your neck, disappearing beneath your tank top.

"You're burning up," he says roughly, his voice holding a darker edge that makes a heat pool in your stomach. His pupils are blown wide as he tracks every small movement of your body.

You attempt to lower yourself into the armchair, but the world tilts. Your knee catches the edge of the coffee table as you stumble, a breathless giggle escaping your lips at your own clumsiness, and your robe slips down to reveal more of your shoulders.

"Shit," Bucky mutters, finally breaking his careful stillness. "You're gonna hurt yourself." He rises in one fluid motion, crossing the space between you in two strides. His hands hover near your arms, not quite touching. "Let’s get you situated."

"M’okay," you insist, though your legs feel like jelly, and you sway into him unconsciously as your robe slips off completely. His hands finally make contact with your bare arms, and the touch sends electricity racing across your fevered skin. "Just needed to sit..."

"Yeah, I can see that." His voice is strained, almost amused, but you hear the concern underneath. He tries to steady you, guiding you toward the chair, but your knees buckle in that moment.

"Alright—" He catches you against his chest, the sudden contact drawing a small huff from you. You feel more than hear his sharp intake of breath. “You alright?” he asks, peeling you off him, holding you at arm's length.

“Mm—” Your body aches at the loss of heat, eyebrows scrunching in annoyance. You sigh, dragging your gaze up Bucky’s large frame until you meet his darkened eyes. “Yeah, m’fine.” Huffing, you look away.

“Don’t lie.” He steps closer, pulling you in. Your breath hitches.

“I’m not…” Sweat beads on the back of your neck, and a lump forms in your throat. You try to take a deep breath, but with Bucky so close, it’s unbearable. Unknowingly, you grab at Bucky’s shirt, fisting the fabric in your hand.

“Tell the truth.” His gaze drops to where your hand grips his shirt, and something unreadable flickers across his face. He gently pries your fingers from the fabric, his own hands lingering on yours a moment too long. His voice is low, almost a growl. “You don’t know what you’re doing to me, doll.”

The nickname makes your throat tighten, pulse jumping, skin prickling with awareness. You should step back, say something to break the magnetic pull between you, but the words stick in your throat. Instead, you lean in closer, closing the small distance between you. God, you wanted him so badly, and it was excruciating.

He inhales sharply, his hands settling on your shoulders, as if to steady you—or maybe himself. “Doll…” The word escapes him again, rough and raw, like he’s barely holding back. “Say something—tell me to leave.” The command is more a plea, his voice thick with barely contained desperation, brows drawn tight in concern.

He watches you, his words hanging in the air, heavy with unspoken meaning. You feel their weight pressing down, his warning wrapped within the plea. Your mind races, considering every reason to step back, every way this could complicate things.

“I—” You rake your hands up his torso, fingers dragging lightly against the fabric of his shirt. Snaking your arms around his neck, you pull him impossibly close, sharing the air between you. Neither of you speaks, neither of you moves. You feel his chest heaving against yours.

“Y/N…” he whispers, almost painfully. His hand, still warm on your arm, travels up to cradle your neck, thumb on your jaw as he tilts your head. His hooded eyes linger on your lips, and you unconsciously lick them. He sucks in a sharp breath.

The golden light streaming through the windows catches in his dark hair, turning the loose strands framing his face into threads of amber. Your hands slide up, fingertips brushing the back of his neck, where his shoulder-length hair falls free, some pieces tucked carelessly behind his ear. You let your fingers tangle in the soft strands, feeling them slip like silk between your fingers. You hesitate for only a second before you whisper, “I need to know I’m not the only one.”

For a heartbeat, he’s utterly still, his eyes searching yours, and then his hand tightens just slightly on your waist, with a tenderness that steals your breath. “You’re not,” he murmurs, nuzzling his nose against yours, his voice rough and honest. “Not even close.”

The moment his words register, your last thread of control snaps. You finally, finally meet his lips with all the desperation that’s been building for weeks. A rough sound escapes him, vibrating through your chest as his other hand finds your waist, pulling you flush against him. The kiss is devastating in its intensity—wild, demanding, and absolutely consuming, like you’re both trying to devour each other whole.

His lips press firmly against yours, the scrape of his stubble rough on your heated skin, and a pained whine escapes your mouth—whether from pain or need, neither of you can tell, but it spurs Bucky on. He deepens the kiss, his hands pressing you closer, tighter.

Your fingers, tangled in his hair, tug at the strands as you push yourself up on your toes, arching into him, your body ignited by his touch. A wave of need crashes through you, driven by every instinct you’ve been holding back, and you’re already pushing him back toward the sofa, your movements frenzied as his hands trace the curve of your waist, his fingers firm and possessive.

As you push him toward the sofa, a flicker of guilt pierces through the fog clouding your mind. It’s quick but sharp, cutting through the pull that’s been building for weeks. Everything’s moving too fast, crossing boundaries you haven’t even had time to define, and the uncertainty knots inside you. But your body refuses to listen, as though it recognizes him in a way your mind can’t fully grasp, holding you close.

You stumble back with him until his legs hit the edge of the sofa, and he sinks down, pulling you with him until you’re straddling his lap. His hands slide up to grip your hips, steadying you as you settle over him. The moment you feel his body beneath you, hard and solid, a fresh wave of heat surges through you, causing you to grind your hips against his slowly, testing the waters.

The guilt slips through the haze once more, cutting into your thoughts like a knife. You press your hands to his chest, fingers splaying over his muscles, and pull back enough to see concern flicker in his eyes.

“Buck,” you whisper, caught between confession and apology. “I wanted us to take our time…” Your hands drift lower, grazing just beneath his shirt’s hem, brushing over the coarse hair trailing downward. The warmth of his skin under your fingertips makes your breath hitch, and a shiver runs through you as you continue, voice softer, more vulnerable. “To let this mean something.”

Your fingers trace over the waistband of his pajama pants, then dip lightly between the open buttons, your touch featherlight, drawing a sharp intake of breath from him. His body jolts beneath you, jaw clenching in response. His hands flex on your hips, holding you steady, his gaze dark and hungry, struggling for restraint.

“I can’t… I can’t stop myself,” you murmur, voice thick with need. Yet, your hands betray any hesitation, moving slowly, steadily, opening each button, exposing his skin inch by inch, the heat radiating from him only spurring you on. The admission escapes your lips, almost a whimper. “I feel like I’m losing control.”

Bucky’s breath comes out ragged, his fingers pressing into your skin as he fights to stay steady beneath your touch. “Then lose it,” he murmurs, voice rough with desire, his thumb tracing slow circles over your hipbone, sending warmth through you. “Take control, baby.” His tone is a low, commanding murmur, yet open, a willing offering beneath you. “I’m here to give you exactly what you need… use me, all of me.”

“God, you’re unbelievable…” You laugh breathlessly, but with his words, all your anxieties dissolve, the tight knot inside loosening as he smirks and pulls you down for another heated kiss.

With his permission, something inside you snaps, all restraint dissolving as his hands guide your hips down onto his, pulling you in close. You both let out a guttural moan as you sink into his lap, the thin layers of fabric between you doing nothing to dull the intense pressure of his thick length pressing up against you. Heat radiates from him, his arousal straining beneath his pants, sending a dizzying surge of need through you, leaving you breathless.

With each roll of your hips, you’re consumed by him, the ache pulsing through your core, tethering you to the warmth of his body and the intoxicating pull of his scent. He presses against you, hard and unyielding, a promise of everything you crave, every inch of him driving you closer to surrender. A shiver runs down your spine, every nerve alive with anticipation; it’s too much, yet somehow not enough.

A low chuckle escapes him, his chest vibrating beneath your hands as he watches you grind on him, eyes gleaming with satisfaction. His hands wrap firmly around your hips, guiding your movements in a possessive grip that leaves no doubt he’s claiming you in every way. “Look at you,” he murmurs, voice dark and rich, gaze sweeping over every inch of you. “Such a needy little omega, strung out and desperate, aren’t you?” The words ripple through you, sparking heat that surges through your body, making your heart pound, filling you with a warmth that blurs your vision.

A soft whimper escapes your lips, each grind amplifying the tension clawing through your chest, and it’s overwhelming—almost too much. You’re losing yourself, each moan growing louder, desperate, until Bucky’s thumb presses over your lips, quieting you.

Bucky’s hand covers your mouth gently, a warning smirk tugging at his lips. “Keep it down, sweetheart,” he whispers, his tone edged with danger, but you can’t help the needy sound that slips past his hand, your body bucking in response. You pull back slightly, eyes wide, voice a breathless murmur as you ask, “Where is everyone?”

The gleam in his eyes darkens, and he grabs your jaw, pulling you close until his breath brushes your lips. “Forget them,” he growls, voice low and possessive, “Focus on me. Eyes on me, omega.” His grip tightens, his words sending a rush of warmth through you, making your hips grind harder, a needy whimper spilling out as he pulls you into a hungry, messy kiss. Teeth graze, tongues tangle, his control evident in the way his hand holds you in place, claiming every shiver, every gasp.

“Alpha… please…” you gasp, voice cracking as you press yourself harder against him, slick soaking through the fabric, feeling the thick, throbbing bulge of his knot beneath you. “Need you… need it so bad.” Your words spill out, desperation lacing every syllable, your body responding to his presence in a way that both thrills and terrifies you. The pressure, the heat, his intensity—it’s everything, almost too much, yet somehow not nearly enough.

“That’s right, sweetheart,” he growls, voice dark with possession as his hands slide up to grip your waist, fingers pressing with a force that makes your skin burn. “You’re mine, all mine… dripping for me just from grinding on me.” His words spark something wild and primal, your body moving without thought, surrendering to the rhythm, feeling yourself unravel beneath his gaze.

But as the tension mounts, something inside you starts to break. It’s overwhelming, an aching need so intense that your chest tightens, a gasp escaping as tears begin to blur your vision. It’s too much—the pressure, the pleasure, the helplessness of being so completely in his hands, needing him but unable to take it all just yet. A single tear slips down your cheek, and then another, and soon you’re trembling in his hold, soft, helpless sounds falling from you as you press closer, uncertain if it’s pain or pleasure overtaking you.

Bucky’s eyes narrow as he notices, his thumb brushing over your cheek, his gaze softening for a moment. “Look at you, all worked up,” he murmurs, voice low and rough, yet laced with something almost tender. “Can’t handle it, can you? My little omega, so sensitive.” His words make the ache worse, the tears coming faster as he leans in, pressing a possessive kiss against your lips, swallowing the soft, broken sounds you make.

“Shh… you’re okay, sweetheart,” he murmurs, voice dark and rich in your ear, a shiver coursing through you as his hand steadies you, grounding you in his hold. “Not yet, but soon. I’m going to give you everything,” he promises, his tone thick with possession as he presses you firmly to him. “Fill you, claim you, mark every inch of you until there’s nothing left but us, nothing left but me inside you.” His grip tightens, his words a dark promise, and your pulse quickens.

Slowly, Bucky shifts, guiding you back as he leans forward, tilting you until your neck is exposed. Your breath hitches, anticipation winding tight within you, thinking for a split second he’s going to mark you. But instead, he presses a hot, lingering kiss to your collarbone, his lips grazing down your skin as his hand holds you steady. Each soft kiss along your collar sends a thrill through you, his mouth tracing up to the nape of your neck, where he lets his teeth graze lightly, nipping just enough to make you shiver.

Then, with a low growl, he pulls you closer, thrusting hard against you as his teeth sink into your skin, just shy of a mark. The sharp bite sends you over the edge, your body trembling, every nerve igniting as you come undone in his arms, shaking as he holds you steady, his possessive touch grounding you through each wave of pleasure.

Your body quakes in his hold, tremors rolling through you as you cling to him, breathless, every pulse of pleasure leaving you weightless, completely taken. Bucky’s arms stay wrapped around you, grounding you, his lips brushing tenderly over the spot he just bit, his tongue soothing the faint sting as you gasp softly against him.

“There we go… that’s my girl,” he murmurs, his voice thick and velvety as he strokes your back, one hand pressing into the small of your spine, holding you close as your breaths slow. His eyes are dark, filled with satisfaction as he watches you, savoring the sight of you so vulnerable, so utterly his.

Your body settles against him, the intense high fading into a soft, hazy warmth. Almost instinctively, you continue to move your hips in slow, gentle circles, soft whimpers escaping as you melt into his shoulder, eyelids growing heavy, drifting somewhere between bliss and sleep.

His hand strokes up your spine, grounding you with each possessive touch. “You feel that?” he whispers, his mouth brushing your ear, his words sending another shiver through you. “This is just the beginning, sweetheart. You’re mine, and I’m far from done with you.”

A small, needy sound slips from your lips as your hips press against him, despite the exhaustion pulling at you. He smirks, fingers tracing slow, possessive patterns along your waist. “Good girl,” he murmurs, his voice a low, satisfied growl. His hand grazes your hip, drawing gentle circles. “But I want more. Think you can handle that?”

You manage a nod, a sleepy, eager response, melting further into him as your eyelids flutter shut. Just as you’re drifting toward sleep, he chuckles softly, pressing a warm kiss to the top of your head. “First, let’s get some rest, sweetheart,” he whispers, voice a gentle command as he lifts you effortlessly, cradling you against his chest.

The golden hour light that once bathed the room has deepened into the cool, quiet blue of night, shadows settling around you as he carries you to the bed. The ache in your body has softened, replaced by a warmth, a certainty that relaxes you in his hold, knowing you’re exactly where you belong.

As he lowers you onto the sheets, your fingers instinctively curl into his shirt, needing to keep him close even in your drowsy haze. His hand brushes tenderly over your cheek, the glint in his gaze a promise that makes your heart race yet leaves you calm, knowing he’s yours, that you’re meant to be right here in his arms. The last thing you feel is the weight of his touch grounding you, a promise of what’s to come as sleep finally pulls you under.

---

a/n: all i feel is frustration

[urdreamydoodles]

MARVEL COMICS CHARACTERS X FEM!READER

Your lover learns that you are a mutant, and decides to act against the world that hates your kind

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 had always known there was something different about you. It wasn’t the kind of different that made his Spider-Sense tingle, nor was it something he could quite put his finger on. It was in the way you carried yourself, the way your eyes flickered with an unspoken sadness when the news blared stories of mutant riots, the way you tensed when someone spat out the word like it was venom on their tongue. But he never pushed—he knew what it was like to have secrets, to cradle them close like fragile things that could shatter in the wrong hands.

- But when you finally told him, when you stood before him with your hands trembling and your voice barely above a whisper, Peter felt his heart break for you. Not because you were a mutant—God, no—but because you had lived your whole life expecting rejection, even from him. His first instinct was to pull you into his arms, to wrap you in the warmth of his love, to whisper against your hair, "You could never be anything but perfect to me." And when he pulled back, cupping your face in his calloused hands, he met your gaze with unwavering devotion. "I'm so sorry the world made you feel like you had to hide from me."

- From that moment, Peter became your fiercest protector—not that you needed protecting, but love made him reckless. He confronted every slur, every cruel whisper, every venom-laced comment spat your way. When J. Jonah Jameson ran another anti-mutant headline in the Daily Bugle, Peter slammed the paper down on his desk and walked out, his voice shaking with rage. When a man sneered at you on the subway, Peter’s hand found yours, fingers threading together as he stared the man down until he looked away.

- But it wasn’t just anger that drove him—it was justice. He swung through the city, stopping hate crimes against mutants with the same ferocity he used against criminals. He used his platform, his voice, his every breath to push back against the tide of bigotry. "You think mutants are dangerous? Maybe you should look in the mirror." And when people asked why he cared so much, why Spider-Man fought so hard for them, he would simply smile under his mask and say, "Because someone I love is one of them. And I’ll be damned if I let the world treat them like anything less than extraordinary."

- At night, when the world was quiet, Peter would hold you like you were something sacred, tracing the lines of your hands with his fingertips, memorizing you like poetry. "You know, the only thing that ever scared me about you being a mutant," he would whisper against your temple, "is the thought that you'd ever think I could love you any less because of it." And then he would kiss you—soft, reverent, as if every heartbeat between you was a promise.

Tony Stark (Iron Man)

- Tony had always been a man of logic, of science, of equations that made sense and theories that could be proven. But love was neither logical nor quantifiable, and when it came to you, he was hopelessly tangled in the chaos of it. He had seen the way you hesitated when mutant protests flashed across the screen, the way your fingers curled into your palms when politicians spoke of registration, control, fear. He had seen it, but he had never asked. He had always figured that if you wanted to tell him, you would.

- And then, one night, you did. The confession spilled from your lips like something fragile and broken, years of pain woven between every syllable. You had expected disgust, anger, maybe even that cold indifference the world had always shown you. But Tony Stark was not the world. He was Tony Stark, and he laughed—actually laughed—before pulling you into his arms. "Sweetheart," he murmured against your hair, "did you really think I'd care? You could have told me you were an alien princess from the Andromeda Galaxy, and it wouldn’t have changed a damn thing."

- But beneath the bravado, beneath the charm, there was fury—cold and sharp, pressing against his ribs like a blade. How dare the world make you feel this way? How dare they make you hide, make you think that love was something that came with conditions? The next time a senator spewed anti-mutant rhetoric at a gala, Tony took a long sip of his whiskey, smiled that sharp, wolfish smile, and said, "Funny, I was just thinking how the world would be a better place if we registered bigots instead."

- And then there were the grand gestures—because Tony Stark didn’t do things halfway. He poured billions into mutant advocacy programs, bought out entire networks to air pro-mutant campaigns, stood before the world in a press conference and said, "I’ve seen the future, and let me tell you—it’s not built on hate. It’s built on evolution, on progress, on people who are stronger than you could ever hope to be." And when people asked him why, when reporters pried for answers, he only ever said, "Because someone I love deserves better."

- In the quiet of the workshop, with only the hum of machinery and the glow of arc reactors around you, Tony would pull you onto his lap, pressing his lips against your temple. "You know," he murmured, "mutant, human, robot—whatever you are, you’re mine. And that’s the only thing that matters."

Steve Rogers (Captain America)

- Steve had fought wars—on battlefields, in back alleys, in the hearts and minds of the people. He had seen the worst of humanity, had watched hatred take root and grow like a disease. And yet, nothing prepared him for the way his heart ached when you finally told him the truth. It wasn’t anger, wasn’t disappointment—just a slow, dawning grief, not because you were a mutant, but because you had been afraid to tell him. "I fought against people like that," he whispered, his voice thick with sorrow. "People who thought they had the right to decide who was worthy of freedom. I won’t let them do that to you."

- From that day on, Steve became your shield in more ways than one. Not just in battle, but in life. He corrected people when they spoke with ignorance, stood in front of you when the world turned cruel. And when someone had the audacity to say, "But Captain, they’re a mutant—aren’t you afraid?" he would square his shoulders, fix them with that unshakable gaze, and say, "Afraid? Of someone stronger, braver, and better than you? Not in a million years."

- He marched in mutant rallies, stood before congressmen and looked them in the eye when they tried to push their agendas of fear. "I fought a war to stop people like you," he told them, voice steady, unwavering. "And I’ll fight another if I have to." His words spread like wildfire, his name became a beacon. If Captain America stood with mutants, then maybe—just maybe—the world would listen.

