#me before: i don't really care about superheroes

[heybiji]

double life

[writerfromthestars]

DP X DC PROMPT: DANNY'S AN ASSASSIN?!

So Danny gets adopted by the Waynes somehow.

Now, he's a teenage vigilante, he knows all the signs. And he can clearly tell that Damian and Tim are sneaking out under the cover of night to fight crime as Robin and Red Robin.

While ordinarily this would lead to the connection between the Waynes being Batman, Nightwing, Red Hood, and various other assorted vigilantes, that's not what we're here for, so instead, what happens is that Danny thinks that his two absolutely normal little brothers are sneaking out, meeting strange people dressed in spandex and Kevlar on rooftops, and punching criminals.

He has no issue with this.

The only issue he has is that Tim and Damian are inexperienced, I mean, Damian's twelve or something like that, he can't have been Robin for long. He's not particularly willing to get back into heroism himself, though, so this leads to him casually dropping random tidbits of information that only an ex-vigilante/hero/assassin/other part of the caped community, would know into regular conversation.

Like, if Tim's using bandages on his hand, Danny will suddenly drop the fact that that particular brand is very absorbent and works really well to take care of large, bloody wounds, like bullet holes in important places.

If Damian's reading a book about different knives, and their creation processes (because be real, he totally would) Danny will read over his shoulder a bit and then just point out a knife that would particularly good for stabbing someone in the stomach, or slitting someone's throat. (he knows this because of a. his rogues trying to kill him and b. Dan likes sharp things.)

The three of them are watching some superhero movie or something, and Danny goes on a twelve-minute rant about how the fight scenes would never work that way.

Tim and Damian come to the conclusion that their new brother has been trained by the League of Assassins or something.

Here's the issue. Danny hasn't.

So Damian starts dropping little hints that he knows that Danny was part of the League, for example a reference to a technique that only a League member would know. Danny, who has been trained in hand-to-hand by Dan, who was trained by dead League assassins in the alternate timeline, knows the moves.

Danny is just happy that his baby brothers are taking his advice, and opening up to him too. Damian is even starting to talk about fighting with him, and he thinks that they might actually tell him about their nighttime activities soon.

Finally, the two confront him on it. And by that, I mean that like the emotionally constipated bats they are, they utterly fail in their interrogation because they can't just come out and say it out in the open.

Tim: so Danny, I noticed how you know a lot about fighting. and first aid, and stuff.

Damian: I have noticed this as well. Might I inquire as to where you gained these skills?

Danny just thinks that they have figured out his past as a vigilante and that they are worried about him being hurt.

Danny: Don't worry about it. I don't do that type of thing anymore.

Now that's a deflection if Tim's ever heard it.

Damian, digging for more information: I wish to know. Maybe I can learn from whoever it was that taught you?

Danny grimaces slightly before answering.

Danny: Trust me, kiddo, you don't wanna learn from the people who taught me this stuff. They squash you like a bug.

Tim and Damian take this as confirmation that Danny was involve in the League. Danny just means that pitting his rogue gallery, which consists of exclusively ghosts, against living boys would be unfair.

[amethystarachnid]

BET

⤷ JAMES B. “BUCKY” BARNES

ᯓ★ Pairing: James B. “Bucky” Barnes x fem!reader

ᯓ★ Genre: romance, angst and fluff

ᯓ★ Request from: not requested but taken from MARVEL bingo

ᯓ★ Story type: one shot

ᯓ★ Word count: 10k (damn this surprises me too)

ᯓ★ Summary: When Bucky Barnes suddenly starts talking to you you don't think much of it and when he asks you out on a date you couldn't be happier, Bucky truly is everything you could ever want in a man, a man that really loves you...At least that's what you thought until you discovered that it was real all just a bet.

ᯓ★ TW(s): mentions of virginity and virginity loss, small mentions of a smut scene

ᯓ★ AU: college au

ᯓ★ Request: not requested

ᯓ★ Comment if you want to be added to the taglist (specify if you want the everything taglist or for a specific character)

ᯓ★ Songs & Superheroes tales - The Game (to make a request, follow the rules on the link!)

ᯓ★ MARVEL Bingo (requests closed)

ᯓ★ Masterlist

ᯓ★ If you are a Charles Xavier fan click on this link!

ᯓ★ English isn’t my first language and this isn’t proof read

The music is loud, pulsing through the walls of the frat house as Bucky sits slouched on a couch, one arm draped lazily over the back. The night is already wearing on him, but he knows he’s going to be here until Sam and Steve call it a night, which—based on the collection of red solo cups by their feet—might be a while.

They’re all trading stories from the semester, voices buzzing with that blend of laughter and cheap beer. Sam is in the middle of recounting his latest dare when he nudges Bucky’s arm, catching his attention.

“Bet you couldn’t last a month with someone like her,” Sam says, nodding toward the corner of the room.

