#marvel cinematic universe

[ramen-flavored]

I like violent men…

[danilights2021]

I'm so confused about this. Can someone please explain?

“CW COME PICK ME UP I’M SCARED.”

Existential Dread is my is my favourite Phandom flavour :)))))) Happy Dannypocalypse!!!

[spidey-official]

if doctor octopus wants to go by doc ock why can’t i, doctor cockroach-

yknow what, i agree doc cock

[star-pocalypse]

"I love morally grey characters!" They say, draining all the grey out of the character.

[eclipsedechoesofmywords]

"Of All Things"

[Bucky Barnes x fem!reader]

Masterlist

Summary: When Bucky gets a new haircut, you find yourself struggling to keep your composure—and your thoughts—under control.

Warnings: Fluff, mild teasing, mildly suggestive(just a few lines)

Word Count: 1.1k words

A/N: Is this a safe space to admit that Bucky with short hair is my favorite look of his? I love all of his looks(that man can't help but look perfect at all times) but the short hair did something to me🤧 Writing this to get a break from all the joaquín reqs

It did always seem like Bucky was hell-bent on making you go insane with everything he did. That godforsaken haircut was just about your last straw.

Bucky walked around, seemingly unaware of your eyes on him. His undercut accentuated the curve of his jaw, and the way the shorter strands at the top fell just slightly over his forehead made you want to scream. Or yank him into a supply closet. You hadn't decided yet.

He leaned against the kitchen counter, sipping coffee like he hadn't single-handedly ruined your ability to form coherent thoughts. When he raked a hand through his hair—again—you nearly dropped the mug you were holding.

"You good?" Sam's voice snapped you out of your trance. He followed your gaze to Bucky, smirk widening. "Oh. Oh. You're real good, huh?"

"Shut up," you hissed, turning to the sink to hide your burning face.

Bucky glanced over, catching your eyes. His lips quirked into a half-smile, the kind that crinkled the corners of his eyes. "Morning," he said, voice rough from sleep—or maybe just to torture you further.

"Morning," you managed, sounding strangled.

Sam snorted into his cereal.

---

"You know..."

"I don't," you cut off Sam immediately.

He snickered. "If you wanna keep looking like you wanna climb Buck like a tree, maybe be a bit more subtle."

"Shut up," you said, looking pointedly down at the file you were supposed to be reading.

"Seriously. Just ask him out."

"No. Shut up."

"I could set you up."

"Absolutely not." That sounded like a threat coming from Sam Wilson.

He looked offended. "I can set you two up on a date easily."

"I would actually rather jump into the ocean," you said decidedly.

He huffed, rolling his eyes. "I'm not that bad."

You make a face. It was his turn to mutter 'Shut up'. You couldn't help but laugh.

---

The next few days were an exercise in self-control. Bucky's hair wasn't just a haircut—it was a distraction. Every time he walked into a room, your brain short-circuited. The way he'd tilt his head when listening, the way the sunlight caught the sharp lines of his undercut, the way he absentmindedly tousled the longer strands on top… It was criminal.

You were convinced he knew. How could he not? The man was a supersoldier, for crying out loud—he had enhanced senses and tactical awareness—yet he remained infuriatingly oblivious, chatting with you about mission reports or the merits of Thai food over pizza like he wasn't the reason you were losing your mind.

It all came to a head during training.

You were sparring in the gym, Sam perched on a bench nearby with a bag of popcorn he'd 'borrowed' from the kitchen. Bucky wasn't wearing a shirt, sweat glistening on his shoulders as he dodged your half-hearted jab.

"C'mon, doll," he teased, smirking as you narrowly missed his ribs.

Doll. The nickname punched the air from your lungs. His eyes crinkled, playful and bright, and you swore his biceps flexed extra hard just to spite you.

You lunged again, but your foot caught on the mat. Bucky's metal arm shot out to steady you, his grip warm and firm on your waist. His face was suddenly inches from yours, his breath against your cheek. "Easy," he murmured, voice low. "You're gonna hurt yourself."

Sam's popcorn crunching stopped. The gym felt suddenly, unbearably hot.