- But for all the battles he fought, for all the speeches and protests, what mattered most was how he loved you. In the early mornings, when the sun painted your skin in gold, he would trace slow, reverent lines along your arms, pressing kisses to every inch of you. "You are everything they’re afraid of," he murmured against your lips. "And that makes you extraordinary."

- And when the world felt too heavy, when the weight of their hatred threatened to drown you, Steve would hold you close, forehead pressed to yours, his voice a quiet vow. "They’ll never take this from us," he swore. "Not while I’m standing."

Thor

- Thor had seen many things across the realms—gods and monsters, heroes and villains, beings of power and light and darkness. But when you told him, when you stood before him with your heart in your hands, his reaction was as simple as the man himself. He laughed—a deep, joyous sound that shook the very walls—and swept you into his arms. "You think I would love you less for being different?" he asked, pressing a kiss to your brow. "My love, I am a god from another world. It is you who should look upon me with suspicion!"

- But beneath his laughter was rage—not at you, never at you—but at the world that had made you feel unworthy. He could not understand it, this Midgardian hatred for those who were different. On Asgard, power was revered, bloodlines celebrated. But here, on this fragile little world, fear turned to violence. And Thor had never been one to stand idly by in the face of injustice.

- When he heard men speak against mutants, he did not argue—he roared. His voice thundered through the halls of their governments, shaking the foundations of their hate. "You would condemn those who are stronger than you?" he bellowed. "Then I ask you—would you dare call ME an abomination?" And when they faltered, when they could not meet his gaze, he would smirk and say, "That is what I thought."

- But it was in the quiet moments that his love shone brightest. When he held you beneath the stars, his fingers tracing constellations against your skin. "You are power, you are fire, you are the storm itself," he whispered. "Let them fear you. Let them tremble. But know this, my love—I will stand beside you, always."

- And if the world would not change, if it refused to see the beauty in you, then Thor Odinson would remind them why the gods were to be feared.

Loki

- Loki had always known. He had known from the moment he first looked into your eyes, from the way you flinched at whispered slurs, the way your breath hitched when the world spoke of your kind like a disease. He knew, because he was the same. Always other, always different, always a thing to be feared rather than loved. So when you told him, when the words finally left your lips like a confession, he only tilted his head and smirked. "Did you think I would not see you for what you are?" he murmured, tracing a finger along your jaw. "Did you think I would ever love you less?"

- But behind his smirk, there was fire. Loki had spent his life at the mercy of those who saw difference as weakness, and he would not see you suffer the same. He did not fight with fists or shields—he fought with words, with illusions, with tricks that made fools of those who thought themselves mighty. He whispered secrets into the ears of kings, sowed doubt in the hearts of senators. And when they spoke against mutants, when they spat their venom into the world, Loki only smiled and made them choke on their own lies.

- He did not seek to change the world’s mind—he sought to burn it down. "Why should you suffer their hatred?" he asked one night, his voice soft, dangerous. "Why not take your place above them?" And when you shook your head, when you refused to become the monster they feared, he only sighed and kissed your forehead. "Then let them tremble," he murmured. "For you are far greater than they will ever understand."

- And when the nights were long and your heart was heavy, when the weight of the world pressed against your ribs like iron chains, Loki would pull you into his arms, pressing a kiss to your shoulder. "Let them call us monsters," he whispered. "Let them fear us. But know this, my love—you will never stand alone."

- And as the fires of hatred raged across Midgard, Loki only smiled, watching as the world shifted and twisted in the palm of his hand. Because if there was one thing the Trickster God knew, it was this—love was the most dangerous magic of all.

Matthew Murdock (Daredevil)

Clint Barton (Hawkeye)

- Clint had always been good at spotting the things people tried to hide. It was an instinct sharpened by years of survival, a skill born from growing up in the gutters of a world that didn’t care if he lived or died. He could read people like maps, see the tells in their hands, the flickers in their expressions, the hesitations in their words. And he had seen it in you—the way you flinched at anti-mutant slurs, the way your shoulders stiffened at the news, the way your smile never quite reached your eyes when people spoke of them like they were a disease. But he never pushed. He just waited, patient as ever, because love wasn’t about forcing doors open—it was about letting someone hand you the key.

- When you finally told him, when the words left your lips in a whisper so fragile it could have shattered, Clint didn’t blink. Didn’t flinch. Didn’t hesitate. He only leaned back in his chair, crossed his arms behind his head, and smirked. “Well, that explains why you’re so much cooler than me.” The joke was light, effortless, but there was something in his eyes—something sharp, something raw. “You really think I’d care?” he asked, voice softer now. And when you looked away, when the weight of the world threatened to crush you, he reached for you, tugging you into his arms with a sigh. “Babe, I don’t care if you’ve got laser eyes or can turn people into frogs—I’m still gonna make bad jokes and steal the covers at night.”

- But beneath the easygoing attitude, there was fire. The next time someone sneered "mutie" under their breath, Clint didn’t let it slide. He was in their face before they even realized what was happening, blue eyes flashing like ice, his tone deceptively casual. “What was that, buddy? Didn’t quite catch it.” And when the man stammered, when he tried to backpedal, Clint only smirked. “That’s what I thought.” He didn’t need to throw punches—his words cut sharper than any arrow.

- But when words weren’t enough, when hatred turned to violence, Clint was the first to stand in front of you, bow drawn, eyes cold. “Pick on someone your own size,” he would say, voice a quiet promise of violence. Because if there was one thing Clint Barton never tolerated, it was bullies. And he wasn’t about to let the world take one more thing from you.

- At night, when the city lights flickered outside your window, when the weight of your past felt too heavy to bear, Clint would pull you close, pressing lazy kisses to your temple. “You don’t ever have to hide from me,” he murmured, voice thick with sleep. “Not from me, not from anyone. You’re stuck with me, sweetheart. Get used to it.”

Natasha Romanoff (Black Widow)

- Natasha had spent her entire life learning how to read people, how to peel them apart layer by layer until there was nothing left to hide. But you—you were the one puzzle she had never solved, the one mystery she never wanted to crack open with force. She had seen the way your hands trembled when the news spat their venom about mutants, the way your gaze flickered with something like fear when the subject came up. She didn’t push. She knew better than anyone that secrets were stitched into the skin, that some wounds bled even when they weren’t visible.

- But when you finally told her, when the words fell from your lips like something broken, Natasha only tilted her head, studying you with those sharp green eyes. And then, so softly you almost didn’t hear it, she whispered, “I know.” She had known for a while—had put the pieces together long before you ever spoke the words aloud. But she also knew that trust wasn’t something given freely, that love wasn’t about demanding answers. It was about waiting.

- And if you thought, for even a second, that Natasha Romanoff would love you any less, you didn’t know her at all. “Do you think I care?” she asked, voice steady, unwavering. “Do you think I would ever let the world decide how I see you?” And when your breath hitched, when your hands clenched into fists, she stepped closer, pressing her forehead against yours. “I have spent my life being what other people wanted me to be. I will never ask that of you.”

- But if she had been quiet before, if she had let comments about mutants pass unchallenged in the name of discretion, that changed. Natasha was no stranger to political warfare, to the slow, methodical dismantling of enemies without ever lifting a gun. When senators pushed for anti-mutant laws, she ruined them before they ever saw it coming. When anti-mutant organizations rose, they found their files wiped, their bank accounts drained, their secrets exposed. "You hurt them," she whispered into the ear of a man who had called for mutant executions, "and I will erase you."

- At home, in the safety of her arms, Natasha was softer. She kissed your knuckles like they were something sacred, traced patterns against your skin as if memorizing every inch of you. “You don’t have to hide anymore,” she whispered against your lips. “Not from me.”

Bucky Barnes (The Winter Soldier)

- Bucky knew what it was like to be feared. He knew what it was like to have people look at you like you were something less than human, like you were a weapon instead of a person. And when you finally told him, when you whispered the truth into the quiet of your shared apartment, his jaw clenched. Not at you, never at you—but at the world that had made you feel like this, that had made you afraid to tell the one person who loved you most.

- He didn’t speak right away, just reached for you, his metal fingers cool against your skin, his touch gentle. “Doll,” he murmured, voice rough with emotion, “I’ve done things that would make the devil blush. And you think I’d ever judge you for being born different?”

- But after that, something changed. Bucky had always kept his head down, had always stayed in the shadows when it came to politics and public opinion. But now? Now he was a storm waiting to break. He walked into rooms where men spoke of mutants like they were vermin and let his presence alone silence them. And when they still had the audacity to sneer, to whisper, he let them see the Winter Soldier lurking just beneath his skin. “Say it again,” he dared, voice low, dangerous.

- And God help anyone who laid a hand on you. Bucky didn’t just stop fights—he ended them. He didn’t care if it made him a threat, if it made people wary of him again. He had spent too many years fighting the wrong battles. He would not lose you to their hatred.

- But when the night was quiet, when the world faded away, Bucky was just Bucky. He held you like you were the only thing keeping him tethered, pressed his lips to your shoulder as if grounding himself in the feeling of you. “I know what it’s like to feel like a ghost in your own skin,” he murmured. “But you? You’re more alive than anyone I’ve ever known.”

- The moment you told Matt, his expression barely flickered. No sharp inhale, no startled pause. He only tilted his head slightly, listening to the sound of your heartbeat thudding like a bird trapped in a cage. He had suspected, of course—Matt could hear the way your breath hitched when someone spat slurs against mutants, could feel the tension coil in your muscles when the news spewed their poison. But he had never pried. He knew what it was like to carry a secret, to guard it like a wound that might never heal.

- When you finished speaking, silence stretched between you, thick with something unspoken. And then, softly, Matt reached for you, his fingers brushing against your wrist before lacing through your own. "You really thought I'd turn away?" he asked, voice barely above a whisper. He lifted a hand to your cheek, tracing the shape of you as if committing it to memory all over again. "I know what it's like to be something the world hates. I know what it’s like to be called a monster." His voice was steady, but there was something fierce in it—something that said, I will never let them take this from us.

- After that, Matt stopped holding back. If he had once measured his words when it came to mutant discrimination, now he tore through lies like a blade through silk. In courtrooms, he dismantled anti-mutant legislation with the same brutal precision he used to take down criminals in the streets. "Your Honor, I wonder—if my client were anything other than a mutant, would we even be having this discussion?" And in the dead of night, when those same men conspired in alleyways and behind closed doors, the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen made them regret every word.

- But when he was with you, when it was just the two of you in the quiet of your apartment, Matt was softer. He pulled you into his lap, let his hands roam as if learning every inch of you anew. "You're not a sin," he murmured against your skin. "You're not something to be ashamed of." And when you whispered that the world would never stop hating people like you, his grip tightened, his voice dark with promise. "Then let them fear me instead."

- Because if the world wanted a devil, Matt would give them one.

Frank Castle (The Punisher)

- Frank didn't react the way you expected. He didn’t ask why you hadn’t told him sooner. Didn’t ask how you’d been hiding it for so long. He just stared at you for a long moment, jaw tight, eyes unreadable. And then he exhaled sharply, shaking his head. "That why you were afraid?" he asked, voice rough as gravel. "That I’d look at you different?" His brows furrowed, something dark flashing in his gaze. "You really think that little of me?"

- After that, Frank made his stance on mutants crystal clear. There were men—rich, powerful men—who thought they could wipe out mutantkind in silence, who thought they could hunt people like you without consequence. Frank made sure they learned otherwise. When a senator proposed mutant registration, he found his car a smoking ruin. When a high-ranking mutant-hating official disappeared, no one ever found the body.

- Frank didn’t fight for mutant rights in the public eye. He didn’t make speeches, didn’t march in protests. But when someone threatened you, threatened people like you, they disappeared. It wasn’t justice. It was punishment. It was war. And Frank Castle didn’t lose wars.

- But when he was with you, when the blood and the violence faded into the background, Frank was different. He held you close, his touch bruising but gentle, like he was afraid you’d slip through his fingers. "You ain't gotta be scared no more," he murmured against your hair. "Not while I’m breathin’."

- And God help anyone who ever tried to hurt you. Because Frank Castle didn’t believe in mercy.

Bullseye (Lester)

- When you finally told Bullseye, you braced yourself for disgust, for cruelty, for one of his sharp, cutting laughs. But instead, he just blinked at you once, twice—then tilted his head with a smirk. "That’s what you were scared of?" His voice was pure amusement, laced with something darker. "Oh, sweetheart. You should know by now—I don’t give a damn what you are. Long as you bleed like the rest of ‘em."

- And that was it. No anger, no questions, no sympathy. He didn’t treat you like you were fragile. Didn’t tell you that you were special. Bullseye loved destruction, loved chaos, and knowing that you were something the world feared? It only made you more interesting to him.

- But after that, something in him shifted. He took extra pleasure in tearing apart anti-mutant extremists, in carving his own brand of justice into their skin. If someone so much as looked at you wrong, he made sure they never did it again. "Gotta admit," he murmured one night, flicking a bloodstained knife between his fingers. "It’s fun, huntin’ those bastards down. Feels like a goddamn sport."

- But despite his cruelty, despite his madness, there were moments of startling softness. He would run his fingers through your hair absentmindedly, twirl a strand around his finger, murmur against your skin, "You really thought I’d hate you? Sweetheart, I’m not the one who’s ever gonna leave." And that was the most terrifying thing of all—because with Bullseye, love wasn’t gentle. It was obsession.

- He didn’t just accept you. He worshiped you. And in the end, that was the most dangerous thing of all.

Marc Spector (Moon Knight)

- Marc had always known you were hiding something. He saw it in the way your body tensed when people talked about mutants, in the way you flinched when a headline spat venom about the so-called "mutant problem." He had spent his life surrounded by secrets, drowning in them, and he could feel yours pressing against you like a second skin. But he never forced it out of you. Marc knew that secrets weren’t pried open—they were given, piece by piece, when the weight of them became too much to bear.

- When you finally told him, your voice was barely more than a whisper, as if the confession alone might break you. For a long moment, Marc didn’t say anything. He just stared, unreadable, his hands curling into fists at his sides. But then—"That’s it?" His voice was quiet, rough, like gravel scraping against pavement. He shook his head, almost scoffing. "You really thought I’d turn my back on you?" And then, softer, his hand reaching for yours, "I’ve been Khonshu’s blade, a mercenary, a killer. You think being born different is what’s gonna change how I see you?"

- After that, something in Marc burned hotter, fiercer. He had never been one to hold his tongue, but now? Now, he was ruthless. When a politician spewed anti-mutant rhetoric, their life crumbled overnight. When hate groups targeted mutants, they found themselves hunted in the dark, their screams lost to the night. He never let you see the worst of it—never let you know just how far he went. But when you traced the bruises on his knuckles, when you saw the fresh cuts on his skin, you knew.

- "They don’t get to win," he told you one night, his voice low, dangerous. "Not while I’m still breathing." And when you tried to tell him that you were used to it, that it didn’t matter, he caught your chin between his fingers, forcing you to look at him. "It matters to me."

- When the nightmares came, when the weight of it all became too much, Marc held you close, his breath warm against your hair. "I’m not going anywhere," he murmured against your temple. And even when his mind fractured, even when he got lost in the chaos of himself, he always found his way back to you.

Taskmaster (Tony Masters)

- Taskmaster was many things—a killer, a mercenary, a man whose entire life revolved around reading people. And he had read you like an open book the moment he met you. The tension in your shoulders, the hesitation in your voice whenever the topic of mutants came up—he had seen it all, memorized it. He wasn’t an idiot. He knew what you were. But he waited. If you wanted to keep your secret, he wasn’t going to be the one to take it from you.

- But when you finally told him, your voice tight with fear, he just… shrugged. "Yeah. And?" His tone was almost lazy, like it was the most uninteresting thing in the world. When you gaped at him, confusion written all over your face, he only smirked. "Sweetheart, I’ve worked for the worst people you can imagine. You think I care about something like that?" His smirk faded then, his voice turning serious. "You’re mine. That’s all that matters."

- After that, he didn’t just accept it—he weaponized it. If someone so much as looked at you wrong, they didn’t get a second chance. Taskmaster didn’t do morality, didn’t fight for justice. But he did fight for you. And if hurting anti-mutant extremists meant getting a fat paycheck at the same time? Even better.

- He never made speeches, never tried to convince people they were wrong. He just made them pay. When a high-ranking government official pushed for mutant registration, they woke up to find their security detail dead and Taskmaster sitting in their living room, twirling a knife between his fingers. "You’re gonna back off," he told them, voice dangerously calm. "Or I start making this personal." They always backed off.

- But at the end of the day, when it was just the two of you, he was softer in ways he’d never admit. He let you trace the scars on his arms, let you press your forehead against his without a word. "Told ya," he murmured one night, voice almost gentle. "I don’t give a damn what you are. Long as you’re mine."

Johnny Storm (Human Torch)

- Johnny didn’t notice at first. He was too busy being in love with you, too caught up in the way you laughed, the way your eyes shone when you looked at him. But when you finally told him, when the words left your lips like something fragile and breakable, he froze. For the first time in his life, Johnny Storm was speechless.

- And then, after a long, terrible silence, he just—laughed. "Babe," he grinned, pulling you into his arms, "I don’t care if you’re a mutant, an alien, or a wizard. You’re still you. And you’re still the most beautiful person I’ve ever seen." He kissed you then, like the whole world could burn and he wouldn’t care.

- But after that? Oh, he made sure everyone knew exactly where he stood. When people talked about mutants like they were a threat, Johnny cut them off with a sharp, "Oh, so now you’ve got a problem with my girlfriend? Say that again, I dare you." And when someone was dumb enough to throw insults in your direction, Johnny lit up, flames crackling around him. "Wanna say that one more time?" he grinned, voice dripping with dangerous amusement. They never did.

- He used his fame, his charm, his name to shift public opinion. He appeared on talk shows, flashing that easy grin, saying things like, "C’mon, guys, this is ridiculous. Mutants are just people. Get over it." And when protests got violent, when mutant kids were being hunted in the streets, Johnny was there, a burning shield between them and the world.

- But when it was just the two of you, when the flames had cooled, he was nothing but warmth. He pulled you against him, pressing soft kisses to your forehead. "I love you," he whispered into your skin, his voice quiet, serious. "And nothing is ever gonna change that."

Reed Richards (Mister Fantastic)

- When you finally told Reed, his first response was silence. Not because he was shocked, not because he needed time to process—but because he was calculating, rearranging every interaction you had ever shared, analyzing every moment where he had failed to see your fear. You had hidden it well, but now that he knew, the weight of it settled over him like a problem he had failed to solve.

- His hands found yours, his gaze steady. "You should have told me," he said, but there was no accusation in his voice. Only quiet regret. He lifted your fingers to his lips, his touch reverent, as if he could rewrite history with something as simple as love. "You’ve carried this alone for too long." And then, with something firmer, something unshakable: "You never have to again."

- From that moment on, Reed became your shield in ways you never expected. He wrote papers dismantling anti-mutant pseudoscience, tore down bigotry with cold, hard fact. When politicians spoke of mutant registration, he left them grasping for counterarguments they could never find. "You claim mutation is unnatural," he said in one televised debate, eyes sharp. "Tell me, Senator—what part of the human genome would you erase? What percentage of the population do you consider a mistake?" The silence that followed was deafening.