Bucky glances up, following Sam’s gaze until he spots you. You’re perched near the bookshelf, alone and fidgeting with your drink as you flip through a book someone left behind. He’s seen you around campus before, usually with your nose buried in a novel or surrounded by a pile of textbooks. There’s something unassuming about you, something quiet and untouchable. His friends know he’s more the type to go for a party girl—someone loud, someone who doesn’t ask too many questions.

“What, the bookworm?” Bucky scoffs, raising an eyebrow. But his friends don’t let up, and soon Steve and Sam are egging him on.

“You’re always chasing the same type,” Steve chimes in. “What are you afraid of, that she’d actually challenge you?”

Bucky laughs, rolling his eyes. He knows he should shut it down, but their teasing digs at him, scratching at that competitive edge that’s always lurking just beneath his smirk.

“All right,” Bucky finally says, shrugging. “I’ll do it. One month.”

His friends exchange knowing grins, slapping him on the back. But as soon as the words leave his mouth, Bucky feels a strange knot settle low in his stomach—a feeling he’s not used to. He brushes it off. It’s just a game, a challenge. It’s not like he’s actually going to care.

The next day, you’re tucked into your usual corner in the library, surrounded by a fortress of books. You barely notice him when he walks up, leaning against the edge of the table with a casual confidence that doesn’t match the usual quiet of the space.

“Mind if I join you?” His voice is smooth, low enough that you almost have to lean in to hear him clearly.

You glance up, surprised to see Bucky Barnes standing there, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. You’ve seen him around campus—he’s hard to miss with that leather jacket and effortlessly messy hair, the type of guy who always has someone laughing beside him.

“Sure,” you murmur, unsure of what else to say as you move your books aside, offering him a seat. You’re used to people mostly ignoring you here. It’s your refuge, your sanctuary. So when he sits across from you, stretching out as if he belongs there, it feels jarringly out of place.

“You look like you’re buried in work,” he observes, nodding at the mountain of papers in front of you. “What’s got you so busy?”

You hesitate, but something in his easygoing manner convinces you to answer. “Just…assignments. Trying to keep up with everything.” You give him a small smile, your guard still up but feeling oddly curious.

“What’s your major?” he asks, and the question catches you off guard. Most people don’t bother to ask; they assume or don’t care enough to wonder. He listens as you talk about your studies, nodding, asking small questions. Before you know it, you’re telling him more than you intended, falling into an easy rhythm that surprises you.

It becomes a pattern. Over the next few weeks, he finds reasons to run into you—at the coffee shop, in the library, even in the quad between classes. Each time, he stays a little longer, asks a little more, his eyes holding yours with that subtle intensity he wears so well. At first, you’re wary, cautious of his attention. But Bucky is good, easing his way in like he has all the time in the world, his jokes and questions slowly weaving a thread of trust between you two.

And Bucky? He’s surprised at how much he finds himself drawn to you. Each time you laugh, he catches himself watching, feeling something strange and warm unfurl in his chest. There’s a gentleness in you, a quiet intelligence, that keeps him coming back even as he reminds himself this isn’t supposed to mean anything.

But the longer he spends time with you, the more he feels the weight of what he agreed to, creeping up on him every time he catches your smile, every time you look at him like he’s someone worth knowing.

He tells himself it’s just part of the bet. But deep down, he knows he’s starting to cross a line he never meant to touch.

It’s been a few weeks since Bucky started spending time with you, and against every reminder he gives himself, he’s found himself looking forward to it more than he wants to admit. He tells himself it’s harmless—he’s just getting to know you, just finding ways to pass the time. But he knows he’s lying, especially when he starts finding excuses to see you outside of the library or when he catches himself glancing at his phone, hoping for a text from you.

One night, back at the frat house, he’s lounging with Sam and Steve again, half-listening to their conversation when Sam nudges him.

“So, Barnes. How’s it going with the bookworm?” Sam asks with a knowing smirk. Bucky rolls his eyes, trying to brush it off, but Sam isn’t so easily deterred. “Don’t tell me you’re catching feelings.”

Bucky scoffs, forcing a laugh to keep the truth buried. “It’s going fine. Like I said, a month’s no problem.”

Sam exchanges a glance with Steve, a wicked grin spreading across his face. “Let’s make this interesting then. If you really want to win this thing, you’ve got to take it further.”

Bucky’s jaw clenches. “Further?” He has a bad feeling about where this is going.

Steve raises his eyebrows. “Come on, Buck. You’ve been hanging out with her, sure, but we’re talking about actually making her fall for you. Ask her out, and, you know—” He raises an eyebrow meaningfully.

“Sleep with her,” Sam adds bluntly, laughing. “Seal the deal, and there’s two hundred bucks in it for you.”

Bucky hesitates, that uncomfortable knot tightening in his stomach again. He tells himself it’s just a stupid bet. He’s done things like this before—gotten close to people just to prove he could, had plenty of meaningless hookups that never meant a thing. He’s Bucky Barnes, the guy who doesn’t do commitment or complications. But for some reason, picturing it with you makes him feel…off.