"I'm—fine," you stammered, jerking back like he'd burned you. Bucky frowned, brow furrowing as he studied you.

"You're flushed. You overheating?"

Sam choked on a laugh. "Oh, she's overheatin' alright."

You shot him a death glare. Bucky, still oblivious, reached for a towel and tossed it to you. "Take five. Hydrate."

As you gulped down the water, Sam came to stand beside you, wickedly grinning. "You're pathetic."

"I hate you," you muttered.

"He's gonna figure it out eventually."

"He won't. His idea of flirting is asking if I want extra grenades on missions."

Sam snorted. "Yeah, well, maybe you should try the direct approach. Y'know, like normal people."

"And say what? ‘Hey, Bucky, your hair makes me want to ride you into the sunset'?"

Sam's eyebrows shot up. "I mean, it's a start—"

"No."

---

Later that evening, you found Bucky alone on the common room couch, flipping through a worn copy of The Hobbit. His hair was still damp from a shower, curls soft and loose.

He glanced up, patting the space beside him. "Hey. Sam said you wanted to talk about the op coming up?"

That bastard.

You sat stiffly, hyperaware of the heat radiating off him. "Uh. Yeah. Extraction points. Y'know. Logistics."

Bucky nodded, serious. "Right. So, we'll need—"

You weren't listening. His thumb was tracing the edge of the book's spine, his other hand gesturing vaguely as he spoke. His sweatpants hung low on his hips, and dear God—

"—what do you think?"

You blinked. "Huh?"

He tilted his head, eyes narrowing. "You okay? You've been… off."

"Off?"

"Jumpy."

You swallowed. "Just tired."

Bucky set the book down, turning to face you fully. His knee brushed yours. "You sure?"

The concern in his voice undid you. "Your hair," you blurted.

He froze. "…My hair?"

"It's—different. Good different! Like, really good. Not that it wasn't good before! But now it's… uh…" You gestured vaguely, face burning.

Bucky stared. Then, slowly, a grin spread across his face—the kind that made your stomach flip. "It's what?"

"Shut up."

He leaned closer, voice dropping. "You've been staring at me for days. Thought I'd done something wrong."

"You did," you muttered.

He raised an eyebrow. "Oh?"

"You did," you repeated, unable to stop the words now that they'd started. "That haircut is… it's mean. Like you're actively trying to sabotage my productivity." 

Bucky's grin turned downright smug. He shifted closer, the weight of his thigh pressing against yours on the couch. "Mean, huh? Didn't realize my barber choices were a tactical threat."

"Well, they are," you huffed, crossing your arms.

"Right," he laughed.

You swallowed, courage sparking. "Sam said I should ask you out." 

Bucky snorted. "Wilson's a menace." 

"But… is he wrong?" 

His eyes snapped back to yours, blue and blazing. The playfulness vanished, replaced by something hotter, more intent. "No," he said roughly. "He's not." 

You didn't know who moved first. One second, you were drowning in the space between his breaths; the next, his mouth was on yours, fierce and sweet. The book tumbled to the floor as his hands cradled your face, metal and flesh equally gentle. His lips were chapped, his kiss a slow burn that melted every coherent thought worse than his hair did.  

When you finally pulled back, foreheads pressed together, Bucky chuckled—a warm, disbelieving sound. "Should've gotten this haircut months ago." 

You swatted his shoulder, laughing. "Don't you dare change it back." 

"Wouldn't dream of it," he murmured, stealing another kiss.  

Somewhere down the hall, Sam's victorious whoop echoed. "Took you two long enough!" 

Bucky groaned, resting his forehead against your collarbone. "I'm gonna strangle him with his own wings." 

"Later," you promised, threading your fingers through his stupid, perfect hair.  

A/N 2: I'm considering writing part 2 of this as a bucky x reader x sam. imagining em pouncing on sam has me.

[slysidekick]

Yes, that’s why Tom’s performance is so beautiful.

[hopelesslygaysstuff]

Wanda slowly corrupting you ♡

Her voice in your head, dripping with false sweetness, telling you it's okay to give in.

Wanda's fingers dragging along your skin, your attention so focused on her that you don't notice the red lines they leave behind, her grip on you deepening every day.