- But beyond the science, beyond the politics, there was Reed as your lover. He spent nights in his lab, creating devices to keep you safe, scanning your DNA not to change you, but to understand you. He memorized the nuances of your abilities, mapped them in ways even you hadn’t. "You are a marvel," he told you once, voice full of awe. And for the first time in your life, you believed it.

- And when you lay beside him in the quiet of the Baxter Building, when he pulled you against him with hands ink-stained from endless notes written in your defense, you realized something else: Reed Richards did not love in halves. He was methodical, relentless, infinite. And now, he was yours.

Ben Grimm (The Thing)

- When you told Ben, his first reaction was a long, slow blink. Then, without hesitation, he reached out and ruffled your hair like it was the most natural thing in the world. "That’s what you were scared of?" His voice was warm, gruff, edged with something heartbreakingly gentle. "C’mon, you really think that changes a damn thing?"

- But as much as he tried to downplay it, the knowledge did change something in him. Not in how he saw you, but in how he saw the world. He had always known what it was to be feared, to be hated for something beyond his control—but this? This was different. He started noticing the way people tensed when they spoke about mutants, the way fear bled into cruelty, the way their hatred was masked as logic. And suddenly, it wasn’t just talk. It was personal.

- When someone made a crack about mutants, Ben didn’t get political. He didn’t debate. He just stood up. Let his shadow stretch long, let his presence settle heavy over the room. "You wanna run that by me again?" he rumbled, voice all gravel and quiet fury. And somehow, they never wanted to.

- But with you, Ben was nothing but soft. He pulled you against his chest, let you rest against the solid warmth of him, held you like you were something fragile in a world that had never been kind. "Yer perfect, y’know that?" he muttered one night, fingers tracing mindless patterns against your skin. And when you tried to protest, to remind him of all the ways the world had told you otherwise, he only huffed. "Nah. They don’t get to decide that. Not about you."

- And so he stayed. Through every sneer, every whispered slur, every fight that came too close to home. He stayed because you were his, and Ben Grimm had never walked away from something he loved.

Susan Storm (Invisible Woman)

- When you finally found the courage to tell Sue, she didn’t gasp, didn’t recoil—she simply reached for you, her hands framing your face with a tenderness that made your breath catch. "Oh, sweetheart," she murmured, brushing her thumbs against your skin. "You must have been so scared."

- And just like that, it was no longer about what you were, but about what the world had done to you. About the weight you had carried alone, about the fear that had burrowed into your bones. And Susan Storm, for all her grace, for all her composure, had never been one to stand by while the world hurt the people she loved.

- She became fierce. Not just in words, but in action. She used her influence, her name, her power to carve out space for mutants where there had been none before. She protected, she fought, she defended. And when the world pushed back, she pushed harder.

- And when the nights were quiet, when it was just the two of you tangled together beneath the covers, she let the walls fall. "You don’t have to be strong all the time," she whispered against your temple. "Not with me."

- And maybe, just maybe, for the first time in your life, you believed her.

Felicia Hardy (Black Cat)

- Felicia’s first reaction was a slow, sharp grin. "Oh, baby," she purred, tracing a finger along your jaw. "Did you really think I’d care?" And then, with a soft chuckle, "I love you. Not whatever label the world wants to slap on you."

- But after that, things changed. Not between you and her—Felicia had always been ride-or-die—but between her and the rest of the world. She started stealing from anti-mutant organizations, draining their bank accounts, erasing their influence. She exposed corrupt politicians, left damning evidence in the hands of journalists who wouldn’t bury the truth. She didn’t just defend you—she made sure they suffered.

- And when someone dared to insult you to her face? Oh, that was a mistake. Felicia was many things—a thief, a liar, a woman who played by her own rules—but she had never been forgiving.

- But when it was just the two of you, when the world fell away, she was something softer. She pulled you close, her touch feather-light, her lips brushing against your ear as she whispered, "You don’t ever have to hide from me."

- And she meant it. With Felicia, there were no masks, no secrets—just you, raw and real and loved.

Stephen Strange (Doctor Strange)

- You told Stephen in the dead of night, in the hush between flickering candlelight and the whispered hum of ancient spells. The words barely left your lips before you regretted them, before the years of fear coiled around your ribs like iron chains. You had seen the world turn its back on you before—had watched the disgust, the pity, the cold, clinical rejection in the eyes of those who should have loved you. And so, when Stephen only sighed, when he looked at you with something impossibly gentle, it felt like the weight of the universe shifted.

- He did not recoil, did not hesitate. Instead, he reached for you, fingers tracing the lines of your wrist as if following the constellations of your existence. "My love," he murmured, voice steeped in something ancient, something infinite, "I have walked the hidden paths of the multiverse, have spoken with beings older than time itself. Do you truly believe that something as arbitrary as human prejudice could alter the way I see you?"

- After that, Stephen became an immovable force against those who dared to speak against you. His words were blades sharper than any steel, cutting through the ignorance of men who cloaked their hatred in rhetoric. He did not rage—he did not need to. He dismantled their arguments with the ease of a scholar correcting a student, left them floundering in the wake of his intellect. And when words were not enough, when cruelty turned to violence, Stephen stood between you and the world with a shield of eldritch fire.

- He wove spells into the fabric of your existence, sigils of protection hidden in the way his hands lingered on your skin. No force, mortal or divine, could lay a hand upon you without answering to him. He would break reality itself before he allowed harm to come to you. "They will not touch what is mine," he vowed, and the universe itself seemed to bend to his will.

- And yet, in the quiet hours, when the world faded away and it was just the two of you wrapped in the sanctuary of the Sanctum, he was simply Stephen. He kissed away your fears with the patience of a man who had once lost everything, who knew what it meant to find something worth keeping. "You are not cursed," he told you one night, his voice woven with something that felt like devotion. "You are celestial." And in his arms, you could finally believe it.

Namor (The Sub-Mariner)

- The weight of your secret had always been heavier in his presence. Namor was not a man accustomed to softness, not a man who bent to the whims of others. His love was a tempest, fierce and unrelenting, and you had never known if that storm would hold you or tear you apart. But when you finally told him, when the truth finally slipped past your lips like a confession carved in blood, the air between you went still.

- He did not speak for a long moment. His gaze was unreadable, sharp as a blade honed for war. And then—"You feared I would turn from you?" His voice was quiet, but there was something dangerous lurking beneath it, something ancient and offended. "You feared Namor, King of Atlantis, would forsake his beloved for being what she has always been?" His hand found your chin, tilting your face up toward him, his expression dark with something that looked like fury—not at you, but at the world that had made you believe he could be so small.

- The moment passed, and then his lips were on yours, fierce and possessive, a declaration written in salt and fire. "You are mine," he murmured against your mouth. "Let them speak against you, if they dare. I will drown their cities in ruin before I let them lay a hand upon you." And you knew, with every inch of your soul, that he meant it.

- After that, Namor made no secret of where he stood. When leaders of the surface world spoke of mutants as a threat, they found themselves facing the cold fury of a king who had toppled empires. "Your hatred is as weak as the land you stand upon," he sneered at them, voice like a blade slicing through their feeble protests. "And just as easily shattered." His presence alone sent waves of terror through the political landscape—because an enemy of mutants was now an enemy of Atlantis.

- But beneath all the fire, beneath the war cries and the kingdom that bowed to his will, there was Namor, the man who held you like the most precious thing in the ocean’s depths. "You are of the sea now," he told you once, his voice quieter, reverent. "No one—no thing—will ever take you from me." And when you lay beside him in the deep silence of his kingdom, you knew that, for the first time, you were not alone.

Johnny Blaze (Ghost Rider)

- You had seen the fire in Johnny’s eyes, had traced the inferno that lived in his veins. And yet, when you told him—when you finally let the weight of your truth spill from your lips—you expected him to burn you with it. You expected the same rejection you had spent your life swallowing, expected the words that had been carved into your skin since childhood: monster, mistake, unwanted.

- But Johnny only exhaled, running a scarred hand through his hair before looking at you with something impossibly tender. "That’s what you were scared of?" He let out a breathless, almost disbelieving laugh, before reaching for you, pulling you against him with a gentleness that contradicted the hellfire in his soul. "Sweetheart, I sold my goddamn soul to the devil. You think I got room to judge anybody?"

- And that was it. No questions, no hesitations—just love, steady and unshaken. But the world was not so kind, and Johnny saw it. Saw the way they looked at you, the way their hatred curled like poison in the air. And something dark stirred in him, something ancient and vengeful. The Rider did not abide by human morality, did not hesitate to pass judgment. And when Johnny let him loose, when the skull and chains and fire consumed him, the wicked burned.

- "You wanna know what real monsters look like?" he snarled at those who spat hatred at you. "Take a good, long look." And then the fire came, and the screams followed. The guilty never walked away the same. Some never walked away at all.

- But when the flames died, when the smoke settled, it was just Johnny again. Just the man who traced circles against your back, who kissed your knuckles like a silent vow. "Ain’t nothin’ in this world that could make me love you less," he murmured against your skin. "You hear me? Nothin’." And for once, in a world that had never made space for you, you believed it.

Eddie Brock / Venom

- You expected the worst. Eddie had always been a man of absolutes, of raw emotion barely restrained beneath the surface. And Venom? The symbiote was a creature of instinct, unpredictable and feral. You had spent days, weeks, months dreading the moment—wondering if love would turn to disgust, if loyalty would be drowned beneath the tide of prejudice you had known your whole life.

- But when the words finally left your lips, when you admitted what you were with a voice tight and brittle, Eddie just stared. Not with anger. Not with fear. Just silence, long and unreadable. And then—"That’s what had you so freaked out?" His voice was almost bored, like you had just confessed something as mundane as forgetting to lock the door. Venom slithered over his shoulder then, black tendrils shifting, its alien voice a deep, guttural purr. "WE ARE NOT AFRAID," it growled. "WE LOVE YOU."

- And that was that. Eddie never treated you differently. There were no long speeches, no reassurances—you didn’t need them. You were his. That was the only thing that mattered. But the world? The world didn’t see it that way. And Eddie, for all his temper, had never cared much for the opinions of cowards. "You wanna talk to me about monsters?" he snarled at a reporter who dared to spew anti-mutant rhetoric. "You think you know what ‘dangerous’ looks like? Let me introduce you." And then the symbiote spread its maw, teeth glinting, hunger rising. The fear in their eyes was enough.

- Venom became your guardian, your shadow, your monster in the dark. When the bigots came, they never came twice. "They are WEAK," the symbiote cooed in your ear. "THEY WILL NOT TOUCH YOU." And Eddie, for all his gruffness, only pulled you against his chest, arms solid and safe. "They gotta go through me first," he muttered. And no one—no one—was getting through him.

- But in the quiet moments, when the world wasn’t looking, he was just Eddie. Just a man who held you like you were the only thing keeping him tethered to humanity. "You think I’m the normal one in this relationship?" he joked one night, pressing a kiss against your forehead. "Sweetheart, you’re the best damn thing that ever happened to me." And maybe, just maybe, you could finally believe it.

T’Challa (Black Panther)

- You had spent your life preparing for rejection, bracing for the moment love turned to loss. You had seen kings pass judgment on your kind before—had heard their decrees of condemnation, their insistence that you were too different, too dangerous. And T’Challa—T’Challa—was a king before anything else.

- But when you finally told him, when you spoke your truth in the sanctuary of his chambers, his expression did not waver. He watched you with the patience of a man who had already known the answer, as if he had long suspected the secret you carried. "I see," he murmured, his voice like the softest roll of thunder. And then, after a long pause, he took your hands in his, his grip steady, unshaken. "You are afraid I will turn from you?" He exhaled slowly, as if the thought alone was offensive. "Beloved, you insult me."

- It was not pity in his gaze—it was understanding. Wakanda had spent centuries fighting against the world’s judgment, against the fear and greed that sought to tear it apart. He had felt the weight of being seen as other, as a threat. And so, his response was not outrage, not shock, but something far more powerful. Acceptance.

- And the world listened. When leaders spoke of mutant registration, of control, of suppression, they found their words met with the unwavering will of the Black Panther. "Wakanda will not stand with cowards," he declared, his voice carrying across the United Nations floor like the strike of a war drum. "You speak of protecting humanity, yet you wield fear as a weapon. We have seen this before. We have lived it. And we will not allow history to repeat itself."

- But when it was just the two of you, when the weight of kingship faded and it was simply T’Challa, he was nothing but gentle. He pulled you close, his lips tracing the curve of your shoulder, his voice a low, steady murmur. "You are my heart," he whispered against your skin. "And my heart does not fear."

Elektra Natchios

- Elektra had always been a blade honed to perfection—silent, deadly, unforgiving. You had never known if her love was something sharp or something soft, had never been certain if you were an exception or just another inevitable loss waiting to happen. And so, when you told her, when you let your secret slip between breaths, you braced yourself for the cut.

- But Elektra did not flinch. Did not look at you with fear, or pity, or hesitation. Instead, she tilted her head, assessing you with the same cold precision she reserved for the battlefield. And then, after a long, heavy silence, she smirked. "You thought I would care?" she mused, her voice like silk over steel. "Darling, I’ve murdered kings. I’ve torn empires apart with my own hands. Do you think something as small as genetics could change how I see you?"

- After that, she became merciless with those who sought to harm you. The Hand, the government, the cowards who whispered venom against mutants—none of them were safe. When a senator proposed a bill to restrict mutant rights, he disappeared. When a crime syndicate funneled money into anti-mutant propaganda, their bodies were found in the river, their throats slit with precision. Elektra did not argue with bigots. She ended them.

- But in the quiet, when the blood was washed from her hands, she was something else. She traced the line of your jaw with a touch that was almost reverent, as if memorizing the shape of you. "They will never touch you," she promised one night, her voice a whisper against your lips. "Not while I still breathe." And you knew, with bone-deep certainty, that she meant it.

- Because Elektra’s love was not gentle. It was not tender. It was a promise carved in blood and steel. And it was yours.

Muse

- Telling Muse was like spilling ink into water—unpredictable, shifting, impossible to contain. He stared at you for a long moment, his head tilting in that unnatural way of his, as if dissecting your words, peeling them apart layer by layer. And then, he laughed. Not cruelly. Not mockingly. But with something like delight.

- "You think I would care?" he mused, his voice thick with amusement, with something almost manic. "Darling, normal is boring." He leaned closer then, his breath warm against your ear. "But you? You’re art."

- After that, the world became a canvas. The walls of Hell’s Kitchen bled with murals of your face, with paintings that whispered of something divine. He did not defend you with words—he did not care for words. Instead, he let the city see you the way he saw you. Mutant? Human? It didn’t matter. You were beautiful.

- And when someone dared to insult you, when they let their fear curl into something ugly, Muse did not argue. He simply disappeared for a night. And when he returned, there was red on his hands, on his lips, staining his teeth like war paint.

- But in the quiet, when the madness faded, he was just Muse. Just the man who traced shapes into your skin, who whispered things that made your breath catch. "You are my greatest masterpiece," he murmured, his fingers ghosting over your pulse. And you knew, with absolute certainty, that he meant it.

Victor von Doom (Dr. Doom)

- You told him in a whisper, in the shadowed halls of Latveria’s castle, your voice barely more than a breath. Doom had never been a man to suffer surprises, and you knew—knew—how he viewed the world. His vision was absolute, his standards uncompromising. You had braced yourself for fury, for cold dismissal, for a sharp-edged rejection that would carve itself into your bones. But when the words left your lips, Victor merely turned his head, his green cloak billowing behind him as he regarded you in silence.

- His mask gave away nothing, but his voice, when he finally spoke, was steady. "You believe Doom would be swayed by such trivialities?" There was no outrage. No scorn. Only the weight of certainty. "You are mine. That has not changed." And just like that, your fear seemed foolish. Doom had never cared for the prejudices of lesser men—why would he start now?

- But what did change was how the world suffered for its ignorance. The moment the anti-mutant hysteria reached Latveria’s borders, it was met with swift, merciless retribution. "Mutants are under my protection," he declared, standing before the United Nations, his voice like the strike of a hammer. "Those who threaten them threaten Doom. And Doom does not forgive." Countries that passed anti-mutant laws found their infrastructure failing overnight, their leaders waking to nightmares of iron gauntlets closing around their throats.

- Doom did not merely defend you—he reshaped reality itself to ensure that no hand dared rise against you again. When a coalition of world leaders tried to enforce mutant registration, their satellites fell from the sky, their wealth turned to ash. "They will learn," he murmured, his fingers ghosting over your cheek, "or they will burn."

- But in the quiet, when the weight of sovereignty slipped from his shoulders, Victor held you differently. He traced the line of your jaw with ungloved hands, his voice no longer the decree of a ruler, but the murmur of a man. "You are beyond them," he told you one night, his lips ghosting over yours. "And Doom does not bow to the small-minded."

Peter Quill (Star-Lord)

- The moment the words left your mouth, Peter blinked, his brows furrowing like he had misheard you. "Wait—hold up. That’s what’s been eating you?" He let out a breathless, incredulous laugh, raking a hand through his hair. "Babe, I thought you were gonna tell me you had, like, a killer ex or some galactic bounty on your head."

- He took your hands then, squeezing them with the kind of reckless, unwavering devotion that only Peter Quill could offer. "I don’t care about that mutant stuff, okay? You’re you. That’s what matters." And just like that, the weight on your chest vanished. Because Peter—sweet, ridiculous, infuriating Peter—had never cared about things like labels. You were his. That was the only thing that mattered.

- But when the galaxy did care, when the whispers of mutant hatred spread beyond Earth, Peter changed. Gone was the easygoing smuggler, the charming rogue. In his place was the son of a warlord, a man who had seen entire planets fall to fear. "You wanna go after mutants?" he snarled at a Kree ambassador who dared to suggest mutant containment. "Lemme tell you something, pal—mutants don’t need protecting from people like you. You need protecting from them."

- The Guardians became your fiercest defenders. Rocket rigged explosives to anti-mutant ships, Drax openly challenged bigots to duels (none survived), and Gamora—gods, Gamora—made sure that the universe learned a very simple lesson: you do not come for what belongs to the Guardians of the Galaxy.

- But when it was just you and Peter, when the weight of the cosmos faded, he was still the same dork who danced with you in the cockpit, who pressed forehead kisses against your skin, who whispered, "You’re my favorite person in the whole galaxy." And you believed him.

Richard Rider (Nova)

- Rich had always been a man caught between two worlds—human and cosmic, soldier and survivor. You knew, deep down, that he understood what it was to be other, to be shaped by forces beyond his control. And yet, when you finally told him the truth, you still braced for the worst.

- He just stared at you. Not in shock. Not in horror. Just… processing. And then, after what felt like eternity, he exhaled and scrubbed a hand over his face. "Jesus, babe, I thought you were gonna tell me something bad." He let out a shaky laugh, shaking his head. "I don’t give a damn about that. You think being a mutant makes you different? I’ve been half-space-god since I was a teenager. You’re nothing compared to the weird crap I’ve seen."