“Fine,” he says after a beat, his voice steady, betraying nothing of the uncertainty he’s trying to ignore. “Two hundred bucks. Done.”

The next day, he texts you, his fingers hovering over the keys a little too long before he finally sends, Hey, you free Friday? Let me take you out somewhere nice.

When you see his message, your heart skips a beat. It’s been a while since anyone has asked you on an actual date, and even longer since you’ve felt genuinely excited about someone. Bucky’s been different from the start—warm, attentive, and surprisingly easy to talk to. You’ve caught yourself looking forward to his company, replaying the moments he laughs at one of your jokes or leans in close enough for you to catch a hint of his cologne.

After a second, you type back, Yeah, I’d love to! You add a smiley face, feeling almost giddy as you press send.

The days leading up to Friday drag by, each one marked with bursts of nerves and anticipation. You spend a little more time getting ready than usual, finally deciding on a simple but pretty dress that makes you feel confident. When Bucky picks you up, his usual leather jacket replaced with a dark button-up, you feel a thrill of excitement. He looks genuinely happy to see you, his eyes scanning over you appreciatively as he gives you a lopsided grin.

“You look amazing,” he says, his gaze warm. There’s something softer in his eyes, something that makes you blush.

“Thanks,” you mumble, smiling as you walk beside him. He leads you to a small Italian place tucked away from campus, the kind of cozy, dimly lit restaurant you wouldn’t have expected him to know about. The conversation flows easily between you two, laughter spilling out as you talk about classes, hometowns, and childhood memories.

The night feels magical, almost surreal, and you start to wonder if maybe, just maybe, there’s something real here. Every time his hand brushes against yours, a spark shoots up your spine. And when he reaches across the table, fingers lightly grazing your wrist as he laughs at something you said, your heart flutters in a way that’s both thrilling and terrifying.

After dinner, he suggests taking a walk, and soon you’re strolling through the quiet streets, the chill of the night air making you shiver just slightly. Without a word, Bucky slips his arm around your shoulders, pulling you close. It feels so natural, like you belong there.

“You know, I don’t think I’ve ever been on a date this nice,” you admit, smiling up at him, your voice soft.

He chuckles, though it sounds slightly strained. “Really? I find that hard to believe.”

You shrug, trying to brush it off. “I guess I’ve just never…met anyone like you before.”

There’s a flash of something in his eyes—guilt, maybe, or regret. But it’s gone as quickly as it came, replaced with that charming grin. He steps closer, his arm slipping from your shoulders, and you hold your breath as he cups your cheek, his thumb brushing lightly against your skin.

“You’re pretty amazing, you know that?” he murmurs, his voice low.

You feel like the world has stopped, your heart pounding in your chest. This is the moment you’ve been dreaming of, the moment where everything finally falls into place.

But for Bucky, something sharp and painful twists inside him. He can feel the weight of what he’s doing pressing down on him, can see the way your eyes look at him with such unguarded trust, and it’s enough to make his stomach turn. He’s never felt guilty over a stupid bet before, but right now, the idea of hurting you feels unbearable.

“Hey,” he says softly, his hand still on your cheek. “You trust me, right?”

Your eyes widen, and you nod slowly, too caught up in the moment to notice the tension in his gaze. “Yeah,” you whisper, a small smile forming on your lips.

He leans in, pressing his forehead against yours as he takes a steadying breath. “Good,” he says, trying to keep his voice steady. Because if he’s going to go through with this, he tells himself he has to believe that none of it matters—that he won’t let himself care. But even as he kisses you, his lips soft and warm against yours, he knows he’s lying to himself.

The days after that first date drift into a series of moments that feel surreal, almost like they’re happening to someone else. You find yourself checking your phone at odd times, waiting for his texts, smiling down at your screen whenever his name lights up. Bucky is a part of your routine now, and it feels strange, thrilling even, like there’s this magnetic force that draws you to him despite every bit of caution you try to hold onto.

Every time you’re with him, the outside world fades. He makes you laugh with stories about his friends, leaning in close, his voice warm and low as if he’s sharing some secret just for you. You catch yourself stealing glances when he’s not looking—at the way his jaw clenches when he’s lost in thought or how his eyes soften when he looks at you, a mix of curiosity and something you can’t quite name.

It’s after one of your study sessions at the library that Bucky invites you over to his dorm room for the first time. He tells you he’s got some old movies you’ve probably never seen, and, honestly, he’s right—you’d never pictured Bucky as the type to own black-and-white classics, but that’s exactly what he has, a surprisingly large collection lined up on a low shelf near his TV. He insists you pick one, and soon you’re sitting side by side on his couch, your legs tucked up beneath you, feeling almost shy in the soft glow of the screen.

The movie starts, but his arm stretches along the back of the couch, barely brushing your shoulders. The faintest touch sends electricity through you, but you stay quiet, not wanting to ruin the moment. Then, halfway through the movie, he shifts, glancing at you.