The more you resist, the tighter her fingers are.

Wanda chokes you out one time, her fingers leaving a ring of bruises around your neck, but instead of apologizing to you, she just tells you that "Mommy know's what's best for her little pet," and makes you repeat it until your eyes are glazed over.

She doesn’t take control. She makes you want to give it up.

Sometimes, she makes you beg for her to hurt or punish you, even though you don't want to. She refuses to even acknowledge your presence until you're on your knees begging for her to take you to the bedroom and offering her a flogger.

She promises you're still you. She just made you better.

What you don't know if that you've changed from the person you once were. You just don't realize it... but Wanda knows. She made you into the perfect pet.

You think you still have a choice, she knows you don’t. Not anymore... ♡

[a-spes]

Driving Past the Red Lights. (N.R. x R.) — Series' Masterlist.

| Summary — when yelena accidentally kills their driver, the women have to find a new one, and quick. natasha has found one, you, and it's safe to say she won't take no for an answer, determined to draw you into her world. one that is made out of violence and blood. one that's unforgiving and will force you to face your demons.

| A/N — this series was inspired by the movie "wingwomen". it is more a collection of one-shot than a proper series so the parts will be quite short.

| tags & warnings — mob boss!natasha romanoff x driver!r, mob boss!yelena belova x driver!r (platonic). angst, comfort. grieving, anxiety. violence, guns, death, blood, killing. accident, injuries. more a collection of one-shot than a proper series so the parts will be quite short.

✧ Part one. 'Unnamed yet.' — after a terrible 'accident', the women lost their driver. however, with this important mission coming up, they need a new one, and preferably an awfully good one. hopefully, natasha has found the perfect candidate, you. but convincing you may be more difficult than she first thought.

✧ Part two. 'Unnamed yet.' — natasha says you are a 'diamond in the rough.' but yelena would rather say that you are a waste of time, of her time because apparently it is her mission to train the stray her sister has wanted to get. but since she knows there is no point in arguing with the oldest, she is well determined to make you pay for her situation.

✧ Part three. 'Unnamed yet.' — natasha sends you on your first mission. something simple, childlike according to yelena who can't stop grumbling. she made it clear that she is unhappy to have you in the way.

✧ Part four. 'Unnamed yet.' — after the result of the last mission, yelena decides to reinforce your training.the last thing she wants is to get into a second argument with her sister. but your new schedule leaves you so exhausted that you spend what little free time you have sleeping in sometimes surprinsing places.

✧ Part five. 'Unnamed yet.' — you knew this moment would inevitable come. because if yelena had taught you to use a weapong, it was not for fun. yet, nothing had prepared you for the moment when you would actually make your first victim, for the sight of blood and the smell of death.

✧ Part six. 'Unnamed yet.' — your next mission will be with natasha. the news leaves a weight in your stomach, an anguish you have been carrying around for weeks, dreading this day. you have always refused to drive with natasha behind you, scared that you might hurt her. but you can't refuse this time.

✧ Part seven. 'Unnamed yet.' — you're an exceptional driver, but accidents are sometimes unavoidable. especially given the ever-increasing danger of the missions you're entrusted with.

[thenameswintergifs]

BUCKY BARNES + hairstyle: short hair edition

SEBASTIAN STAN as JAMES "BUCKY" BARNES ↳ CAPTAIN AMERICA: THE FIRST AVENGER (2011), dir. JOE JOHNSTON ↳ CAPTAIN AMERICA: THE WINTER SOLDIER (2014), dir. ANTHONY AND JOE RUSSO | Flashback scene ↳ THE FALCON AND THE WINTER SOLDIER (2021), season 1 ↳ CAPTAIN AMERICA: BRAVE NEW WORLD (2025), dir. JULIUS ONAH | Cameo

[just-like-her-father]

GASPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPP.

Look!

@c0ld-d3ad-heart

I see no difference

[unevenlee]

BISHOVA !!!!!!!!!!!

@skyesogoofy

[buckyssugarchick]

DDBA Writers:

[avengerscompound]

Robert Downey Jr as Tony Stark

IRON MAN

[just-like-her-father]

Made an appearance?