- But when Earth made it clear that it did care, when mutants were hunted and vilified, Rich stepped up. Hard. The Nova Corps had always been neutral, but Rich? Rich was not. He tore through fleets of Sentinels, shut down space stations funding anti-mutant research, and made sure the Shi’ar never forgot what happened when they overstepped. "Mutants are under my protection," he declared, his voice carrying through the void. "Come for them, and you answer to Nova Prime."

- And when the anti-mutant rhetoric reached Earth, when humans whispered about control and containment, Rich snapped. "You people don’t get it, do you?" he spat during a live broadcast, his helmet in his hands, his blue eyes furious. "The universe is full of things that would eat you alive. And you’re wasting your time fighting mutants? Jesus Christ, you people never learn."

- But when it was just you and him, when the war was distant and the stars were quiet, he pulled you into his arms and pressed a lingering kiss against your temple. "You’re my whole damn universe," he murmured, his voice thick with exhaustion, with love. "And I’m never letting anything happen to you."

[materia-girl88]

Lakeside Lovers

18+, minors dni

Graphic smut

You're on a walk with Bucky after celebrating a successful mission, outdoor shenanigans ensue.

•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

You were never going to wear heels again, dammit.

Your feet throbbed painfully as you walked down the little dirt path behind the restaurant, your hand clasped in a larger, warmer palm.

"You okay, doll?" an amused chuckle came from your fiance.

Bucky had suggested taking a walk after you had gone out to dinner to celebrate yet another successful mission with the Avengers.

It had been a year since the battle between Steve and Tony happened and it had taken some time, but thankfully the team was able to flesh out all their issues.

The same could surprisingly also be said about the conflict with Tony and Bucky, once Tony finally accepted that Bucky had no control over his actions that led to the death of his parents. They were actually on decent terms, almost friends.

"I'm okay, Buck," you said, smiling over at him, refusing to give in to the ache that the black pumps you were wearing gave you. You wanted to look nice for him.

But unfortunately, Bucky know you like the back of his hand.

"Take your shoes off. I can tell they're bothering you. I'll carry them," Bucky offered, but you refused.

"I'm fine, seriously babe. Don't worry." a reassuring squeeze was given to him.

Between work and daily duties, you never really had an opportunity to dress up, and didn't know when you'd get to again.

Bucky cast a doubtful look but gave a, "Suit yourself," before you continued on.

It was a pretty night, the moonlight the only guide on your walk, and surprisingly there was nobody out there with you both.

There was a little lake with a small pier you both wanted to go to, and you knew it was only a bit further before you could sit and dip your feet in the water.

But when your ankle wobbled again a moment later, Bucky sighed.

"That's it," he huffed, before he quickly bent down and scooped you up, throwing you over his shoulder in a fireman hold.

"Bucky!" you squealed in surprise, fingers clutching his jacket.

You never would be used to his lighting quick reflexes.

"James Buchanan Barnes, put me down!" you said, squirming to try and free yourself, but a firm *slap* to your ass caused you to go quiet as you sucked in a breath.

Oh..

Bucky laughed as he carried you for a moment before he stopped.

There were a few benches by the lake, and he soon set you down on one before kneeling in front of you.

"I'm not gonna let you hurt yourself," he said, grabbing one of your ankles and pulling the heel off, carelessly throwing it behind him.

You protested, but he paid no mind as he did the same with the other one, before locking his arms around your thighs and pulling you to sit at the edge of the bench.

His lips landed on your left knee, left exposed by the short fabric of your dark green dress.

"You look beautiful all the time. And I don't want you in pain." he said, blue eyes looking up through long lashes.

Your heart swelled as it did every time he showed you care. You loved this man with your entire being.

Your fingers began to run through his hair, nails scratching at his scalp.

"I love you, Bucky," you said softly, and he grinned, before landing another kiss to your opposite knee.

"I love you too, doll. And since we're alone, maybe I can show you how much," he said, hands playing with the hem of your dress.

Your eyes were wide. You both were adventurous when it came to sex, but you had never done anything in public before.

Oh well. First time for everything.

"Come here," you said, pulling him to sit on the bench by you, your bodies turned to face each other.

You leaned in and wasted no time in kissing him, the whiskey from dinner still sweet on his lips.

The air was warm and the only sounds around you were the sounds of nature, crickets chirping while the water of the lake lapped at the shore.

It was honestly romantic, and you feel your need for him growing.

Your hands, which had started on his shoulders, soon began to trail down over the soft gray shirt he wore under his black blazer jacket.

It wasn't long before you hit the leather of his belt, and he rumbled against your lips as you began to undo it, the buckle clinking.

"I want to taste you, baby" you whispered against his lips, hand finding and undoing his button and zipper before dipping inside, feeling his hard length beneath the fabric of his underwear.

A grunt escaped him as you cupped him.

"Never gonna say no to that," he joked, causing a laugh to escape as you pulled him out, exposing his cock to the night air.

You never would stop being astounded at his size, and you always secretly wondered if the super soldier serum made...other parts superior as well.

You began stroking him, your thumb swiping at his tip now and again to spread the small head of precum, and Bucky's head leaned back, unable to handle the feeling.

That just gave you easy access, and you quickly leaned in, latching your lips to his neck to leave soft kisses, sucking at the crease where his neck met his shoulder before continuing down, down over his muscular torso and down to where he was exposed.

"Fucking hell," he growled as you let your tongue peek out to lick at him.

His hand came to rest on your back where you were bent over kneeling on the bench, and his breathing quickened as you hollowed your cheeks around his dick, sucking at the tip the way you knew he liked.

You could never get enough of his taste. You never really enjoyed giving head with previous partners, but you couldn't get enough of it with Bucky. You craved it sometimes, to be honest.

"Do you like it?" you pull away to ask, grinning up at his flushed cheeks as you let your tongue come out to play against the notch under his tip.

It caused his hips to jolt and he fisted the fabric of your dress, "You know I do," he huffed, his hand pulling the dress up from the back to expose your black thong. You don't usually go for this kind of underwear but you didn't want panty lines to show through the dress.

He certainly wasn't complaining as his hand came down to roam over your ass cheeks, jaw clenching as you got back to work on his cock, head bobbing as he began to play with you.

He grabbed the thin strap of the thong and moved it aside, causing you to let out a hum of anticipation around him as his warm fingers found your soaking slit from behind.

He ran his fingers up and down, up and down for a moment, cursing at how wet you were already.

A finger sunk in just a bit, causing you to shudder as he said, "I fucking love how easy you get wet for me, doll. You're such a good fucking girl."

The finger left, having just gathered some of the wetness and continued it's journey to where your clit was throbbing.

You couldn't help the moan you let out around him as he circled it, and the vibrations caused his thighs to tense.

The both of you continued, the only sounds besides nature being both of your staggering breaths and the sound of slick flesh.

Before too long though, Bucky couldn't take anymore, and he tangled the fingers of his free hand in your hair to pull you away, his other one three fingers deep in your cunt, his thumb continuing to strum at the little nub.

"I need to fuck you before I come, baby." he said breathlessly.

You nodded as you rose to your knees, dress still around your waist and thong pushed over.

He helped you climb onto his lap, hands gripping your hips with bruising strength, and you knew the next morning you would have his fingerprints on you.

You loved it.

Your arms slid to wrap around his neck as you leaned in to kiss him, both of you exchanging breaths as you began to sink down on him.

You had to go slow so you could adjust to his size, but before long, neither of you could stand it anymore.

His hands controlled the movement of your hips, his coming up to meet you as he fucked into you from below.

"Bucky, please," you whined, thighs shaking as you let him have full control.

Your head began to tilt back, the action causing you to push the breasts into his face.

He took the invitation, one hand leaving to pull the straps of your dress down, taking the top with it and exposing your breasts to the air, nipples perked and waiting for the lips that descended on them.

He loved your breasts, and never left them out any time you both were intimate.

His lips wrapped around one nipple as he fucked you, and you could help the small exhalations of "ah, ah, ah" that left you with each bout of stimulation you received.

Nobody had ever been able to please you like Bucky had, and he reveled in it.

Soon, you were both nearly at your end, Bucky's muscles wound up tight and you were moaning uncontrollably, head still tilted back as your fingers were tangled in his hand.

But there was one thing he needed before you finished.

His hand, the metal one, gently grasped your jaw, pulling you to make eye contact with him.

As soon as you gazes locked on each other, you came, shuddering with a moan as your pupils expanded, tears welling in your eyes at the pleasure.

Bucky couldn't take it anymore, and the wooden bench creaked beneath you both as he fucked into you, shivers of overstimulation wracking your body, before he came. You felt the flooding of his warmth in you, and you sighed in relief, leaning down to kiss him.

Moments passed as he softened within you, and you pulled away from his lips, leaning to rest your forehead against his shoulder as you both caught your breath.

"Well, shit," you said, voice a bit hoarse, "that's one hell of a way to celebrate a successful mission."

Bucky couldn't help but laugh. He didn't know what he did to deserve you. But he did know one thing.

He would never let you go.

[saphiccarma]

Four Times Natasha carries you and one time you asked.

Summary - Natasha liked to flex by picking you up, however you don't often enjoy it.

Words: 3K

Warnings - Maybe a little sexual implications, but not really. Nightmares.

You inhaled a sharp breath, smoke filling your lungs as you ran through the building. Damn Hydra. Damn bombs. Heat burned on the walls around you, searing into your skin and bringing a hot flush to your face. Your legs burned as you searched for your team. Hand coming up to your com, you tried to get contact with any of them. All that came was static.

A piece of wood fell down in front of you, a rafter snapped in half by the flames. You jumped back, searching around for another exit. The fire pushed behind you and from the right, engulfing everything in its path. You glanced at the left, spying a window that was still shut. That would do.

The fire crept closer as you fiddled with the latch on the door. Your hands slipped several times, shaking with anxiety. Eventually, you managed to still your fingers enough to slide the lock and push the window up. Your back burned, the fire pushing ever closer.

Cautiously, you glanced at the window, gauging the drop. It was a good ten feet, and yet it was your only option. If only you had a suit like Tony.

Placing one foot on the ledge, and ducking your head underneath, you balanced precariously on the ledge. You took a deep breath, smoke filling your lungs once more, and shook out your hand that wasn't desperately clutching the edge. Slowly, you placed both hands on the ledge and lowered your legs and body down. It would lessen the height you would have to fall. The fire started lapping at your fingertips. You released the edge.

The impact shook you as you landed and dived into a roll, your shoulders aching from the force. You winced, your ankles burning and right shin absolutely covered in stinging pain, like needles piercing you through the bone.

A muffled cry escaped your mouth as your eyes watered. Smoke drifted into the sky above you as it escaped through the window you left open, the fire had mostly swallowed the building whole by now.

Hydra had sent the Avengers on a wild goose chase, leaving trails of evidence to a building in the middle of no where. You, Steve and Natasha were sent to investigate, and when you were sweeping the building, a small bomb was set off downstairs, igniting a fire that trapped you in the upper floor.

Natasha rounded the corner, having heard you hit the ground. She rushed over to you, kneeling next to you and gently taking you face into her hands - her gentle, calloused, hands. She examined your face, taking in the layer of soot that coated you, and your flushed cheeks that were slightly visible. With a soft look in her eyes, she placed a tender kiss on your lips.

"Did you jump?" she asked, her tone conveying frustration.

"Yeah," you mumbled, afraid she was upset at you.

Natasha muttered something in Russian, scooting towards your legs to carefully examine them. Nothing appeared wrong with them, but when she gently tried to move your right leg, you winced and flinched away. She pursed her lips, staring at your legs contemplatively,

You looked around, noticing that Steve wasn't around, "Where's Steve?"

Looking up Natasha met your eyes once more, "He's getting the jet."

You nodded, before firmly pressing your palms into the ground. Before you could push upwards to try and stand, Natasha shoved you down.

"What are you doing?" she questioned, tone just slightly angry at you now.

"Standing." you answered bluntly.

Natasha shook her head firmly, red hair brushing against her cheeks and wiping away some of the soot that coated them. You looked at her curiously as she moved to a crouching position.

"What are you doing?" you repeated her earlier question.

She didn't answer, but a small smirk crossed her lips as she placed an arm underneath you knees and another to support your back. In one smooth movement, she lifted you up. A shriek escaped your mouth as you struggled.

"Stop struggling," she ordered, "I'm going to drop you."

"Good," you glared up at her, "I can walk."

Natasha scoffed as she started walking away from the burning building, "No you cannot."

You pouted, but nestled your head onto her shoulder. A smirk formed on you mouth as you got an idea. Leaning in a little bit, you pressed a kiss to Natasha's neck. She sucked in a sharp breath, but kept her gaze straight ahead. Smiling to yourself, you gently bit at the same spot, before placing a soft kiss there.

Natasha glared down at you, her emerald eyes containing a silent warning. You grinned up at her innocently.

"Stop that," she adjusted you in her arms, "Wait 'till we get home."

There was a certain glint in her eyes when she said that and you felt a hot blush cross your cheeks, causing a soft laugh to rumble in her chest.

^______________________^

You sat on the couch, gently munching on some popcorn. Natasha's arm sat around your shoulders, holding you close as you rested on the spot between her jaw and collarbone. A movie played on the large screen TV, a horror movie. Damn Natasha.

The two of you had gotten into a playful argument earlier. It started with you talking with Bucky about movies, before he made a teasing remark about your jumping habit during scary movies. You scoffed, refuting the statement. Natasha chose that moment to chime in, her shirt hanging off her shoulder from when she just woke up, and said you really were scared. With a soft blush you denied the statement.

Hence your current predicament as you sat on the couch in Natasha's floor. Her head turned, a kiss pressed onto the top of your head.

"You scared yet, Dekta?" she asked, her hot breath fanning against your face.

"No," you mumbled.

And yet your body pressed further into her as suspense build and the music increased. Your hand fell out of the popcorn bowl and was now tightly clutching the fluffy blanket draped across the two of you.

"Are you sure?" she questioned again, and you could feel her eyes burning into the top of your head.

"Y-yeah."

The main character rounded the corner. The music went silent as the killer popped around the corner, knife in hand. The main character screamed as you jumped, a full body flinched. Your face burned as you heard Natasha's amused laugh.

She pressed another kiss to the top of your head, pulling you closer, "You sure you're not scared?"

You pouted, a soft whine escaping your lips.

Another laugh escaped her, "Come here, dekta." She pulled you into her lap, securing her arms around you and pulling you against her chest.

"Hey!" You protested, despite the fact that you loved it, "I'm not a baby."

"Mhm," Natasha hummed, unconvinced.

"I'm not scared," you muttered.

Natasha ignored you, instead just pulling you closer into her chest as she hummed in content. The movie continued to play, and wrapped in Natasha's protective, if not teasing, embrace, you fell asleep. Natasha sighed lovingly and picked you up bridal style. Even asleep, you sighed happily and snuggled into her chest as she carried you to your room.

^______________________^

To celebrate his birthday, Tony decided to throw a party. He ordered everyone to show up and dress nice, with a particular glare towards you as you tended to dress casual to nice events. It wasn't your fault fancy clothes were uncomfortable.

However, this time as you moved to pull on your favorite pair of tight jeans, Natasha sauntered into your room, a dress in hand. Her green eyes roamed over you, a spark of interest in them. A smirk formed on her face as she walked over to you - still wearing nothing but undergarments.

"As much as I like seeing like this," she began, placing a chaste kiss on the corner of your mouth, "I brought you some clothes."

You blushed at her words, a fire creeping up your neck and the tips of your ears. A beautiful laugh came from Natasha as she pushed a dress to your front.

"Put it on."

You scowled, glaring down at her. You were just a bit taller than Natasha. She looked back up at you with an expected eyebrow, perfectly manicured as always. When she first walked in, you were too flustered by your near naked state to notice her attire.

She wore a white blouse with puffy sleeves that silver buttons going down the center. Her blouse was tucked into a pair of flowy black dress pants. The black and white outfit brought out her red lipstick, not too bright and yet stunning all the same, and her emerald eyes that always seemed to sparkle.

Once again, Natasha smirked at you, giving you a small kiss before pushing you a little, "Go get dressed."

Scowling, you marched towards the bathroom, grasping the dress in your hand. You shut the door with a final glare at Natasha, who was still smirking at you. For a moment, you fumbled to get the dress on, but once you did, you saw why Natasha chose this dress.

It was a dress that fell just to your shins, with a slit going nearly to the top of your right thigh. While you normally thought red didn't work on you, this dress did. You stared at yourself in the mirror, wondering if this dress truly worked on you. Natasha was normally the one who wore dresses and dressed up in this relationship, but she seemed to want to swap it around for once. With a deep sigh, you exited the bathroom.

Natahsa grinned, a radiant smile that you loved.

"You look beautiful," she grinned, taking your hand and dragging you towards the party.

That was how you ended up where you were now, in a drinking contest with Bucky. It was a stupid decision, you knew that, and based on the way Natasha rolled her eyes affectionately, she thought so too. But Tony bet you twenty bucks, so you really had no choice.

Bucky had downed at least ten drinks by now, and you had probably done the same. Your head swam and your words were slurred. As you downed a shot, you felt a an arm on your shoulder.

"I have a girlfriend," you slurred, turning to attempt to glare at the person.

The woman, with bright red hair and sparkling emerald eyes smiled softly at you, "I am your girlfriend."

You gasped, really?? She was the most stunning woman ever.

"Really?" you squealed, "You're so pretty." The last word was drawn out was you fell into her arms to make a sloppy hug.

She laughed, her chest rumbling as she held you up.

"Let's get you to bed."

"Noo," you whined, trying to shove away from her, but she held you tight, "I'm busy."

She shook her head with amusement but said nothing. Rather she scooped you up bridal style, placing a small kiss to your forehead.

"Goodnight Bucky."

"Night, Natasha."

The super soldier wasn't nearly as wasted as you. You squirmed in Natasha's hold with a whine. She shushed you, pulling you closer with orders to stop squirming. Pouting, you snuggled into her chest with a sigh of content. She was cozy.

"You're cozy," you mumbled.

Her chest shook as she laughed softly, smiling down on you as she stepped into the elevator.

You looked up at her, taking in her perfect cheekbones, the way her lips curved into a soft smile. Her red hair was wavy and shoulder length, touching the top of your head. Green eyes, the color of a forest, which had always shone when she smiled, stared down at you with adoration. She looked like an angel.

"You're so pretty," you offered her a toothy grin, "You're like an angel."

She laughed again, placing a soft kiss to your head, "Let's get you to bed."

^______________________^

You made sure to keep your footsteps soft as you crept towards your prey. The hallways were dark as you hefted your weapon, careful to keep your breathing even. There were no comns on this mission, leaving without backup for when you inevitably needed it.

Your heart thudded in her chest as you rounded the corner, taking in the dim room. Above you, the light was turned all the way down, casting a faint light as a show played quietly on the TV - forgotten for the sake of the mission.

Looking around, you searched for your prey. Your prey was your hunter all bundled into one.

A shriek escaped you as a pillow came into contact with your head. You ran with the motion, spinning around and swinging your own pillow at Natasha. The widow ducked. She smirked up at you and you ran, rounding the couch before frantically facing her.