“You can get closer, you know,” he murmurs, his eyes glinting with something mischievous yet gentle.

Your heart flutters as you scoot closer, until you’re tucked into his side, his arm draped around you in a way that feels possessive yet comforting. He smells faintly like cedar and something distinctly him, a scent that’s becoming familiar. Before you know it, your head is resting on his shoulder, his hand absently tracing patterns on your arm, and you feel like you could stay there forever.

Time slips by in a collection of small, perfect moments. There are more dates—little coffee shops tucked away from campus, a bookstore where he buys you a copy of a novel you mentioned in passing, a late-night diner where you both end up after laughing so hard that you can’t breathe. You never expected him to be so attentive, so eager to listen to your stories and learn every detail about your life. He even surprises you with your favorite snack on study nights, tossing it to you with a grin before leaning in close to steal a bite for himself.

One evening, after a long day of classes and a surprise text from Bucky inviting you over, you find yourself curled up on his couch once again. This time, he’s stretched out beside you, one arm tucked under his head while the other rests around your shoulders. His fingers brush against your arm absently, and you can’t help but notice how natural this feels. It’s terrifying, too, the way he seems to melt into your life so effortlessly, as if he’s always been there.

You glance up at him, catching him mid-laugh as he recounts an embarrassing story about Sam, who apparently tried to show off on a skateboard and ended up with a sprained ankle.

“You’re terrible,” you tease, nudging him with your shoulder, though you’re laughing too.

“Oh, come on. It was hilarious,” he insists, grinning down at you. He tilts his head, his gaze dropping to your lips for just a second, and your laughter fades as something shifts between you.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” you ask softly, your voice barely more than a whisper.

He shrugs, the corner of his mouth twitching in a faint smile. “I just…can’t believe you’re real sometimes.”

The words catch you off guard, and for a moment, you’re too stunned to reply. But then he leans down, his lips brushing yours with a tenderness that makes your chest ache. The kiss deepens slowly, each touch feeling like a promise, and you lose yourself in the warmth of his embrace, forgetting every doubt, every insecurity that ever kept you guarded.

As the weeks pass, you find yourself falling harder than you ever expected. Bucky seems to find every crack in your armor, every scar and hidden fear, and instead of pulling away, he draws closer, listening to your stories and letting you into his own in ways that leave you breathless. He’s there to listen on your tough days, wrapping his arms around you and murmuring words of reassurance. He’s there on your good days, too, laughing with you, pressing kisses to your forehead as if he can’t believe his luck.

One night, you’re back on his couch, cuddled up under a thick blanket as a storm rages outside, the rain tapping against the windows. You’re nestled against him, his arm holding you close, and he’s quiet, his fingers tracing patterns along your shoulder absentmindedly.

“Bucky?” you ask, breaking the comfortable silence.

“Hmm?” he murmurs, his gaze dropping to yours, his eyes soft and warm in the dim light.

“Thank you,” you say, your voice barely a whisper. “For everything.”

He frowns slightly, shifting so he can look at you fully. “You don’t have to thank me for that,” he says, his thumb brushing against your cheek. “Being with you…it’s the easiest thing in the world.”

You smile, warmth spreading through your chest, and he kisses you again, slow and soft, like he’s savoring every second. It’s moments like this that make you feel like maybe, just maybe, you’re finally safe with someone, that this is something real.

But for Bucky, each moment with you is a double-edged sword. He’s never felt this way before—this calm, this…connected. Every time you laugh at one of his jokes or lean against him, trusting and unguarded, he feels that awful twist of guilt, the memory of that stupid bet lurking in the back of his mind.

He’s supposed to ask for more. That’s what Sam and Steve were expecting, weren’t they? They wanted him to win the bet, to seal the deal and prove he could pull this off. But every time he thinks about going further, about pushing this relationship into a place where he can’t turn back, he feels that nagging ache, that quiet, gnawing feeling that he’s crossing a line he can’t uncross.

He knows he needs to tell you. He needs to come clean, but every time he opens his mouth, the words get stuck in his throat. You look at him with those bright, trusting eyes, and he can’t bring himself to shatter the way you see him. So he holds his silence, hoping that somehow, he can bury the truth forever, that maybe you’ll never have to know.

One evening, as you’re lying together on his couch, you let out a contented sigh, resting your head on his chest as his hand traces lazy patterns along your back.

“Bucky?” you whisper, your voice soft.

He glances down at you, his fingers pausing as he meets your gaze. “Yeah?”

You hesitate, then take a steadying breath. “I…I think I’m falling for you.”

The words hang in the air, vulnerable and open, and for a second, his face goes still, his eyes widening just slightly. Then, his expression softens, and he tightens his arms around you, his hand coming up to cup your cheek.

“You have no idea how much that means to me,” he murmurs, his voice thick with emotion. But as he kisses you, the warmth of his touch hiding the flicker of guilt behind his eyes, a single thought haunts him.