OLIVIA RODRIGO Lollapalooza Brazil — 2025

[cece693]

So, this might just be an excuse to write a Steve bashing fanfic, but I couldn't help myself. The idea is basically this: Steve leaves you (you're dating) without a goodbye or explanation after the airport fight occurs. So (naturally) you gravitate towards Tony. Steve comes back and doesn't take it well. Hope you enjoy!

What You Left Behind

pairing: tony stark x male reader tags: past relationship with steve, steve bashing, reader moves on with Tony, pro Tony stark because why not, explicit sexual content, emotional angst, verbal confrontation, toxic behavior from steve

You hadn't thought Steve would leave—not really. You'd convinced yourself that somehow you'd always come first, that the deep nights spent wrapped in his arms, whispered promises against your skin, meant something more profound than duty or history. But reality had a sharp edge, and when Barnes resurfaced, broken and hunted, Steve’s loyalty crystallized swiftly around his best friend. He chose Barnes—perhaps the man he'd always wanted deep down—over you.

It felt like abandonment—because it was. Not just a physical separation, but an emotional detachment. He’d left you standing in the airport, eyes stinging with unshed tears as you watched him vanish alongside Barnes, shield in hand, never looking back. Yet you never blamed Barnes. He was a pawn caught in a twisted game that history played mercilessly. Your anger, quiet yet corrosive, was reserved entirely for Steve.

Months passed, during which you withdrew inward, throwing yourself into missions and assignments, barely surfacing for air. Tony, whom you'd always admired—maybe a little more than platonically before Steve—was a steady presence in your peripheral vision, watching, waiting.

One evening, after a particularly difficult mission, you found yourself nursing a drink in Tony’s penthouse. He was there, sleeves rolled up, eyes soft and understanding. He’d known heartbreak, betrayal, abandonment—the shattering loneliness of being left behind. “You know,” Tony murmured quietly, eyes glinting gently with compassion and perhaps something deeper, “he didn’t deserve you.”

“Maybe he didn’t,” you whispered back, staring at the amber liquid swirling slowly in your glass. Your throat tightened. “And maybe I always knew.”

You don’t quite remember who moved first—maybe both simultaneously—but suddenly your lips were brushing Tony’s, hesitant yet filled with pent-up longing. He tasted rich, intoxicating, every touch igniting a new spark between you. You took Tony upstairs, guiding him onto the bed with practiced ease, his eyes dark and filled with want. His breathing grew heavier as you stripped him slowly, savoring the flush that spread down his chest.

“God,” Tony moaned softly when your lips traced along his throat, marking him gently. You moved lower, pressing kisses down his chest, fingertips grazing his hips until he trembled beneath you.

“You sure about this?” you murmured, hovering over him, your eyes locking onto his.

“More sure than I’ve ever been,” Tony whispered, pulling you into another fierce kiss.

You entered him slowly, watching Tony’s face closely, the way his expression melted into pleasure, his grip tightening around your shoulders. You filled him deeply, steadily, losing yourselves to each other. Tony surrendered completely beneath you, vulnerable yet trusting, until you both shattered together in overwhelming release, his name leaving your lips in a breathless sigh.

That night changed everything. If Steve's absence hadn't already been enough to tell you to move on, it was Tony's gentle touches and lingering kisses that convinced you this was far more than a drunken, one-night encounter.

Pepper, Peter, Happy, and the others were delighted when you made your relationship known. And that in itself was liberating. The people who meant more to Tony than anybody accepted you, welcoming you wholeheartedly into their family without hesitation or doubt. It felt like you finally belonged again. Months passed, each day with Tony strengthening your bond—each stolen moment, lazy morning, and shared laugh solidifying your future together.

Then Steve returned.

The rogues were pardoned—half because the public still loved them, the other half because the world needed defenders when another threat presented itself. You'd planned on avoiding them entirely, content to move on, but Steve showed up at the Tower without warning, assuming nothing had changed.