The two of you did the classic dance around the couch. With her, approaching one side, and you moving in the opposite direction.

Natasha smirked, "Apologize." She ordered.

You gulped, brushing stray hair out of your eyes. Recently, she had been searching for her favorite hoodie, and when it turned out to be in your closet after you denied having it, Natasha was furious.

"I didn't know it was in my closet!" That was the closest you would get to pleading for mercy, but you would never apologize.

Natasha narrowed her eyes at you. It took you a moment to realize what she was thinking, and by the time you did, it was too late. She bolted around the couch, pouncing on you and tackling you to the floor. You fell with a thump, and she pinned you down.

You struggled, which in hindsight was useless, she was always stronger than you. Your wrists were pinned above your head and her legs were sat on either side of your waist. A faint blush appeared on your cheeks, only deepening her smirk.

"Apologize," she demanded once more.

Even though you knew you had lost, you shook your head. Natasha's grin should have been warning enough, but she dug her fingers into your side. Giggling, you tried to shove her hand away. She tickled your sides relentlessly, not letting up even as you begged for her to stop.

"Nat please!" you gasped, grasping at her wrists.

"Apologize." She paused for a moment, staring at you expectantly.

You pouted, looking up at you with pleading eyes. Natasha heaved a sigh, feigning annoyance, before digging her fingers into your sides once more. You squirmed, giggling.

"I'm sorry!" you shrieked between laughs, "Sorry!"

Natasha stopped, satisfied. She climbed off you after giving you a kiss. Holding her hand out to help you up, Natasha grinned victoriously.

"Come on," she said, "We have to get ready for dinner with Wanda and Vision."

You groaned dramatically, placing a hand on your chest and pretending to die.

"No," you moaned, "Just leave me here! I'm too weak to go on."

Natasha scoffed, "Get up."

You didn't respond, shutting your eyes and sticking your tongue out in a dramatic imitation of death. Then suddenly, you felt hands under your armpits and your eyes shot open. Natasha hefted you over her shoulder, ignoring your squirming and smacked your ass gently.

You shrieked, but giggled, nonetheless.

^______________________^

Natasha had nightmares; it was hard not to. While she had hers, you also had yours. Natasha tended to be silent, back rigid and muscles tense during her nightmares. You, however, fought. Thrashing and sometimes screaming.

Natasha was woken up by a solid thump on her back.

"Baby?" she whispered, turning around with bleary eyes.

Your legs were thrashing about as the blanket fell to the floor, sweat coating your face and dripping down your neck. Natasha took a sharp breath.

"Y/N," she said, harshly - it was the only way to get you to wake up, "Y/N"

Your fist flew out, nearly hitting her in the face. Carefully thinking about her movements, Natasha jumped to pin your arms down, her heart breaking when you whimpered and cowered away. She held your arms down on the mattress so you couldn't hit her and avoided your legs flailing about. She blew some air in your face, and for some reason that worked. It always worked for some weird reason.

Eyes snapping open, you jerked away from Natasha, scuttling towards the head of the bed to curl into a ball. Your breaths were coming in heavy, and Natasha wanted nothing more than to wrap you in her arms and keep you safe, but she didn't know if you wanted that.

Frantically, you looked around the room, hands shaking. After a moment your eyes landed on her. A sob burst from your throat, and you launched yourself towards her, clinging to her and sobbing. You buried your head in the crook of her neck and wrapped your arms around her. Natasha smoothed down your hair, which had gotten wild during your nightmare. She pressed a gentle kiss to your head.

"You're okay!" you sobbed, breaths sharp and uneven, "You- you were dead! I saw it and I-"

"Hey," Natasha cut you off, planting another kiss on your head, "Look at me."

She cupped your face with her hands, pulling you away and forcing you to look at her. Your eyes were puffy, and your nose was red. You sniffled, leaning into her touch with a sigh.

"I'm okay," she muttered, tracing your cheekbones with her thumbs, "I'm okay and it was dream."

You sniffled once more, "Can you make me hot cocoa?"

Her heart broke at your fragile tone and how little you sounded.

"Of course."

Natasha got up to move, ready to set you down on the bed, but you clung tighter to her. Letting out a soft laugh Natasha looked down at you.

"You have to let me go, baby," she said softly.

"Carry me?" You pouted out your lower lip and peered up at her with wide, teary eyes.

Natasha sighed but picked you up as you wrapped your legs around her waist. She carried you to the kitchen on the floor.

"I love you," you whispered.

"I love you too."

[just-aake]

Be With You Again

Pairing: Natasha Romanoff x fem!reader

Summary: The only thing Natasha wants is to be with you again.

Warnings: light fluff, angst, blood, death

Words: 2260

“Natasha…you have to go.”

Natasha's eyes snap open, her breath catching as the echo of the voice reverberates in her mind.

The weight of devastation clings to her chest, her heart pounding with the remnants of something dark, something lost.

A dream. No. A nightmare. 

One where she had lost you. 

Her head whips to the side, panic flaring in her gaze until she finds you beside her. The tension in her body eases slightly at the sight of you lying on your side, your face soft with sleep, your breathing steady. 

Then, as if sensing her distress, your eyes flutter open, locking onto hers. 

A small smile appears on your lips, but it fades as you take in her shaken expression.

Gently, you reach up, your warm palm cupping her cheek. Your thumb brushes away the tear she hadn’t even realized had fallen.

“Bad dream?” you ask softly.

Natasha swallows and places her hand over yours, grounding herself in the warmth of your touch, the reality of you. Solid. Here. Hers. 

She closes her eyes briefly, breathing you in, feeling her heart begin to steady.

“Terrible,” she admits, turning her head to press a kiss against your palm.

Your fingers move gently in comfort as you cradle her face.

“What was it about?”

Natasha hesitates. 

The memory of the dream flickers in her mind—chaos, destruction, blood-red painting the world around her. 

And then the worst part. 

The part that had ripped her apart from the inside out.

“You left me,” she whispers, her grip tightening over your hand as if you might disappear if she lets go.

A soft, incredulous chuckle escapes you. Shifting closer, you rest your forehead against hers, your breath warm against her lips.

“That’s not going to happen,” you promise, voice steady and sure. Your fingers trail down her jaw, tracing the delicate lines of her face as if etching them into memory.

Then, in a voice barely above a whisper, you ask, “You wanna know why?”

Natasha’s breath hitches before her voice mutters out in a plea. 

“Tell me.”

You give her a small smile before you answer.

“There’s nowhere I’d rather be than next to you, Natasha.” 

Your words melt into the space between you, and before she can respond, you close the distance, pressing a soft, lingering kiss against her lips.

She sighs into it, her fingers slipping behind your neck to pull you closer. 

The fear, the nightmare, the lingering chill of loss—all of it fades as she drowns in the warmth of you.

Her body moves without thought, shifting above you, deepening the kiss. You part your lips in response, a small gasp escaping, and Natasha swallows it greedily.

When she finally pulls back, your eyes are filled with the same tenderness, the same unwavering love that always leaves her breathless.

She watches you, as if committing you to memory, to certainty.

“Let’s just stay here,” Natasha murmurs, brushing a featherlight kiss against your lips, the plea evident in her tone. “Stay with me.”

You smile—a soft, knowing one—before cupping her cheek once more. 

“As tempting as it is to lay in bed with you all day,” you tease, amusement lacing your voice, “we did promise Tony we’d be at his party later.”

Natasha groans dramatically, dropping her head onto your shoulder, making you laugh. She feels the vibration of your amusement against her skin and finds herself smiling despite her reluctance.

With a playful shove, you slip from beneath her, standing from the bed. You glance over your shoulder, mischief dancing in your eyes. 

“But,” you add, voice lilting with invitation, “you’re welcome to join me in the shower and help me get ready.”

You don’t wait for her response as you saunter towards the bathroom, knowing full well she’ll follow.

Natasha huffs in amusement, shaking her head lightly before moving to get up—

And then it happens.

A wave of dizziness crashes over her, forcing her to pause. She reaches up, pinching the bridge of her nose, eyes squeezing shut.

A strange, suffocating sense of familiarity washes over her.

Like she’s done this before. Like she’s lived this moment before.

A voice cuts through the haze.

“Are you ready?”

Natasha’s eyes snap open, and her breath catches in her throat.

The bedroom is gone.

She’s standing to the side of a grand ballroom, dressed in elegant attire. The air buzzes with lively conversation, the glow of chandeliers reflecting off the champagne glasses being passed around by waiters.

When did she get here?

Her gaze snaps to the person beside her.

“What did you say?” she asks, voice slightly unsteady.

Clint cocks an eyebrow, an amused smirk tugging at his lips. 

“You must really be nervous,” he observes, clapping a reassuring hand on her shoulder. “Don’t worry, Nat. You planned this moment perfectly. Everything’s going to be fine. It’s not like you forgot the ring or anything.”

Clint chuckles—but then pauses, eyes narrowing slightly.

“You didn’t forget the ring, right?”

Natasha blinks, her hand instinctively brushing against her side, feeling the small, circular indentation of the ring hidden within her pocket.

The moment her fingers make contact, a flash of red-stain hands passes within her mind, the band on the ring finger also stained with the crimson color.

Before she can make sense of it, you appear beside her, effortlessly slipping your arm through hers and pulling her out of her thoughts.

“What trouble are you two plotting now?” you tease, your voice light, familiar, grounding.

Natasha’s shoulders relax slightly at your touch. Relief floods her as she takes in the sight of you—beautiful, radiant, looking at her with that same adoring expression. 

She remembers now.

Tony’s party. Or rather, the party the team had actually planned as a surprise celebration for you, marking the anniversary of the day you joined the team. 

The day Natasha met the love of her life. 

When she doesn’t respond for a while, you tilt your head slightly, eyes scanning her face, searching.

“Everything okay?”

Natasha hesitates.

The unease hasn’t fully faded. It lingers at the edge of her consciousness like a shadow just out of reach, something intangible yet persistent.

There’s something wrong—something she can’t quite put her finger on.

But then she looks at you again. Sees the warmth in your eyes, the easy trust you place in her. The way you smile—so soft, so certain.

The fear, the doubt—it quiets, retreating to the recesses of her mind.

“I think so,” she murmurs, giving your hand a gentle squeeze.

“Good,” you grin, your fingers lacing more firmly through hers before tugging her playfully toward the middle of the ballroom. “Because you owe me a dance.”

A huff of breath escapes her, something close to a laugh, and she allows herself to be pulled along. 

Your hands settle around her shoulders, firm yet comforting, while Natasha’s fingers find their place at your waist, pulling you just a little closer as the two of you sway to the slow, delicate rhythm of the music.

After a moment, your head comes to rest against her shoulder, fitting so naturally as if it belongs there. 

And Natasha instinctively leans into you, soaking in your warmth and scent that she’s long since committed to memory. 

It should feel perfect. It should feel safe.

But a nagging thought tugs at the back of her mind, elusive yet insistent. 

Her fingers twitch where they rest against your back, her body tensing just slightly.

Why does this seem so familiar?

Her eyes scan the room, flickering over all the elegantly dressed guests, the soft golden light casting a dreamlike glow across the space. 

Everything appears normal. Nothing amiss. Nothing out of place.

“This wasn’t how you were acting back then.”

The words are a whisper, spoken so softly that at first, Natasha isn’t sure she heard them at all. 

But then her gaze snaps down to you, confusion flickering across her face as her mind struggles to grasp the meaning behind your words.

“What did you say?” she asks, voice quiet but firm.

You lift your head, meeting her gaze with a small smile before you shake your head lightly.

“Nothing,” you say, tilting your head slightly as if studying her, concern flickering across your features. Your hand lifts to cradle her face, thumb brushing softly against her cheek. “You just don’t seem happy right now.”

Natasha’s breath catches. Her fingers tighten against you instinctively as she clasps her hand over yours, pressing it to her cheek.

“I’m always happy when I’m with you,” she says, voice steady, but there’s a sharp ache in her chest, something raw and desperate beneath the surface. 

A need for you to understand. To never doubt how deeply she cares for you.

You offer her another small smile, one that’s filled with a fond tenderness and understanding.

“I know, Natasha,” you whisper, before leaning in to press a soft kiss to her lips.

It’s gentle, fleeting, and when you pull back, you wrap your arms around her in a hug, holding her close.

A tight, almost desperate embrace.

“You made me happy too,” you murmur against her hair.

The words sink into her like lead. Her brows furrow, unease tightening in her chest. 

Something isn’t right. 

She moves to pull back, to see your face, but before she can, your grip tightens.

“Let me hold you like this, Natasha,” you whisper, a quiet plea. “Please…just for a little while longer.”

Her frown deepens. The unease sharpens, cutting through the haze of warmth and comfort. 

But still, she grants your request, her arms circling you more firmly, one hand cradling the back of your head, the other holding you flush against her body.

She closes her eyes, willing herself to just exist in this moment with you. 

To hold onto this warmth, this happiness.

But then—

“Natasha…you have to go.” 

Her eyes snap open at the familiar echo from her dreams.

The world shifts. The golden light disappears. The ballroom fades. 

In its place, chaos erupts.

Smoke fills the air, thick and acrid. Flames flicker hungrily amidst crumbling debris, casting eerie shadows against broken walls. The ground beneath her is unsteady, trembling from the aftershocks of destruction.

And you—you are still with her.

But it’s different now.

Her arms are around you. One hand is cradling the back of your head, fingers tangled in blood-matted hair. The other supports your back, holding you against her, your weight heavy in her embrace.

Her breath catches as she sees the gray dust and dark red blood staining your once-pristine dress. Your hand rests atop her upper arm, weak and trembling, fingers coated in red that shouldn’t be yours.

A metal band, once gleaming, now dulled with grime and blood, catches the faint glow of firelight.

A cold, crushing dread washes over her.

“No,” Natasha breathes, barely more than a whisper, but it carries every ounce of raw, unfiltered terror within her. “No, no, no.”

She moves to pull back, to check on you, to—to fix this—but pain explodes through her body, more specifically her leg, sharp and blinding.

A choked gasp rips from her throat, her body trembling from the effort to stay upright.

“Natasha…” Your voice is barely a breath, your lips just beside her ear. “You need to go.”

“No,” she says again, more forcefully this time, shaking her head frantically. Her grip on you tightens as if holding you closer will somehow anchor you to this world. “No, I’m not leaving you.”

Footsteps approach. Hurried, desperate. Then a sharp inhale—a gasp of devastation.

Natasha turns to see who it is.

“Clint!” Natasha chokes out, her voice raw. “Help me get her up! We need to save her!”

But he stands frozen, horror carved into his face as he takes in the scene before him, taking in the extent of your wounds.

“Clint!” she screams this time, her entire body shaking as she clings to you. 

His jaw tightens, grief flickering behind his eyes as he silently acknowledges the truth she refuses to see.

Over her shoulder, you meet Clint’s gaze. And you shake your head—just barely.

His breath shudders, but he nods. Grim but resolute.

You press your face against Natasha’s shoulder, inhaling the scent of her one last time before whispering against her skin, voice fragile, broken.

“I would’ve loved being your wife.”

Natasha stiffens. Her breath catches, her eyes widening in shock as she turns back to you.

And then with the last of your strength, you push her away.

Clint moves swiftly, his arms wrapping around her waist as he drags her back. She thrashes, fights against him, but her injuries make her every attempt to escape weak. 

The building groans, another explosion rattling its foundation.

“Wait! No! Clint, we can’t leave her!” Natasha screams, her voice tearing through the chaos, raw and agonized.

But he’s already pulling her toward the exit. Away from you.

She calls your name, again and again, desperation woven into every syllable. 

But the last thing she sees before the darkness takes her is the same soft smile you always gave her since the moment she fell in love with you. 

Natasha jolts awake, gasping for breath, the remnants of the memory clinging to her like a vice. 

Her chest heaves, her heart pounding with the phantom weight of devastation and loss.

Tears slip freely down her face as she turns her head.

Only to find an empty space beside her.

A sob rips from her throat as she curls into herself, her body trembling, remembering that she lost you.