She deserves the truth.

That night, Bucky barely sleeps, lying awake with the knowledge that he’s in far too deep to ever come out of this unscathed. Every soft breath you take beside him reminds him of how much he’s risking by staying silent. He knows he has to tell you, but he’s terrified—terrified that this fragile, beautiful thing you’ve built together will shatter, that you’ll look at him with betrayal instead of trust.

In the morning, he makes a decision. He’ll find a way to tell you, he promises himself, but he wants one more day, one more memory before he risks everything. Just one last perfect day where he can pretend that none of it was ever a lie.

So he takes you out, leading you down to the pier just as the sun begins to set, casting the sky in hues of pink and gold. You laugh, leaning into him, and he wraps his arms around you from behind, resting his chin on your shoulder.

“It’s beautiful,” you murmur, watching the waves lap against the shore.

“Yeah,” he replies, his voice soft. “It is.”

But as he stands there, holding you close, he knows that the beauty of this moment is fleeting, that the truth waiting in his chest is too big to ignore. And tonight, when he finally gathers the courage to tell you, he knows there’s a chance he’ll lose you forever. But for now, he lets himself savor this last quiet moment, memorizing the feeling of you in his arms, the warmth of your laughter as it fills the air.

For now, he holds onto the hope that maybe, somehow, you’ll understand.

The sunset fades, leaving the world painted in muted purples and blues, but neither of you seem ready to break away from each other. Bucky holds you close, feeling the steady rhythm of your breath against his chest as if it’s his own. He knows he should say something—that he needs to say something—but the words seem so impossible now, tangled up in his chest. The truth would ruin this moment, shatter whatever he’s built with you. And so, he tells himself it can wait just a little longer.

As the evening slips into night, Bucky leads you back to his dorm room, his hand intertwined with yours. You can feel the heat of his palm, the way his fingers wrap around yours as if he never wants to let go. The air feels charged, every touch electric, each shared glance simmering with something that feels fragile and exhilarating. Neither of you says much, as though speaking would break the quiet spell between you.

Once you’re inside, Bucky hesitates. He turns to you, his expression vulnerable, softer than you’ve ever seen it. "You don’t have to stay if you don’t want to,” he murmurs, his thumb brushing against the back of your hand.

“I want to,” you say, the words escaping before you can even think. There’s no hesitation in your voice, only a gentle certainty that makes his chest tighten. The way you look at him, so open and trusting, makes his heart ache with a mix of guilt and longing.

Bucky’s eyes search yours, lingering for a moment that stretches into forever. He reaches up, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear before his fingers trail down to your jaw, cradling your face as if you’re something fragile and precious. Slowly, he leans down, capturing your lips in a kiss that’s softer than any before. It’s unhurried, tender, as if he’s savoring every second.

The kiss deepens, and you can feel yourself melting into him, your heart pounding so hard you think it might burst. His hands move to your waist, steady and grounding, and he pulls you closer until there’s no space left between you. You can feel the strength of him, the warmth radiating through his clothes, and it makes your head spin.

Before long, you find yourselves tangled together on his bed, the world outside fading into nothingness. Each kiss is deeper than the last, each touch laced with a longing neither of you can deny. There’s a gentleness to Bucky’s movements, a quiet patience as he explores the curve of your shoulder, the softness of your waist, as if he’s memorizing every inch of you. He’s slow and careful, constantly looking at you as if to make sure this is what you want.

“Are you okay?” he whispers, his voice rough with barely-contained emotion.

You nod, feeling breathless but certain. “I’ve never been more sure of anything.”

His eyes darken, filled with a tenderness that makes your chest ache, and then he’s kissing you again, deeper this time, his hands skimming over your skin with a reverence that leaves you feeling cherished. You lose track of time, surrendering to the way he makes you feel—safe, wanted, like you’re the only thing in the world that matters.

When you finally fall back against the bed, your bodies wrapped around each other, you’re exhausted yet filled with a warmth that feels all-encompassing. The reality of what just happened settles in, but instead of feeling nervous, you feel at peace, secure in the quiet intimacy that has grown between you.

Bucky shifts beside you, pulling you closer until your head rests against his chest, his arm draped protectively around your shoulders. The steady thump of his heartbeat lulls you into a peaceful daze, and you feel his fingers trace small circles on your back, soothing and grounding.

You’re both quiet for a long time, the silence comfortable as you bask in each other’s presence. Eventually, though, you feel a need to tell him something you’ve been holding back, something you hadn’t planned on revealing but that feels right to share in this moment.

“Bucky,” you begin softly, lifting your head to look at him. He gazes down at you, his eyes warm and attentive, as if you’re the only thing he sees. “I…I want you to know that this was my first time.”

The words hang in the air, and for a moment, you’re afraid he’ll pull away, that he’ll think you were too inexperienced or that you should have told him sooner. But he doesn’t flinch or hesitate. His hand moves up to gently cradle your cheek, his thumb brushing softly against your skin.