It was early evening when he strode into the main living area, pausing mid-step as his gaze landed sharply on you, sprawled comfortably on the couch, Tony curled up warmly against your side. Something dangerous flickered in Steve's eyes, a mixture of shock, confusion, and anger swiftly settling over his features. “What the hell is this?” he demanded, eyes narrowing, voice ice-cold.

Tony stiffened beside you, but you gently squeezed his arm before standing to face your ex-boyfriend. “Exactly what it looks like, Steve.”

“I leave for one minute—”

“You left for nine months,” you correct, each word clipped. “You walked away from me—from us—without so much as a goodbye. I was patient, Steve. I let you chase Bucky across three continents before the Accords. Was supportive of your decisions even if they didn’t align with my own, and you know why?” Your voice shakes, anger and hurt clawing at your throat. “Because I trusted you. I trusted that my boyfriend would actually come back to me. I told myself we’d talk things through, fix whatever went wrong…but you never bothered.”

Steve sucks in a breath, but you press on, refusing to let him cut in.

“I waited, Steve. Texts. Calls. I tried everything. Hell, I even asked Sam if he’d heard from you. Do you know how humiliating it felt, searching for any hint of your plans, trying to hold on to a relationship you’d already abandoned?”

Steve’s throat works, but he doesn’t say anything. Instead, he slips into the same brittle, defensive posture that’s become so familiar since he left. “I had to protect Bucky,” he says flatly, almost dismissively. “I didn’t have time to stop by for tea and a heart-to-heart. People were hunting him like an animal.”

“I get that,” you return sharply. “I supported your decision to protect him—even if I didn’t agree with every extreme measure you took to do it. But it wasn’t just about Bucky, was it? You ran off to save him, leaving me to deal with the fallout of everything else.”

Tony stands off to the side, tension radiating through his posture. He’s trying to keep quiet, to let you handle this, but his protective streak is obvious in the worried flicker of his eyes. And Steve, of course, notices. “So you’re with him now? Mr. Shoot-First-and-Apologize-Never?” He scoffs, crossing his arms. “Great choice. You know, he’s got a track record of letting entire cities drop out of the sky, and that’s when he’s not actively trying to murder someone’s best friend in a parking garage.”

“Excuse me?” Tony bristles, fists clenching. “Wanna talk about track records? Because punching your problems away hasn’t exactly been a glowing success, Cap.”

“Says the man who upended the world with killer robots but thinks he’s earned a gold star because he donated some funds and co-wrote a few laws.” The jab lands, and you can feel Tony’s anger roil. You’ve seen the remorse he carries daily—the nights he wakes up soaked in sweat, replaying Sokovia in his head. Steve flings it around like cheap currency, as if it doesn’t cost Tony to admit he messed up.

“Enough." you snap, your voice steeling. “I’m done letting you talk to him like that. Don’t you dare walk back in here after nearly a year and act like Tony’s the only one who’s ever screwed up. You made your choice, Steve. You chose Bucky over everything. Over me. And I…” You swallow hard. “I had to find someone to lean on when you left. Someone who would stand by me, who wasn’t going to run off and disappear.”

“And Stark was the only other option?”

“If you’re fishing for cheap shots, try again. I’m not explaining the basics of how Tony and I got here nor do I owe you an explanation. Maybe you're just angry that I'm not a dutiful little trophy, waiting for the great Captain America to grace me with his presence again.”

Steve’s lips press into a thin line. “I thought you’d understand.”

“That I was just supposed to…what? Approve of you ghosting me for months while you played renegade with a handful of rogues? Steve, you hurt me. You don’t get to come back and pretend we can resume where we left off.”

He looks like he wants to argue—like he wants to push back with all the moral indignation in the world—but he glances between you and Tony, and something snaps in his expression: a raw, bitter mixture of disbelief and betrayal. “You made your choice,” he says, voice tight, so devoid of the warmth he once showed you. “I hope this works out for you, because when Stark screws up again—and we both know he will—I’m not going to be around to pick up the pieces.”

“You were never around to begin with,” you say evenly. “And I don’t need you to pick up anything. I’m not the same person you left behind, Steve.” For a moment, he just stares, eyes dark with anger and something almost like regret. But he sets his jaw and pushes past you, striding to the elevator. The doors slide shut with a harsh hiss.