And all she wants is to be with you again.

~~~~~~~ ⧗ ~~~~~~~

a/n: thank you for reading! this was inspired from a request (though it doesn't exactly follow it 😅) and also inspired by the song "Die with a smile"

[ptergwen]

hiii

so this might me dirty but hear me out

It has gotten to me that mans come can meddle w the woman’s dna

so with this as an inspiration, and I know it’s kinda cliche but

stark!reader suddenly having spider senses or smh (not pregnancy)

oh and it’s for Tom Holland spider man

have an amazing dayy

a parker thing

ask box  |  taglist  |  blurb masterlist  |  main masterlist

w/c: 2,364

warnings: smut (p in v unprotected, lowkey dom!peter and reader), swearing

a/n: jump scare if you didn't see my post lmao i'm back y'all! i missed u guys and missed writing lots so i’ll be here from time to time again :) i had so much fun with this req thank you for the idea! much love to u all <3

you catch yourself dozing off and jerk your head up instinctively. one short, loud snore passes your lips as you do so, eyes opening wide. you blink your tired eyes a few times as you readjust to the harsh lighting.

ugh, you fell asleep in the lab, something you always chastise peter and your dad for doing. they're notorious for their long hours spent messing around with stark tech. you've lost count of how many times you've woken up to an empty spot in bed where your boyfriend should be, instead finding him fast asleep surrounded by cups of coffee and a delirious tony still on the grind.

tonight, you're the stark who's in the lab past their bedtime. you had the day to yourself and decided to use your free time to upgrade your suit. it had had a few hiccups during the team's last mission, so you wanted to work on it before the next one. what was supposed to be a few minor tweaks turned into a whole day of tweaking.

you scoff at yourself and wipe some drool that crusted onto your chin. oddly enough, you almost instantly refocus on the screen in front of you. it's been like this for most of the day. you're way more concentrated than usual for some reason, more aware. you figure it's because peter has been out on patrol and couldn't distract you.

"are you finished for the night, boss? you aren't usually here this late."

"i know, but i’m gonna stay a little longer. i’ll be done soon...i think."

friday dims the lights directly overhead so they aren't as harsh. you smile.

"thanks, fri."

you sit up in your seat, scooting in closer to the screen displaying your suit. you carefully look over the prototype and pick up a pen to write yourself some notes. when you go to put down the pen, it sticks to your palm. you shake your hand to try to get it off. it stays stuck.

"huh."

you use your other hand to pry the pen off of you.

"weird."

first you have heightened senses, now you're sticky. if you didn't have ordinary stark dna, you'd think you were part arachnid like peter.

you're not sure why, but you suddenly stand up and turn towards the main doors to the lab. they slide open a few seconds later. peter walks inside, spider suit on and mask off. he pads over to you with a soft smile.

"there you are. friday said i could find you down here."

peter pecks your lips and envelopes you in a hug. you sign contentedly, face nuzzled into his neck and arms winding around him.

"yeah, she's probably sick of me. i've been down here all day."

"you're really locked in, huh? how's the suit coming along?"

peter's fingers rub up and down your back ever so lightly. just the small touch practically sends shivers down your spine.

"good. fixed everything and double checked, then triple checked. started adding some new stuff, too."

"new features? like what?"

"you know the one i was telling you about..."

you trail off as peter's hands slide down to your ass. he pulls you in closer to himself, letting his hands rest there. you peek up at him, heart speeding up.

"go on, i’m listening."

peter gives your ass a gentle squeeze. it's an innocent gesture, really, but your senses are going crazy right now and you can't help but to get turned on. you always tease peter about how easily he's turned on. if this is what it feels like for him, now you understand.

"hm, i'm bored of talking about the suit. tell me about patrol."

"it was good! got a lot of action today. i mean, i guess that's not good 'cause that means there's more crime and stuff, but y'know. anyway..."

you stare at peter's lips, but don't listen to a word he's saying. it's the first time today you can't focus. he's pressed right up against you in his damned tight spider suit, and his hands are still on your ass, and you're so hypersensitive and hyper aware. all you can think about is how bad you need him.

"y/n? you okay?"

peter must have noticed you spacing out.

your gaze flicks between his eyes and lips before your own lips wordlessly capture his in a searing kiss. peter lets out a breathy chuckle, caught a bit off guard by your abruptness. he deepens the kiss for a moment, then pulls back with a look of amusement. you bite back a cheeky smile.

"horny."

peter's features form a smirk.

"i got you, baby."

he kisses you again. his tongue tangles with yours, a sigh passing your lips. peter lifts you up, grip becoming firmer on your ass. you wrap your legs around his waist. he kisses down your neck until he finds a spot he wants to mark. you tilt your head to the side so he has more access. peter's lips suck roughly on your skin, teeth nipping at it playfully. you let out a shaky breath.

peter presses one last kiss to what's sure to become a hickey to soothe it. you tilt his chin up towards you again, lips smashing into his, holding him in place by the back of his head. he carries you to the nearest table while your intertwined lips move desperately against each other's. you sneak a hand down to the bulge in his suit, earning a groan.

"one sec, lemme get this off."

peter sets you down on the table and quickly strips off his spider suit. you take your own clothes off and toss them aside, left only in your bra and panties. peter comes to stand between your legs. he slips your panties to the side, middle finger collecting your wetness as he kisses you again. his finger slides into you with ease and begins to pump. you moan into the kiss, tugging at his hair.

"already so wet, baby. don't even have to get you warmed up."

peter's finger curls inside you, cockiness evident in his tone and on his features. you tug on some hair at the nape of his neck.

"stop teasing, parker."

"can't take it when the roles are reversed, stark?"

something takes over you in that moment, the same something that's been coursing through your veins all day. you grab both of peter's hands and hold them in place above his head. your grip is tight around his wrists, too tight for him to break free of it. a noise almost like a growl escapes you.

"shut up and fuck me, or i’ll fuck you."

peter meets your wild eyes, his pupils equally as dilated.

"do it."

you promptly pull peter up to the table with you. you push him back so he lies down, pinning his arms down at his sides. his chest rises and falls, breathless.

"woah, what's gotten into you today? not that i’m complaining, but, woah."

"i know, right? i thought you were supposed to have super strength."

peter grabs you by your hips and sits up, seating you in his lap. you wiggle your hips in his grasp, but he digs his fingers into your sides so you can't move. peter's voice drops low.

"what was that?"

you breathe out a low laugh.

"nothing."

you dip your head down to press your forehead to peter's. he smiles, satisfied with your answer. you wrap your hand around his hard cock and stroke him. peter's lips ghost over yours, his breathing heavy.

"wanna feel you, y/n/n."

peter slides his hands up to your waist so you can move again. you smile knowingly. you slip off your panties before you reposition yourself, your legs on either side of him. you line up peter's cock with your entrance.

"wanna feel you too, pete."

you lower yourself down onto peter. you both let out little sighs and moans as he fills you up.

he always feels so good inside you, but this time is even better, even more intense.

you arch your back to find the right angle, shifting backwards a bit. once you're both comfortable, you begin to roll your hips. peter exhales a breath he was holding, lifting his hips up to help you out. your movements are slow, fluid. peter supports you by the small of your back, eyes hooded and lips parted for air.

"fuck, i'm not gonna last long."

"me neither."

he kisses you, softly but with so much passion. you let your eyes flutter closed and kiss back. you place your feet flat on the table for more stability and straighten your back, starting to bounce on his cock.

"y/n..."

peter's voice comes out almost like a whine. you chuckle at that.

"i know."

you grab onto peter's shoulders for more support as you move, up and down, back and forth. peter leaves sloppy kisses along the side of your neck. the once quiet lab is now filled with both of your moans and the sounds of your wetness every time his cock thrusts into you. you're both so close, and you can hardly hold out any longer.

peter grabs your hips to stop your movements. he takes over, thrusting up into you at the same delicious pace, only he's the one in control. you let out a series of short, high pitched moans, head thrown back as peter's cock hits the right spot in you over and over again.

"that's it, y/n/n. sound so pretty, baby."

peter half speaks and half groans. you reply with your own noise of content, squeezing yourself around his cock as you reach your high. peter is close to his.

"god, fuck."

he's panting. his thrusts speed up a bit until his hips stop moving altogether. he pushes deeper into you with one final moan, his cum filling you up, making you feel warm inside. you both recently agreed he could finish in you; it's a new level of intimacy.

"fuck, baby. woah."

you bury your face in peter's neck in response. you try to catch your breath, falling forward into his arms.

"oh my god, pete. that was..."

"yeah."

peter hugs your waist. he slowly pulls out of you, making you wince at the new emptiness.

"sorry."

he peppers tender kisses to the side of your head. you remove your face from his neck.

"it's okay."

you ruffle peter's hair with a tired smile. he kisses your cheek, smiling back. you give him another peck on his lips. you yawn, today's and tonight's activities catching up with you once again.

"aw, you tired?"

"mhm. you must be, too, spidey."

"exhausted. let's get cleaned up, then we'll go to bed?"

"sounds perfect."

peter helps you down from the table. you quickly step into your panties in case any cum leaks out of you. he picks his suit up off the floor.

"okay, that was insanely good. i mean, it always is, but something was different. i wonder what it was."

peter shimmies into his suit so his lower half is covered. you're putting on the rest of your clothes.

"i don't know, i’ve just been super on my shit today. really focused and stuff."

"explains why you were so locked in on your suit."

"that might just be a stark thing. actually, it's a parker thing too."

you poke peter's chest playfully. you collect some of your things from your work area, some miscellaneous supplies sticking to your palms as you do.

"why does this keep happening?"

peter watches curiously as you huff and shake paper clips off your palms.

"funny, that reminds me of when i first got my powers. took me a while to figure out how to control it, being sticky."

"uh huh. did you spill web fluid last time you were down here or something?"

"i don't think so, but it would have dissolved by now if i did. i haven't been in the lab for a couple days."

"oh. maybe it was someone else."

peter quirks a brow.

"i don't see any web fluid over there, y/n/n."

you turn to face peter.

"so why am i sticky?"

between this, your strength, and your heightened senses, peter puts it together. you have powers.

his spider powers.

"that might also be a parker thing. more specifically, a spider-man thing."

"you don't mean... no."

if peter is saying what you think he's saying, that confirms what you had thought earlier.

"uh, yeah."

peter crosses over to you. your eyebrows knit together.

"we must share some dna."

"but how? that wouldn't be possible unless we were, like, related... ew! please don't tell me we're fucking related!"

"baby, baby." peter laughs softly, taking one of your hands in his. "stop freaking out."

"you should be freaking out too! you were just inside me, peter, fucking me raw! you came in me!"

"exactly."

peter's voice is way too calm for your liking.

"exactly? what do you mean 'exactly'?"

"think about it. sperm is made up of dna."

"so what?"

"well, i wasn't born with this dna. it got mutated by the spider bite. so no, we're definitely not related."

you tentatively soften your gaze, allowing peter to lace his fingers through yours.

"since i got my powers from the mutation, i guess you got them too when i started finishing in you."

you gasp, a playful smile pulling at your lips.

"you mean you mutated my dna? you have radioactive cum?"

"something like that. you're not mad?"

you toy with peter's fingers, looping an arm around his neck.

"nah, it's kind of cool now that i know what it is. you're gonna have to teach me how to use the powers, though."

"of course." peter returns your smile. "now that you've got new powers, you gotta rebrand. maybe you could call yourself spider-woman."

"you'd like that, wouldn't you? come up with something more original."

peter's arms wrap around your middle, smile growing into a toothy grin.

"you could also use mrs. parker. it's gonna be your name someday, anyways."

you put your other arm around peter's neck with a laugh.

"mrs. parker, i like that."

(too lazy to use tags lmao)

[buck-star]

Te iubesc

Bucky, your best friend, has to confess something. But instead of just saying it out loud, he uses a little trick to help him say it.

Pairing: Avenger!Bucky Barnes x Avenger!Fem!Reader

Wordcount: 1.337 Words

Warnings/Tags: fluff, friends to lovers, mutual pinning, love confession

Authors Note: Beta’d by my favorite person @thevillainswhore. Te iubesc, thank you so much. Also for the editing of the photos! You’re the best!❤️❤️

Events: Bucky Barnes Bingo [BO23 | K5 | Avengers | @buckybarnesbingo], Marvel-OC-Hub-Bingo [Row Two-Three | It was always you | @marvel-oc-hub]

Masterlist | Bucky Barnes Masterlist

The sun is shining beautifully down onto the white snow that covers the ground like a fluffy blanket. It reflects the warm yellow of the sun brightening up the living room. You watch Steve and Tony talking to Thor outside of the big building, probably planning the next mission - or waiting for one of them paying less attention to land with the force of two other men in the snow.

A soft smile plays at your lips, causing the corners of your lips to twitch with amusement. Who might be the first to get a bunch of snow in their face or fly into the soft fluffy coldness you wonder?

“They will throw Tony into the snow first, dragă mea,” Bucky’s soft voice comes from behind you. You turn slowly around, watching the broad super-soldier standing in the door-frame of the living room. His ocean blue orbs are focused on you, softness and love visible in them while he has the most beautiful smile plastered on his handsome face.

You laugh softly, leaning back on the couch while you let your eyes roam shamelessly over the muscular body of your favorite super-soldier. Bucky pushes himself off the frame and walks closer to you, his steps surprisingly quiet for the wall of muscles he literally is. Your best friend lets himself fall down next to you on the couch, leaning back while he automatically spreads his thick thighs.

“Poor, tiny Tony,” you giggle, turning to the windows again to see if they already started to throw one another into the snow and the moment you turn, you see the smaller man flying into the snow. Thor and Steve give one another a high five, before Steve is the next who lands with his face first in the snow. “Steve got face palmed by the snow.”

Bucky bursts out laughing next to you, something so bare and innocent. Two years ago, you never would have thought that this man, who was only known for his PTSD and staring problem, would actually be such a soft man, who has the most beautiful and heartwarming laugh possible. But there he is, laughing like his past doesn’t exist; his nose scrunches slightly and the freckles around his eyes are more visible, making him so much cuter.

“Face palmed by the snow,” he chuckles, shaking his head. His blue eyes settle on your face again when you turn toward him, nodding softly. The brunette's metal arm slides behind your head over the backrest of the couch and he shifts in his seat. “I thought about something, dragă mea.”

“About being face palmed by the snow too?” You ask, giggling. Bucky shakes his head, letting his cold digits run over your shoulder to your neck and back down your shoulder. Goosebumps erupt on your skin and Bucky’s smile widens when he notices, letting his fingers trail south along your collarbone. His touch is light and tender, feeling like a feather tickling you slightly.

“Not really, but if it would make you happy,” he chuckles. His eyes glisten softly as he leans closer to you. Of course, he always wants to please everyone, he would agree to a lot just to make others happy — to make you happy. “You always look so excited when I speak Romanian, so I thought since it's just you and me, I could teach you some things.”

The grin on his face and the mischievous glint in his eyes has your attention for a moment. It's not just because you're excited when he does it, it's something that lights the fire of desire deep inside of him. But you nod, agreeing to his offer. Not just because you want to get to know more about the sparkle in his eyes but also because of the opportunity to listen to him speaking in Romanian for you.

He crosses his legs, keeping the soft motion of his fingers along your collarbone and up and down your shoulder. “First one, it's an easy one. Te iubesc.”

His voice sounds even softer when he speaks in another language and you enjoy the syllables echoing through your mind for a moment longer. You clear your throat. “Te iubesc.”

Bucky's heart flutters, knowing you have no idea what you just said but hearing those word makes the butterflies in his stomach go crazy. His tongue darts out to wet his lips, before he leans his head back and closes his eyes. It sounds perfect when you say it, maybe he should make you say it more often — of course, he should. He needs to hear you say it, over and over again. Bucky knows he could never get tired of it.

“Şi eu te iubesc, lubirea mea” he replies, waiting for your reaction. You narrow your eyes, titling your head slightly in confusion. Bucky chuckles, leaning closer, his warm breath against your neck and you shiver slightly. The brunette blows softly against the soft, warm skin of your neck, noticing the hitch of your breath. “I love you too, my love.”

You pull back slightly, looking at him with widened eyes. Bucky studies your expression for a moment, a flash of concern and uncertainty visible on his face. He keeps his hand on your shoulder, wanting — needing — to feel your warmth underneath his fingers. You keep staring at him, slowly bringing your hands to capture his face. Your tips brush the soft stubble on his face and a soft smile forms on your lips again.

“Do you mean it? I mean, do you—” you interrupt yourself, searching for anything in his eyes that it was just a joke. But there is nothing but honesty and love, not a hint that it was a joke or just some lesson in Romanian. “You really mean it?”

Bucky nods. He chuckles softly, wondering if it wasn’t obvious before. “Didn't you notice? Everyone called me out that I was so obvious,” he chuckles, leaning closer again. “I was afraid to tell you, didn't know how. You know me from the very start after being the winter soldier, I was afraid you see nothing but a victim in me.”

He takes a shaky breath, moving a strand of your hair out of your face and tucking it behind your ear. For a moment his eyes move around, settling on the scene of Steve, Thor and Tony throwing snow at one another. He then brings his ocean blue eyes back to yours, a soft sigh escapes his plump lips.

“Steve and Nat assured me that you don't see me as just that. And I—” Bucky mumbles softly, his fingers stroking your cheekbone, while he leans further into the soft touch of your hands still capturing his cheeks. “I still didn't know how to tell you. But I thought when I make you say I love you to me then I could say I love you too.”

“Şi eu te iubesc, Bucky,” you whisper, leaning closer until your lips are only inches away from his. Bucky’s smile grows and he breaks the distance between the two of you, pressing his plump, soft lips against yours. Your heartbeat increases and a low chuckles rumbles through Bucky’s chest.

He traces his thumb along your jaw, pulling slightly back after a moment. “Înseamnă că te iubesc mai mult decăt orice pe lumea asta,” he whispers against your lips with a soft smile. Bucky then leans closer once again, pecking your lips. “Before you wonder, it means, I love you more than anyone or anything in the whole universe.”

“Şi eu te iubesc mai mult dec—” you stumble over your words, huffing with frustration. Bucky chuckles softly, pulling you closer again.

“I know,” he mumbles, his lips touching yours. “Let me enjoy the sweet taste for a moment longer and then we can face palm the snow,” Bucky laughs before he kisses you once more. And the soft feeling of his lips and his smell surrounding you lets you feel like you’re home — definiția ta a casei.

Taglist: @rogersbarber @loki-laufeyson68 @etherealdisneyvillainness @winterschildren8 @pono-pura-vida @kimmie113080 @sergeantbarnessdoll @sebastianstanisahotmf @mercurial-chuckles @holylulusworld @randomawesomeperson102 @looking1016 @multiversefanfics @kpopgirlbtssvt @disneyprincessbuffyannesummers @iris-xoxo-juhu @fckedupandbeautiful @hisredheadedgoddess28 @casa-boiardi @blackhawkfanatic @mrsalexstan @thesarcasmqueen-22 @kandis-mom @peachy-satan00 @armystay89 @queen-honeybee-stories [add yourself]

[rainydayathogwarts]

Boyfriends and mentors - Tony stark x reader, Peter Parker x reader

summary: peter brings his gf to meet tony, his mentor. But when he gets dragged away for nightly rounds, he doesn't think as much as he should before leaving you two alone. cw: SMUT, cheating (r! on peter), age gap (20s and 40s) reader is described as shorter than tony and having hair that can be 'tucked behind your ear', slight angst at the end, reader regrets it. 3.5k wc

An extended hand.

A welcoming smile.

A classic 'girl next door' outfit.

A nervous glance back to your boyfriend.

That was all it took for Tony to be wrapped around your finger. Your smile faltered when your hand stood unshaken a few seconds beyond comfortable. Tony blinked twice, stepping forward to shake your hand, his second hand clasping around your shoulder as he tugged you closer to him, walking you into his lab and welcoming you to his 'sacred space'. Peter's shoulders slumped in relief, following his two favourite people in the world into the room.