“Your first?” he echoes, his voice filled with a mixture of surprise and something that sounds almost like reverence.

You nod, feeling your cheeks heat as you look down, suddenly self-conscious. “Yeah…I wanted it to be with someone who made me feel safe. Someone I trusted.”

Bucky’s chest rises and falls slowly as he takes this in, his expression softening. He seems almost humbled, like he’s just been given something rare and delicate. He leans down, pressing a kiss to your forehead before resting his own against yours.

“You have no idea how much that means to me,” he murmurs, his voice thick with emotion. There’s a vulnerability in his gaze, as if he’s holding back a hundred things he wants to say but can’t find the words for.

You smile, the last traces of your nervousness melting away. “Thank you, Bucky…for making it so special.”

He pulls you close, wrapping his arms around you like he’s afraid to let you go. “I’d do anything to make you feel special,” he whispers, his breath warm against your skin.

You nestle into his chest, listening to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat, feeling safe and cherished in a way you never have before. And as you lie there, drifting between sleep and wakefulness, you wonder if this is what it feels like to be truly, deeply in love.

But as you fall asleep in his arms, Bucky lies awake, his heart heavy with the weight of everything he’s kept from you. He knows he should be content, that he should just let himself savor this night and the closeness you’ve shared. But the memory of that stupid, careless bet gnaws at him, a dark cloud looming over everything.

He runs a hand through his hair, staring up at the ceiling, feeling torn between the desire to protect you from the truth and the fear that he’s already crossed a line he can’t uncross. The realization that you trusted him enough to give him something so deeply personal makes the weight of his lie even heavier, almost unbearable. He swallows hard, tightening his hold on you as he resolves to tell you the truth—soon, somehow, even if it means risking everything.

But tonight, he lets himself stay silent. He closes his eyes, breathing in the scent of your hair, the warmth of your body against his, and allows himself to believe, if only for a moment, that this can last.

The morning sunlight filters softly through the blinds, casting warm, golden patterns across the bed. You stir beside him, your movements gentle as you wake up, and Bucky watches you with a quiet awe, his heart racing as he takes in the peaceful expression on your face. For a moment, it feels like he’s exactly where he’s meant to be.

You blink up at him, your face lighting up with a sleepy smile that makes his chest tighten.

“Good morning,” you murmur, your voice soft and a little shy, as if the night is still too fresh, too beautiful to fully believe.

He grins, brushing a strand of hair from your face. “Morning,” he replies, his voice low and warm. His fingers trail down to your hand, giving it a gentle squeeze, and you squeeze back, a shared moment of silent understanding passing between you.

The morning stretches on in a gentle haze of quiet touches and soft words. Bucky makes you coffee, insisting you stay curled up under his blanket while he brings it over to you, and you laugh, watching him with a mix of affection and disbelief. This side of him—the playful, thoughtful side—is something you never expected to see, and it makes you fall for him even harder.

You’re both lounging on his bed, your legs tangled together, talking in low voices about everything and nothing. He tells you stories about his childhood, tales about him and Steve getting into trouble, and you share your own memories, laughing as he reacts with wide eyes and exaggerated shock.

It feels so real, so natural, that you almost forget about everything outside this room, about the possibility that this could be something fleeting. You feel like you’ve found a place that’s safe, a person who makes you feel more like yourself than you ever have before.

But in the quiet moments, when you catch him staring at you with that far-off look, you wonder if there’s something he’s not telling you, a hesitation lurking behind his gaze. You don’t press, not wanting to shatter the peace between you. But part of you wonders if you’re seeing a glimpse of something deeper, something you’re not yet ready to confront.

As you leave his dorm room later that morning, he kisses you softly, lingering as if he’s trying to memorize the taste of your lips, the feel of your hand in his. There’s an unspoken promise in his touch, a silent assurance that this isn’t the end.

Later that afternoon, you make your way back to the frat house, humming softly as you climb the steps to Bucky's door. You left your notebook there, a little blue book you’re pretty sure you’ll need for your upcoming assignment. You barely slept last night, too caught up in the warmth of his touch, the memory of his whispered words that lingered long after you left his dorm this morning. You’re nervous, too; you feel so much for him that it scares you.

As you approach his room, laughter drifts out into the hallway, low voices filtering through the partially open door. You recognize Bucky’s laugh, the familiar sound stirring warmth in your chest, but the laughter feels different, carefree and loud. And then you hear a familiar voice—Sam’s—cutting through, low and joking.

"Guess she fell for it pretty hard, huh?" Sam’s voice sounds amused, lighthearted, as if he’s talking about something trivial.

You freeze, your hand hovering inches from the door. Something about his tone makes you hesitate, a strange, unsettling feeling creeping into your chest.

"Come on, Bucky," Sam presses, “don’t act all innocent now. I saw you this morning, looking like you just won the lottery.” You can hear the grin in his voice, a laugh bubbling beneath it. “So? How was it?”