Silence.

Behind you, Tony exhales, shoulders sagging. “I’m sorry,” he offers, voice hushed. “I didn’t mean for any of that to—”

“You didn’t do anything wrong.” You turn to him. “Steve's hurting, and he’s lashing out. Doesn’t excuse what he said, though.” You pause, letting out a slow breath. “I’m not going to let him treat you like a punching bag for his guilt. Not now. Not ever.”

Tony’s lips curve into a faint smile, gratitude shining behind his eyes. He lifts his hand, lacing his fingers with yours. “Thank you,” he murmurs, stepping closer. “For everything.” Tony’s fingers tighten around yours, as though he’s checking that you’re still real—still choosing him. You bring your joined hands to your lips and press a brief kiss to his knuckles.

“C’mon,” you say softly. “Let’s get out of the blast zone before Steve decides to storm back in for round two.”

Tony snorts, but the sound is thin. “Elevator cameras probably caught him seething the whole ride down. FRIDAY’s going to have a field day with the security footage.”

You guide him toward the kitchen, where the overhead lights are gentler and the hum of appliances fills the lingering silence. A pot of coffee still sits warm on the burner. You pour two mugs—Tony’s in the “Proof That Tony Stark Has a Heart” cup he pretends he hates—and slide one across the counter.

He watches you over the rim as he takes a sip, brown eyes softening. “You really don’t blame me for any of that?”

“I blame you for a lot of things,” you tease, nudging his hip with yours. “Like leaving greasy wrenches on the couch and using the last of the oat milk without replacing it. But Steve’s anger? No. That’s on him.” Your smile fades, earnest now. “I meant what I said. You stayed. That matters.”

Tony sets the mug down and pulls you into his arms, arc reactor pulsing gently between you. “I keep expecting you to wake up and realize you deserve better than a walking cautionary tale.”

“Funny,” you murmur against his shoulder. “I keep thinking the same about you. Except I’m the cautionary tale.” You lean back, meeting his gaze. “So maybe we just keep proving each other wrong.”

A wry grin tugs at his mouth. “Deal.” He dips his head, kissing you—slow and certain, like signing a contract with lips instead of ink. When he pulls away he rests his forehead to yours. “You hungry? I can whip up something carbon‑loaded and terrible for my cholesterol.”

“You mean order something?” you deadpan.

“Hey, I’m a culinary savant when I want to be. I’ve watched Happy make omelettes at least twice.”

You chuckle, the tension in your chest finally easing. “Pizza’s fine, genius. But—” You glance toward the windows where the skyline glitters. “After we eat, maybe we should talk about what happens when Steve comes back. Because he will.”

Tony’s smile falters, replaced by a sober nod. “Yeah. He’s still part of the team—even if the team looks different now.” He exhales. “I can handle him throwing punches at me. I’m used to that. But if he aims for you again…”

“He won’t,” you promise. “Not while I’m standing.”

Tony’s gaze warms, fierce and fond. “That’s the thing—I don’t want you to have to stand alone.” He reaches into his pocket and produces a slim, silver keycard. “Been carrying this around for weeks, waiting for the right moment.” He presses it into your palm. “Full workshop access. Total clearance. It’s not a ring, but it’s the next best Stark‑level commitment.”

Emotion swells in your throat. “You sure? That’s basically giving me the launch codes.”

“I trust you with more than that,” he says quietly. “Besides, you already have the launch codes. I talk in my sleep.”

You laugh, eyes stinging. “Thank you.”

He brushes his thumb across your cheekbone. “Thank you for choosing me.”

A gentle chime sounds overhead—FRIDAY clearing her throat, if an AI could. “Boss, Captain Rogers has left the premises. He did not, however, punch any walls on the way out. Progress?”

Tony rolls his eyes. “Mark it in the log, FRIDAY. ‘Rogers: zero structural damage, moderate emotional carnage.’”

“Logged,” she replies primly.

You shake your head, amused. “Let’s eat before another Avenger barges in.”

“Pizza incoming,” Tony declares, tapping the holographic interface on his watch. He pauses, smirks. “Extra pineapple. Just to spite the super‑soldier.”