Tony jogged ahead of you to clear some things from one of the two stools in the room, gesturing for you to sit down whilst he took his place on the other chair. Tony knew you were a special girl. Peter spoke about you all the time, going on about your skills and kindness, and beauty. Most importantly, you were special enough for Peter to bring you to the Stark Tower, filled to the brim with avengers and spies who only had to look at your face to know every detail about your life. Tony dismissed the questions you asked him, claiming "You probably already know too much" before turning the tables, nodding along as you answered his queries.

You leaned forward as you spoke to Tony, or 'Mr. Stark' as you called him, a curious gleam in your eyes. Laughing where appropriate and mirroring his body language, you were pulling out all the tricks for him to like you. It seemed to be working. You hadn't thought much about meeting the Tony Stark — probably overrated and not as attractive in real life. But boy were you wrong. The older man looked engaged as you spoke, stroking his salt and pepper beard in interest. All you wanted was for him to approve of you, especially as Peter's girlfriend, and not at all because you wanted a man as handsome as him to like you. Peter, who now stood behind you, chest to your back, one hand on your hip whilst the other held yours, squeezing your palm lightly in reassurance. Glancing back at your boyfriend, you grinned at him, feeling your cheeks heat up when he leaned in close to press a quick kiss to your lips. "I'm so glad you guys are getting along well."

Tony grinned, getting up to retrieve a bottle of whiskey from the shelf with two glasses, asking "You old enough to drink yet?" You laughed, nodding your head yes. "I am, Mr. Stark, but I'm not such a fan of whiskey." Tony hummed, eyebrows raising in mock surprise. "Oh right. Well, wine?" You shrugged your shoulders with a smile, muttering a "Sure, why not?" He scavenged for wine glasses in his cupboard — an odd collection you thought for a lab — before pouring a glass for you each. "Spider-Man here has nightly rounds soon, and I can't be sending the kid off to work drunk." Peter huffed behind you, mumbling something about 'not a kid', but you paid him no attention, clinking your glass with the boy's mentor.

"Wait! Rounds!" Peter gasped, "That's like, now!" He realised, rushing around the work space to sling his bag over his shoulder. "I'm sorry baby, we have to go." Peter sighed disappointedly, his eyebrows furrowing worriedly. "The party just started," Tony started, swirling the wine around in his glass "Hey, why don't you go ahead and y/n and I can get to know each other a little better?" Peter's eyes lit up at the suggestion, a smile forming on his face. "I can get her a drive home if she needs one. Unless..." Tony pointed at Peter, a thoughtful look on his face. "Yeah, yeah, I'll come back and get you when I'm done, yeah babe?" You nodded happily, swinging your legs on the high stool.

Peter ran towards you, pecking your lips lightly before swiftly existing the room, metal doors automatically closing behind him. You caught Tony moving in your line of sight, twisting in your chair to revert your attention back to him. "Now that he's gone you can tell me all the dirty stuff." You felt the heat make its way to your face at Tony's comment, unsure if he was joking. His face broke out into a laugh at the taken aback look you sported, exclaiming "I'm joking sweetheart!" You felt your heart beat particularly hard.

Sweetheart.

Peter never called you that, only ever sticking to 'babe, baby', or just your name. Tony was a man of taste — you could tell by the delicious wine. Assuming it was because he was older would be rude, so you stuck with the idea that it was due to his charm. Touchy enough to make you feel welcome, but not too touchy to make you uncomfortable.

"Penny for your thought?"

You broke out of your trance, shaking your head with a nervous chuckle "Sorry. I- I just get worried about Peter whenever he goes." The lie rolled off your tongue before you could stop it, the fact that the man in front of your could probably read your body language not occurring to you. Tony grinned, scanning your body from head to toe, grateful he was sat close enough to you that the work space wasn't covering your entire body. Your legs were swinging slowly where they couldn't reach the ground, your short dress splayed over your thighs. Thighs, ever so slightly squeezing against each other to show your... excitement to meet your boyfriend's mentor. Your hands clutched the sides of the seat underneath you — probably to stop yourself from fidgeting. Your head was often tilted downwards, if not looking around. You avoided looking at him unless he spoke directly to you, in which case you'd intensely return his eye contact.

"Worrying about your boyfriend isn't healthy for a relationship." Tony commented, a mischievous glint in his eyes. You grimaced a little, feeling caught out in your lie, and hopped off the stool. Leaning your elbows on the table in front of you, you observed the space, starting "So what's this stuff you're working on now." Topic averted, Tony noted, getting off his chair. Not a healthy relationship, he thought, at least from your side. Tony approached you until he was stood directly beside you. "Fixing a jet for my suit." You hummed in interest, watching as Tony swiped his hand in thin air, projecting a three dimensional display of the iron man suit.

Clicking on a few things, Tony pointed at the broken jet on his suit, gently placing a hand on your back as he explained it to you. The sudden touch had you taken a sharp breath, eyes going slightly wide in surprise. With Tony's attention on the display, you felt safe in knowing that he hadn't noticed your reaction, though you hadn't noticed the upwards tug of the corner of his lip, telling you otherwise. The display of his suit in front of you disappeared and you abruptly turned to face Tony, chest brushing against his. You took a shaky step backwards, reaching for the abandoned glass of wine on the table. Taking the last sip from the glass, you looked up to see Tony holding the bottle up with a raised eyebrow. Nodding, you held your glass out to him, whispering thanks before averting your attention from him.

"I'm not surprised you and Peter are together." He spoke, voice booming in the now otherwise silent lab. At the confused expression you held, he elaborated "You seem shy. He's definitely shy when he's out of that suit." You shook your head in disagreement "I'm not - I'm not usually shy, Mr. Stark." Bingo, Tony thought. "Oh? How come you are now then?" Tony's brows furrowed in mock confusion, gaze violently trained on you. He kept track of the way you sipped your wine to gain yourself time to think, swallowing thickly before responding "Well, I just want to make a good impression on you." You blinked twice, adding "You know because Peter cares so much about you." Tony caught your pause, wetting his lips with his tongue before stepping closer to you. "It's nice that you care so much. People usually don't nowadays."

"Of course I care. I love Peter." You noticed the pointed tone in Tony's voice, nodding along with him in disguised oblivion. "You take good care of him?" Tony asked, tucking a strand of your hair behind your ear. "Uh-huh." You don't know when Tony became so close to you, but you were now stood chest to chest with him, looking up at him to maintain eye contact whilst you spoke. Tony took one last sip of wine before putting his empty glass on the table. Following his actions, you handed him your glass, which he took with a smile, placing it right next to his. Tony's hands trailed towards your hips, manoeuvring your body so that you were trapped between him and the table. He began closing the distance between you. With his lips barely graze yours, you raised both your hands to cup the older man's face, his beard tickling your palms. Inhaling deeply, you firmly stated "This is wrong."

"We both know that means nothing to you sweetheart." Tony gave you a moment to challenge his words, scoffing in amusement when you didn't, before slamming his lips against yours. Your body had an instant reaction: involuntarily moaning and pushing yourself up against Tony, hands on his jaw pulling him impossibly closer to you. "Fucking knew it." He mumbled when you briefly separated for air before deepening the kiss, pushing his tongue against your lips so you opened your mouth, tongues tangling in a messy kiss. One of your arms slid over his shoulders, tugging him closer to you while you pressed yourself onto your tippy toes, battling for dominance against the older man, who easily carried control over the situation.

Tony pushed you back against the table, hitting your hips back against the cold marble and grinding his pelvis into you. You lightly hit Tony's chest to push him away from you, panting loudly when his lips separated from yours. Tony was immediately cupping your face with one calloused hand while the other was clinging tightly to your waist, making space for his lips on your neck. You shuddered at the scratch of his beard on your soft skin, eyes fluttering closed. Failing to suppress a moan, you tangled a hand in Tony's hair. Shit. You weren't used to the feeling of such skilled lips on your neck, and much less a beard on your skin. Peter had never grown facial hair; you weren't sure if he could.

"Fuck." You whimpered, feeling Tony's teeth scrape against your neck. Pulling Tony's head back by the grip on his hair, you desperately chased his lips for another kiss, hands moving to land on his impressive torso. Tony's arms wrapped around you, lifting you up just enough to place you on the table behind you, breaking the kiss in the process of doing so. The man stares at you silently, hands wandering under your skirt to tug at the string of your panties. "Hips." He whispered, watching with great interest as you lean your weight onto your hands, pushing your hips up to let the man drag your underwear down your thighs. You observed as he pockets the panties, a smile on his face, before both his hands trail down to your left leg. He folded your leg up to rest on the border of the table, pulling a gasp out of you when the cold atmosphere hits your dripping core. Tony repeated the movement with your second leg, stepping back to look at the scene he's created.

Peter Parker, his intern, his protégé, his chosen son. Peter Parker, whose girlfriend was sitting on Tony's lab table, spread out like a meal ready for him to devour. Tony puffed his chest out proudly, wondering if you'd break up with Peter from the guilt of cheating on him, or if you'd keep this as a secret, clinging onto what's left of your relationship. Would you sleep with Tony again? Or would you refuse to see his face ever again? "Mr. Stark?" His head snapped towards your small, unsure voice, waiting to see if you'd made a terrible mistake. "Fuck sweetheart, I'm going to eat you whole." Tony approached you in two big strides, hands gripping the tops of your thighs as he leaned down into your pussy to press a bold kiss on your cunt before immediately starting his attack on you. He sucked and licked at your pussy, tongue switching between dipping into your entrance and putting pressure on your clit.

It seemed the latter got a stronger reaction out of you, with hips bucking uncontrollably, and a hand that returned to his hair as his lips wrapped around your clit, sucking harshly before letting his teeth graze your sensitive areas. Gasping, you pushed Tony's head deeper into your cunt, squeezing your thighs around his head with a whine of "Mr. Stark!" The formal use of his name has a groan ripping out of his chest, the sound sending vibrations up into your core. You moaned so loudly you were sure the whole building could hear you, and possibly even Peter, halfway across the city doing rounds.

Grinding your hips against Tony's face to add to your pleasure, you can feel the man bringing you near your orgasm. You threw your head back, eyes shutting tightly. The pressure on your clit was so strong, bringing you closer and closer to the edge until... it was gone. Your head snapped up at the sudden loss of friction, gasping in disappointment, watching as the man in front of you stood up to reach his full height. You dropped your legs over the edge of the table, shutting them tightly. Tony stretched his back, twisting his torso until you heard a crack, muttering "Can't do that too much one you pass the age of forty." You looked at him unabashedly, jaw dropped in confusion and shock. Watching your expression, he added "You didn't think I was going to let you come anywhere other than on my cock, did you?"

Gulping, you let Tony drag you off the table, your feet landing on the floor with a soft 'thud'. Gripping Tony's belt, you tugged him closer to you, unbuckling the thick leather until his jeans dropped down his hips. "Gimme a kiss." The man muttered, leaning forward as he removed his boxers. You pecked his lips softly before glancing down, curious to see what he had to offer. Your sharp inhale had Tony chuckling, mumbling "Don't worry baby." You cringed slightly at the name, hand instinctively reaching for your phone at the reminder of your boyfriend. The screen lit up from its place on the table and you spotted the message 'Won't be late, I love you xx' from Peter. "Still thinking about him?" Tony asked, hands massaging your hips. "I'm sorry. The 'baby' reminded me. Don't wanna get caught." Tony nodded in understanding, kissing you deeply. "No one can come in here without my permission, you don't have to worry about anything sweetheart."

His hands guided you to face the table, and you held your breath, feeling the tip of his dick wander between your thighs, and catching onto your clit. Slowly, he pushed his cock into your entrance, inch by inch, watching your body react. You placed both hands on the flat surface of the table, biting your lip as your chest slowly heaved with deep breaths. "Fuck" You mumbled, dropping your head down so you got a clear view of Tony's legs, pressing against the side of your own with his jeans gathered in a bunch around his ankles, your pink panties sticking out of a pocket. With a final, sharp thrust, Tony filled you up, making you wince slightly. The man didn't wait for a 'go-ahead', instead beginning to thrust his hips into yours at a toe-curling pace. Moaning quietly, you pushed your hips back against his, allowing him to hit you at a deeper angle. You yelped at the new angle, allowing Tony to pull your hips back onto his with every hump of his pelvis into you.

With one hand moving to grip your hair, Tony pushed your head forward, causing your entire body to bend over, chest hitting the cold table, making shivers run down your spine. He held you there for a few thrusts before moving his hand back to your hips, trusting you to stay against the tabletop. Little moans escaped you with every sharp smack of Tony's hips against your ass, eyes tearing up with pleasure. Fuck, you shouldn't be doing this, you thought. A sudden sense of dread and guilt filled you, the image of Peter popping up in your mind. Peter, and everything he did for you. He didn't deserve this. But the only thing your mind could focus on was the feeling of every single little ridge of your boyfriend's mentor's cock running along the inside of your pussy, driving you closer to your orgasm with every passing second.

Despite Tony pulling you back onto his cock, his thrusts were so powerful they drove your hips into the sharp edge of the table, sending a splitting pain into your body. The pain blended into pleasure and the pleasure to pain. One of Tony's hands left your hips, trailing down the front of your dress until he could cup your mound. He bunched the fabric of your dress up past your abdomen so that he could rub at your clit harshly without obstruction. "Oh!" Your back arched with the extra friction, and you pushed you ass out, crying out when Tony's second hand came to smack it, likely leaving a hand print in its wake.

"Shit! I'm, I'm gonna cum!" You cried, letting Tony pull your torso up to his chest, hand wrapped loosely around your neck while he encouraged you to cum, fingers working at overstimulating your clit. The knot in your stomach snapped, and you were suddenly having a mind numbing orgasm, causing you to fall limply against Tony's chest, legs giving out under you. The older man tightly wrapped an arm around your waist whilst he kept on thrusting, pulling out last minute and averting his hips so his cum shot out across the table, painting the workplace with white ropes of cum. You leaned your entire weight against the table when the man let go of you, panting heavily in an attempt to catch your breath.

Tony stood with furrowed eyebrows as the last drops of cum dribbled out of his cock, hand stroking his dick to pump them out. You sighed, walking around him and leaning over to stick your hand in the front pocket of his jeans, gathered around his ankles. The man gasped, eyes stuck on your ass, eyes following you and you stood up straight, pulling your underwear back on. Averting your gaze from the man, you let the shame wash onto you, tears pricking at your eyes. You frowned, turning away from Tony in a moment of instant repentance, sitting down the stool he was previously sat in. Tony immediately sensed the change in atmosphere, giving you your space whilst he put his pants back on and cleaned his desk space.

Cautiously, he approached you, putting a hand on your shoulder with a soft "Are you okay, sweetheart?" You nodded, wiping away at any fallen tears and reaching for the wine bottle across the table. Tony stood silently as you took a swing straight from the bottle, recollecting your emotions. "I'm fine." The room was filled with an awkward tranquility, a mutual agreement to sit quietly until Peter returned.

When the door knob finally jiggled and a robotic voice announced "Mr. Stark, Peter is attempting to enter the room. Do I let him in?" You jumped up, walking towards the door as Tony gave permission, wiping at your face to make sure any sign of your tears disappeared. The door opened and Peter walked in, sweat covering his face but a bright smile covering his features nonetheless. "How'd it go?" He asked breathlessly, looking straight into your face. You smiled at your boyfriend, nodding with a small "Good" before throwing your arms around his neck and planting a kiss on his lips. Peter's balance was thrown off, stumbling slightly as his arms caught themselves around your waist. His mouth opened in a gasp, allowing you to slip your tongue in, deepening the kiss with him. When you broke the kiss, his cheeks were impossibly rosier, and you mumbled "I missed you." against his slightly chapped lips.

Well, you're definitely never sleeping together again, Tony figured, popping open the bottle of wine once more.

@callsignwidow

[jam3sacaster]

“I’m gonna have ‘ta punish ya’.”

(Rivals) Declan O’Hara x Reader

Suggestion by darling anon 🫶🏽 / You and Declan butt heads, and then some…

Set just after the pageant, messed with the timeline a lil i think but I managed to work the punch in another way <3

18+ FANFIC / SMUT GALORE, angsty & lots of swearing. Fairly long and very HEAVY smut, sorry x Declan you horny bastard, we love you. Reader character aged 21.

As always, request what you wanna see in the ask box 💋

“I can’t just stop working for Corinium, Declan. You cannot just waltz into my life and expect me to give everything up for you!” You shout, feeling rage seep through your veins. Declan and Rupert have been cooking up a ridiculous idea within an hour, desperate to overthrow Baddingham’s Machiavellian reign of television. “They have my balls in a fuckin’ vice, my love,”

“No, they HAVEN’T! You have thrown a ridiculous temper tantrum, on television, because you are so determined to get your own way because you’re a selfish, stubborn bastard.” You interject, slamming your reddened palms on the dinner table, face contorting in fury. “They want me to sell my fuckin’ soul, babe. To sit and judge these fuckin’ superficial pageants whilst that cunt Vereker gets MY spot on my fuckin’ show.” The Irishman bellows, leaning across the table and pointing his finger dangerously close to your face. Declan O’Hara is fucking scary when he’s angry, but my God is he sexy.

Rupert leans against the counter top, remaining silent in embarrassment. It was certainly better for everyone that way. Steaming with rage, you sit back in your seat, stray hairs sticking to the beading sweat on your forehead. “You can’t keep behaving like this, Declan. Like a fucking child.” You tut, avoiding eye contact with him. Declan frustratedly rakes a hand through his slicked hair before pouring himself an intoxicatingly large unit of whiskey. “I’m sure you can coax Tony into some amicable solution. It’s blatant he wants to fuck you. He would do anything for someone willing to open their legs for him.” Rupert pipes up and gestures towards you, cigarette smoke creating an ashy veil across his face. An excruciating silence ensued. Your eyes widened in absolute horror — Declan would certainly not take kindly to this joke. Rupert should’ve kept his mouth shut.

“You fucking what?” Declan asked him, walking towards him slowly, eyes frenzied with wrath. “Calm down, Declan, it was just a joke.” Rupert chuckled, offering his hands up in defeat. “What did ya’ fuckin’ say?” Declan asked again, containing to walk towards him until they were nose-to-nose. Another incredibly painful silence— even Rupert didn’t dare speak. After a few seconds, he opened his mouth to speak but Declan swung at him, landing a brutal punch with a wet smack. “DECLAN.” You bellow, grabbing his muscular arm and pulling him towards you. “Get out, Rupert. I’m so sorry, but just go home.” You shake your hands frantically as Rupert pulls himself from the floor and ushers himself out, clutching his face in agony.

“What the fuck are you playing at?” You scream, voice croaking under the pressure. You push Declan away from you as soon as you hear the front door click. “Ya’ t’ink I’m gonna let him talk about ‘ya like ‘dat? Talk about ‘ya spreadin’ ya’ legs for tha’ CUNT Tony?” Declan matches your enraged tone, pacing around the kitchen table but maintaining eye contact with you. You couldn’t reply to this. He was wildly protective of you — often infuriatingly so, but he could barely stand to see another man so much as look at you. Rupert’s joke was way too far.

“My job is turnin’ me into a fuckin’ laughin’ stock, you t’ink I’m a joke and you’re wavin’ your fuckin’ arse around in front of Tony.” He howled again, enraging himself with his own words. “Oh, fuck off Declan.” You spit, pushing yourself out of your chair and beginning to abandon the kitchen. “Don’t walk away from me.” He tuts, grabbing your arm and pulling you towards him. “Don’t fucking touch me.” You scream and the words can barely leave your mouth — a pathetic mixture of anger and despair. “I am fucking sick of you!” You immediately regret the words as Declan’s top lip curls in vexation. Oh fuck.

•