Bucky laughs, the sound uncomfortable, but he doesn’t argue. “Yeah, yeah,” he says, his voice casual, light. “It was… good.”

You feel a stab in your chest, a faint panic that tells you to leave, to walk away before you hear any more. But your feet don’t move, and you find yourself listening, every word driving another splinter into your heart.

Steve’s voice joins in, chuckling. “Well, you earned it, man. She had no clue, huh?”

“No clue,” Bucky murmurs, his voice softer now, almost unreadable. You can picture him there, maybe rubbing the back of his neck the way he does when he’s nervous. But the words are there, undeniable.

Sam laughs again, louder this time. “And hey, bet’s a bet,” he says, and then there’s a pause before you hear the unmistakable rustling of bills being exchanged. “Two hundred dollars, as promised. Can’t say you didn’t earn it, though—you even managed to get her into bed. Didn’t think you had it in you, but here we are!”

Your vision blurs, the words echoing in your mind, distorting into something raw and jagged. Every affectionate touch, every gentle kiss, every whispered promise from the past few weeks twists into something ugly, something unrecognizable. You feel sick, the image of Bucky’s earnest smile, his soft words about wanting to make you feel special, tainted beyond repair. Everything you felt for him, the trust you’d handed him so freely, crumbles beneath the weight of their laughter.

Slowly, you turn and leave, gripping the strap of your bag tightly as you make your way out of the frat house. You don’t let yourself cry, not yet, not when you still feel the echo of his betrayal throbbing in your chest, too raw, too painful to acknowledge fully.

Hours later, you’re back in your dorm room, your heart aching as you sit in silence, the truth settling over you in waves. Part of you wants to believe it was a misunderstanding, that maybe there’s an explanation you’re missing. But the memory of their laughter, the casual way Sam handed him that money, makes the truth impossible to ignore.

A knock on your door interrupts your thoughts, and your heart skips a beat as you hear Bucky’s voice calling your name softly from the hallway. It’s just him now, his voice hesitant, almost as if he senses that something’s wrong. You take a steadying breath, steeling yourself before you answer the door.

When you open it, Bucky’s eyes light up, and he steps forward, a soft smile on his face as he reaches for your hand. “Hey, you,” he murmurs, his voice warm. But when he sees the look on your face, he pauses, his smile fading. “What’s wrong?”

For a moment, you can’t bring yourself to speak. You can only look at him, trying to reconcile the gentle, caring person you thought you knew with the man who took a bet to seduce you. You pull your hand away from his, ignoring the confusion in his gaze as he watches you.

“Were you even going to tell me?” Your voice comes out quieter than you intended, a dull ache threading through every word. “Or were you just going to take the money and pretend it never happened?”

Bucky blinks, his brow furrowing in confusion. “Tell you what? I—I don’t understand.”

A bitter laugh escapes your lips, and you look away, wrapping your arms around yourself as if it’ll keep you from falling apart. “Don’t play dumb, Bucky. I heard you. I was at the frat house earlier, and I heard everything.”

He freezes, his face going pale, and you see the truth in his eyes, clear as day. He opens his mouth, stumbling over his words. “Y/N, I—I didn’t… I didn’t mean for you to find out like this.”

The admission twists the knife deeper, and you feel yourself trembling as you look back at him, tears stinging your eyes. “So, it’s true, then? All of it? This whole… this whole thing was just for some stupid bet?”

He reaches for you, his expression desperate, his hands hovering just inches from your arms. “Y/N, please. Just let me explain. It wasn’t like that, I swear. It started that way, but then… then it became real. I fell for you, okay? Everything we did, everything we shared—it was real.”

You shake your head, pulling away from him, the anger and betrayal simmering beneath the surface. “Real? You think that makes this okay? Do you have any idea what you’ve done?” Your voice breaks, and a tear slips down your cheek before you can stop it. “I trusted you, Bucky. I thought… I thought you cared about me.”

His face crumples, and he takes a step closer, his hand reaching out as if to wipe away the tear on your cheek. “I do care about you. More than anything, Y/N. That’s why I wanted to tell you, I just—”

“Wanted to tell me?” you interrupt, your voice shaking. “When, Bucky? After you cashed in your winnings? After I found out on my own?”

The silence stretches between you, heavy and unbearable, and Bucky’s shoulders sag as he looks away, guilt etched deeply into his face.

“Do you even realize how humiliating this is?” you continue, your voice a mixture of anger and heartbreak. “I trusted you with something… something I’d never given anyone. And the whole time, it was just part of a game to you.”

His eyes snap back to yours, filled with anguish, his voice barely a whisper. “It was never just a game, not after the first night. I swear, Y/N, I was going to tell you everything. I just… I didn’t want to lose you.”

“You didn’t want to lose me?” you repeat, laughing bitterly. “You lost me the moment you made that bet. You had no right to… to play with me like that, to make me believe that any of it was real.”