He hurtles towards you, pushing you towards the wall and almost taking you off of your feet. You close an eye, internally preparing yourself for the crescendo of noise he is about to create. Instead, he collides his lips onto yours, grunting in annoyance as his tongue pushes his way into your mouth. Feeling yourself melt under his touch, Declan’s hand rides under your blouse, ripping it off from the inside and exposing your bare chest — perky breasts wobbling with the force and nipples hard from arousal. The bristles of his moustache send a quiver down your spine as he kisses down your chest before taking your left nipple into his mouth: swirling around the pink bud and sucking it softly. A stifled whimper escapes your lift as you lift your hand to his trousers, rubbing across his hardening bulge.

“Bend over.” Declan demands, pulling away from you and pushing you gently towards the dining table. Hesitantly, you do as you’re told and bend over the table, skirt riding up your thighs. Not that it matters too much, as it was promptly yanked down, exposing your bare arse to the man that owned it. Running his rough hand across the right cheek, Declan smacked it firmly, the harsh noise of skin on skin reverberating across the room. “Ya’ do know I’m gonna have ta’ punish ya’.” He growled, readying his hand for another firm smack. “Mhm hmm.” You whisper, nodding your head, consenting softly. Another unyielding smack made you yelp with aching pressure — a reddened hand print beginning to take form. “Oh fuck.” He groaned, lowering himself to your level and biting firmly into your arse, pleasure taking control of his entire conscience. You keep your eyes firmly pressed shut, awaiting the next smack. Instead, you chomp down on your lip as you hear Declan’s zipper, and the subsequent sound of his trousers dropping to the ground.

“Do ya’ want it?” The Irishman questioned, teasing your slick entrance with the head of his painfully erect cock. You could feel yourself practically dripping as he placed a firm hand onto your waist. “Yes…” You breathlessly moan, pushing yourself towards him, aching to feel his girth inside you. “Yes, what?” He growled. “Yes… Daddy.” You whimper once more, desperation overtaking you.

“Good girl.” Declan praised, and pushed the full length of his cock into you, but thrusted slowly in and out. “Oh, fuck.” You wail, as the walls of your vagina grip him like a vice, already aching with the girth of his dick. “Ya’ like that? Do I feel good stretchin’ ya’ out?” He asks, grabbing a fistful of your hair and increasing his tempo with every wet smack of your arse against his pelvis. Eyes rolling back in ecstasy, teeth firmly planted into your bottom lip, mind fuzzy — you must definitely cannot muster a reply. “Tell me, girl. Tell me how good I feel inside ya’.” He asks again, hand reaching under to stroke your clit, coaxing you even closer to orgasm. Declan lolled his head back, pumping harder inside you as his fingers worked their rugged magic. “So fucking good, Daddy.” You manage to muster a reply.

“Ya’ so fuckin’ wet. Wrapped around my cock. Look at ya’ bouncin’ on my dick like a good fuckin’ whore.” Your lover groaned under your heat as he pounded into you, but the tension twisting inside your stomach was too much to bare. “Dec..Declan, I’m gonna…” You begin, but you feel him pull out in preparation.

The repetitive pounding of his enlarged cock on your g-spot left you in a dazed mess as you squirted onto the kitchen floor, legs trembling insanely throughout your orgasm. Declan watched the obscene mess he’d created with a terrible smirk on his face, full of adoration. “Good girl,” He affirmed again, “Look at the mess you’ve made for Daddy. Fuckin’ good girl.” He thrusted into you again, tempo increasing, hungry for his own release. “Are ya’ gonna let me cum inside ya?’ He asked, but he needn’t. You were already pleading with him to fill you with his seed. You needed to feel his hot, sweet cum inside of you.

“Please. I need it, Daddy. Please fill me up.” You begged, feeling Declan’s cock twitching inside you. The gratifying groans leaving his mouth prompted you to reach under your legs and stroke his cum-filled balls, luring him to ecstasy. “Fuck. Get ready, princess. I’m gonna fuckin’ cum.”

Bracing yourself to feel his warmth inside you, you kept your hands wrapped round his balls whilst pushing your arse into him, goading him to go faster. Spurts of hot cum covered the walls of your pussy, each rope accompanied with a pleasurable groan — absolute music to your ears. “Ahh, fuck.” Declan murmured, pulling his cock from your pussy and pausing for a moment to watch a droplet of his seed drip from your walls.

“Well done, my girl. You’ve fuckin’ milked me dry.” He chuckled to himself, slapping your arse once more playfully and huffing to himself.

[tinyshyteacup]

Taglist: @jozzieblood @buckysteveloki-me @dragonoftheshadows @plaidconvers @kateawolf13 @keira-kaz2y5 @frog-fans-unite @doilooklikeagiveafrack @verynormalsstuff @nynxtea @iminyourceiling @seventeen-x @mgchaser @y0urgirl @lovely-seb @laughterafter @mysuperlaserpissnumber1fan @irasciblemogwai @svtbpbts @vivalas-vega @chonkybonky @bmyva1entine @homiesexual-or-homosexual @aoi-targaryen @bitter-semi-sweet @soflegacy @kath-666 @hiireadstuff @highhopes1008 @sineminuse @hawkinsavclub1983 @buckingforbuckybarnes @fandomsearcherforcuntymen @huang-the-geek @joewhs @witchywannabe3263 @ironenemycollective

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Tw: cussing, blood, mentions of SA (not graphic), mentions of torture, this chapter is dark.

Part 7

Words of Command - Part 8

The kitchen was humming with low chatter. The kind of pre-meal energy that buzzed around the compound when you took it upon yourself to cook for the Avengers.

You stood on your tiptoes, stirring something in a pot on the stove, cheeks pink from the heat and a faint sheen of effort on your brow.

The sleeves of your dress were rolled up past your elbows, and the hem of it brushed the top of your calfs.

Bucky stood at the far end of the kitchen—looming, silent, his shadow cast long against the wall.

Arms crossed, metal fingers flexing subtly every time someone got within three feet of you.

He didn’t speak.

He just stood guard, it was typical now, and you where learning to enjoy his quite companionship.

Steve, Sam, and Tony lounged around the kitchen island, arguing over whether or not what you’d made counted as chili.

Nat sat perched on one chair, next to Clint, reading a paperback, eyes flicking to watch occasionally with a grin, fully aware of the way Bucky’s eyes never left you.

You reached to shift the cast iron pan off the heat, a towel in one hand, but your grip slipped. The handle bit into your palm with a hiss of pain.

“Ow, Fuck me!” you gasped, yanking your hand back instinctively and cradling it.

Everything froze.

You winced, shaking out your hand, still not turning around. “I’m okay! Just burned myself a little—”

But a shadow moved behind you.

Quick. Controlled.

A presence stepped into your space. You blinked, confused—just as a warm flesh hand came to rest firmly on your hip.

He'd never touched you before now, not really. “Soldat?” you murmured, confused, turning your head.

His eyes met yours, intense. Focused. “Order? Doll.”

You blinked. “I… what?”

“I heard you.” His metal hand hovered mid-air, a split second from touching your waist too. “You said...”

“Wait, no—no no—” You backpedaled, practically jumping onto the counter.

Sam dropped his fork with a clang.

Steve started choking on his drink.

Clint bit his fist to suppress a laugh, Nat smacked his shoulder.

Tony, meanwhile, looked thrilled. “Well,” Stark said dryly, “that escalated fast.”

Bucky took a step forward, undeterred.

“But you said ...” His tone was blank but committed.

“Soldat,” you stammered, backing away with both palms up. “That wasn’t—I didn’t mean—it was a cuss, not a command.”

He stopped, brow furrowing slightly. “You were in pain.”

“Yes, excatly—oh my god—” You covered your face with both hands, heat rising in your cheeks. “It was just something people say. Like, out of frustration.”

“Sorry, Doll” he looked almost ashamed, voice gravel-deep.

“Its ok, Soldat... ill be more careful with ... phrasing” you squeaked, glancing helplessly at the others.

Clint was nearly crying with laughter now.

Steve had turned redder than your chili.

Sam had his phone out.

“I mean,” Tony added, smirking, “give the guy some credit. At least he’s attentive.”

“Stark!” you cried, mortified.

Bucky stood there, now clearly confused, eyes searching your face like he’d failed the mission somehow. “...I misread the directive ?”

“I think you read it very thoroughly,” Tony muttered.

You slowly stepped forward and placed a hand gently on Bucky’s chest.

“Soldat…I really appreciate how much you want to protect me. But that phrase is never ever a order, okay? It just means I hurt myself. That’s all.”

He looked down at you, breathing slowing, jaw tense.

“No directive?”

“Nope. No directive. Not even a little bit.”

“Ok, doll” His brow creased like he was doubting your words.

“I mean it, Soldat,” you whispered.

He stepped back slowly, hands at his sides again, posture returning to that stiff, ready-alert stance.

The tension faded—but the room was another story.

“Just so we’re clear,” Tony muttered to Steve, “we need another safe word for her now don't we.”

Steve gave Tony a incredulous look.

You groaned and buried your face in your sleeve again.

The hallway to your shared suite was quiet, dimly lit by the gentle golden hue of night lights that lined the baseboards.

The hour had long since passed for even the Avengers’ usual bustle to settle down.

You were padding quietly from the bathroom toward your bedroom door, bare feet brushing against the cool floorboards, a threadbare sleep shirt reaching the tops of your thighs.

Your palm was still bandaged from the earlier burn, and your mind still replayed the kitchen incident with a cocktail of embarrassment, disbelief… and something you couldn’t quite name.

You opened your door, behind you—a presence.

You didn’t have to turn around to know who it was.

“Soldat ?,” you whispered gently, glancing over your shoulder.

Bucky was standing there.

Still in his black pants and henley, boots silent on the floor, hair loose and shadowing half his face. His eyes gleamed faintly in the dim light of your shared lounge, he was unnervingly still.

“Where you go I go, doll,” he said plainly, stepping inside and scanning the room like it might hold threats in the corners.

“Here, what about your own room ?” you echoed, unsure.

He didn’t answer with words—just stepped toward your bed, sat down at the edge of it. Heavy. Controlled. Like he was expecting orders that never came.

He didn’t look at you again.

Just sat there.

Waiting.

You stood frozen for a moment.

You should’ve said no.

Should’ve asked him to leave.

But you didn’t.

Something about the way he sat there—back straight, hands on his thighs, like a well-trained guard dog who had no idea he wasn’t supposed to be welcome—made your chest ache.

So instead, you whispered, “Okay,” and crossed to the opposite side of the bed.

You curled beneath your blanket, pretending not to notice when he slowly, cautiously lay back on the top cover. Arms at his sides. Stiff, like he didn’t quite understand what comfort was supposed to feel like.

You stared at the ceiling. So did he.

And then, softly—

“Doll ?”

“Yea?” you whispered.

“Why was it different?”

You blinked into the darkness.

“Pardon?”

“In the kitchen.” His voice was too calm. Too measured.

“I thought it was an order, I'm sorry” he said quietly.

You reached out, placed your hand over his flesh hand. Gentle. Non-commanding.

“It was a cuss word, Soldat. Just words. Like when you hit your elbow, or you stub your toe.”

He turned his head slightly. Just enough to meet your gaze.

“Hydra didn’t… cuss,” he said.

Your stomach twisted.

“That phrase...Was an order.” His brow furrowed like he was trying to organize memories that came in fractured, ugly pieces.

“They made me do things. That. And worse. I ... think ... I ...didn’t... I don't know… it could just be words.”

Your heart stuttered.

The room tilted.

Your mouth went dry.

Then through brows that furrowed further. “Hydra ... They made me... Before.”

Your chest went utterly cold, you swallowed hard. “Fucking…Monsters” you whisper under your breathe the shock of his words hitting you like running head first into a brick wall.

“Hydra ... old handlers. Sometimes they… would want something else. Wanted to be close. I wasn’t allowed to say no. They told me it was part of the mission. Said it was to keep me loyal. To keep me compliant.”

You sat up, hands over your mouth. Your breath came shallow.

He didn’t stop.

“They liked when I didn’t speak. Or when I flinched. They would say I was obedient. Some of them wanted to see if they could break me in a different way. One said—”

“Stop!” you choked, eyes wide, voice cracking with emotion. “Don’t. Don’t tell me any more.”

His mouth closed immediately.

“I just know I didn’t want to do it,” he said simply, like it was just another fact. “But if you had meant it… I would have. Because you said it.”

Your eyes burned.

He kept talking.

“You didn’t make me. You could have. But you didn’t. I wanted to say… thank you.”

You curl your fingers around his flesh palm. He didn’t pull away.

“I would never ever do that to you,” you whispered.

“Soldat, look at me please” you said gently, Bucky's blue eyes met yours.

"No one does that EVER, no one touches you" You were trembling. “That’s… wrong. That is sick, and evil, and not okay. You didn’t have a choice, Soldat. The only person who did something wrong where your handlers.”

His jaw worked silently, his eyes unreadable. But you saw it—the faintest flicker of shame.

“I will never, ever do that to you. Ever. You’re not here to please anyone, especially not like that. You’re not here to be used. I would never want that.”

His jaw tightened. He nodded once.

“I don’t understand the rules yet, Doll,” he said after a moment. “But… I like your rules better.”

His shoulders slackened, his breathing eased, and his hand remained loosely clasped in yours atop the blankets.

Something in your chest cracked.

His hand turned, slowly, so your fingers slipped between his.

And for the first time that night… his body relaxed.

You eventually curled on your side, facing him. Still a breath apart. Still not touching—except for the place where your hands stayed linked. His grip was gentle now, not vice-tight. Just there.

You whispered, “You can stay. But only if you want to.”

His thumb brushed over your knuckles once. A soft, tentative movement that wasn’t about loyalty or orders.

“You don’t belong to anyone. You’re a man, not a weapon.”

“Thank you… Doll.”

His breath shudders as it escapes him. For a moment, neither of you speak. Then—quietly, as if ashamed—he whispers “I didn’t mean to remember"

It was so quiet—like a soldier still fighting enemies even as the battlefield burned.

“They used to leave me in the dark,” he said quietly. “No sound. No light. Hours. Days. I’d scream until I forgot what words were.”

You felt a nauseous fury burned behind your ribs. But you didn’t let it show.

His lip trembled.

“I feel like him,” he whispered. “I’m scared I'm not hurting people because you say so.”

“I don't think thats the case, but I’ll keep saying it” you promised. “Until you can say it for yourself.”

His metal arm reflected a faint amber glow from your lamp, the plates twitching now and then like it had its own heartbeat.

You’d wrapped yourself in your blanket beside him, unsure if he wanted space… but his fingers hadn’t let go of yours since you laced them together.

And then—

You heard the hitch.

His chest rose sharp, like a stutter in a machine. His hand flexed. Then again.

You turned your head. “Soldat, you ok?” you asked, softly.

He blinked them away, hard.

And whispered, “I remember the chair.”

You sat up slowly, heart pounding.

He stayed still. Voice flat but fragile. His eyes fixed on the ceiling again, like if he met your gaze it would shatter him.

“There was this… this sound,” he murmured. “Before it started. Like... metal grinding. Hissing. It meant they were getting it ready.”

You saw his throat work. Swallowing memory like poison.

“They strapped my arms and legs down. Told me I was compromised. That I remembered something I shouldn’t have. They were always watching for that—cracks in the programming.”

You squeezed his flesh hand in silent encouragement.

He didn’t pull away.

“If I remembered something important,” he continued, voice quieter, “they’d take it. They’d... burn it out. They told me I didn’t need memories. They said it just made me weak. That remembering meant I was broken.”

His lips parted like he might say more, but no words came.

Then—

A sob broke free.

He curled in slightly on himself, his hand clinging to yours now like a drowning man.

“I’m scared,” he whispered, tears sliding from the corners of his eyes. “I keep doing things when I’m near you. Good things. And I’m scared you’ll put me in the chair. Make me forget.”

The pain in his voice gutted you.

You moved slowly, carefully, climbing over until you were kneeling beside his chest, one hand gently brushing through his hair, the other pressing against his cheek.

“No. No, Soldat,” you said, trembling. “I would never do that. Not ever.”

His breathing hitched again.

“You remembering is good. It means you're healing. I want you to heal. I want you to have every memory—especially the good ones. And if it’s too much... we’ll go slow, ok ?.”

He turned into your touch like it was the only light he could find in the dark.

“You’re not broken,” you whispered. “You were hurt. And you survived.”

A beat.

And then, in the smallest, most vulnerable voice you’d ever heard from him.

“I don’t want to forget you.”

The sob that followed was harsher—more like a body rejecting poison. He shook beneath you, face buried in your stomach as he cried in deep, silent waves. You wrapped yourself around him, like a human shield.

Arms around his head, fingers in his hair, legs curled around his waist. He was so much bigger, so much stronger—but right now, he was just a shattered man trying to hold onto something.

You didn’t sleep much that night.

He did, eventually. Curled toward you like he was still a soldier clinging to warmth on a battlefield. His face pressed into your ribs, arms loose around your waist.

Even as he slept, you could see the tension in his brow, the memories fighting behind his eyes.

But his breathing stayed steady.

And your hand stayed in his hair.

And in the lull between midnight and dawn, he murmured a simple.

“...thank you, Doll.”

[lostalioth]

𝐝𝐢𝐬𝐜𝐢𝐩𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐞

→ premise: you knew steve loved when you called him sir, how the honorific rolled off your tongue and lit a fire in the pit of his stomach. so maybe it wasn’t the best idea to call him sir in a mocking tone on a mission.

→ pairing: steve rogers x fem!reader

→ warnings: smut | 18+, sir kink, edging, fingering, mention of spanking, nicknames [princess, little one]

→ a/n: kinktober 16

Steve spent the whole ride back from the mission keeping a death grip on your thigh and facing forward with a deadpan stare. He wasn't per say mad at you but you knew you were in for it when you made it back to the base.

You had called him sir in a tone dripping with sarcasm and an eye roll when he gave you an order during the mission. The honorific wasn't new to you or Steve, it was something you learned about your boyfriend in the bedroom, he loved it when you called him sir. It wasn't a name he was called when he was a leader everyone just always called him cap.

So to hear it roll off your tongue in the middle of a mission in an almost mocking manner has his insides turning, cause it still sent that throb down through his cock.

He wasn't as mad that you said it in front of the others as he was with the way you said it. Yes because of the tone you got a laugh out of Tony in response but Steve didn't find it as amusing.

And that was how you ended up spread out on Steve’s bed, your thighs spread to accommodate your boyfriend's large frame between them. A stinging pain still lingering on your ass cheeks from the beginning half of your punishment, his rough palm. The latter half of your punishment was being relentlessly edged, Steve not allowing you to come no matter how many times you apologize sweetly and desperately. His long fingers were currently buried deep inside you curling upwards to hit that blissful spot deep inside you. That spot that has you squirming and crying out for release when he pulls them back right as your body tenses up and your orgasm is building, making you whine out at the loss of pleasure.

“Sir… pleasee ive been s’good i just need to cum, i promise i wont do it again” you whimper out, trying to grind your hips down on his fingers and fuck yourself on them or get him to move them. “See now i don't think you have, little one” he lightly shakes his head before he grabs ahold of your hip with his free hand. His fingers slowly pull out further making you let out a pathetic whine thinking he was stopping all together. But before you can protest or beg him not to, his fingers plunge inside you in a sharp thrust that has your head spinning. “Ahh~ Sir…pleasee m’gonna cum, wanna cum s’bad” you whine and mumble out, the hour or so of edging that has been going on has begun to make an ache settle in your core and not the good kind.

His fingers curl up again as they pound into you making your vision go blurry, your head spinning as your orgasm builds, growing more and more getting ready to crash into you. The sound of his chuckle rings in your ears and as fast as he pushes them in, Steve pulls his fingers back, not out but they stop their asslut of your g-spot. Your climax comes crashing down instead of over you, the building feelings dissipating in your stomach, your hips bucking and squirming.

“Sirrr pleasee it hurtss, neeed to cum” you cry out, your eyes screwing shut in slight pain as well as frustration.

”You wanted to be a little brat during the mission princess, this is all on you” he explains as his fingers slowly begin moving again though the switch in pace only has small gasps leaving your lips, your orgasm still far far away.

“I'm not done with you just yet, you gotta deal with the consequences to your actions little one” he cooed, leaning down to leave a small peck to your mouth before his free hands rubbed across your thighs that were starting to burn from being spread so wide for so long.

Steve had a long night planned ahead for you, though he did intend on letting you cum soon. He wouldn't be done even after that with you though, he was extremely worked up the entire ride back home. That three letter honorific does something to him he can't explain and he never wanted to hear you say it on a mission again. It's way too hard for him to keep his hands to himself when you do.

→ a/n: this is short, not proofread and kinda shit as im trying to rush to get back on track so maybe ill finish kinktober this year, i have hopefully one more post to do today, then just the last day which will either be posted on halloween or after after if im busy.