He looks at you, his blue eyes full of desperation, his voice breaking. “Y/N, please. I know I messed up. I know I hurt you, but I need you to believe me when I say I never meant for any of this to happen.”

“Just stop,” you whisper, the weight of it all crashing over you. “You don’t get to do this. You don’t get to make me feel sorry for you when you’re the one who lied.”

Bucky’s face falls, and he drops his gaze, his shoulders slumping in defeat. “I know. I know I don’t deserve your forgiveness. But please, just… give me a chance to make it right.”

Your heart aches, torn between the memories of every gentle touch, every whispered word, and the undeniable truth of his betrayal. Part of you wants to believe him, wants to believe that somewhere in all of this, there was something real. But the pain is too deep, the wound too fresh, and you don’t know if you can ever look at him the same way again.

“I can’t do this,” you say, your voice barely more than a whisper. “I can’t just forget what you did. You hurt me, Bucky. And right now, I don’t even know who you are anymore.”

He flinches, as if your words physically hurt him, and he nods slowly, a look of resignation in his eyes. “I understand. I’ll… I’ll leave, if that’s what you want.”

You nod, wrapping your arms around yourself as he takes a step back, his gaze lingering on you one last time before he turns and walks toward the door. Just as he reaches it, he pauses, his hand resting on the doorknob as he glances back at you, his voice soft, broken.

“For what it’s worth, Y/N… I love you. I know I don’t deserve to say that, but it’s the truth.”

You don’t reply, staring at him with tear-filled eyes as he finally steps out of your dorm, the door closing softly behind him. The silence that follows is deafening, and you sink to the floor, the weight of everything crashing down as you realize that the person you thought you loved never truly existed.

The days blur together in a haze of heartbreak and emptiness. You go through the motions, attending classes, completing assignments, and showing up to study groups, but it all feels mechanical, like you’re on autopilot. It’s as if something inside you has shut down, leaving only an echo of who you were before you met him, before he became the center of your world.

It doesn’t take long for your friends to notice the change. They ask if you’re okay, if something happened, if maybe you just need a break. But you give them the same answer each time—a nod, a small smile, and an assurance that you’re just tired. It’s easier than explaining the mess of emotions tangled inside you, the hurt that seems too big to fit into words.

Late at night, lying alone in your dorm room, you can still feel the warmth of his arms around you, the softness of his voice in the quiet hours when he’d whisper promises you thought would last forever. The memory feels cruel now, tainted by the knowledge that it was all built on a lie. And yet, despite everything, you miss him. You hate yourself for it, but you miss the way he looked at you, the way he made you feel safe, special, as if you were the only person in the world who mattered.

Bucky isn’t doing any better. In fact, he’s a mess. Days have passed, but the guilt, the emptiness—it lingers, gnawing at him, refusing to let him move on. He can barely sleep, haunted by the look in your eyes, the betrayal, the hurt he put there. Every time he closes his eyes, he sees you, hears the way your voice cracked when you told him you didn’t know who he was anymore. And the worst part is, he doesn’t blame you. He knows he did this, that he ruined everything, and now he has to live with the consequences.

Sam and Steve notice almost immediately. Bucky, the confident, charming guy they’d known for years, looks hollow, as if he’s carrying a weight he can’t shake. He barely speaks, keeps to himself, and they rarely see him at the frat house anymore. Instead, he spends most of his time shut up in his dorm, a shadow of the person he used to be.

One evening, as the sun dips below the horizon, Sam and Steve exchange a glance, silently agreeing that they need to intervene. They knock on his door, and when he doesn’t answer, Sam pushes it open, finding him lying on his bed, staring blankly at the ceiling.

“Hey, man,” Sam says, stepping inside. Steve follows, closing the door behind them as they both approach Bucky’s bed.

Bucky doesn’t react right away, his gaze still fixed on the ceiling. But eventually, he sits up, running a hand through his hair, looking exhausted and defeated.

“What’s up, guys?” he mumbles, though his voice lacks any real curiosity.

“We should be asking you that,” Steve says, his tone softer than usual. “You haven’t been yourself lately. Ever since things ended with Y/N, it’s like… you’re a completely different person.”

At the sound of your name, Bucky’s face falls, and he lets out a long, shaky breath. “Yeah,” he says quietly, almost to himself. “That’s because I am.”

Sam frowns, studying Bucky’s expression, the guilt etched into every line of his face. “Look, man, we didn’t mean for things to get this serious. But if you cared about her, really cared… why didn’t you just tell her the truth from the start?”

Bucky shakes his head, his hands gripping the edge of the bed so tightly his knuckles turn white. “I don’t know,” he whispers, his voice breaking. “I was scared, I guess. I knew I’d screwed up, and every time I tried to tell her, I just… couldn’t. I thought I could fix things, somehow, make it up to her without her ever finding out.” He lets out a bitter laugh, shaking his head. “Stupid, right?”

Steve sighs, sitting beside him on the bed. “Not stupid, just… a mistake. A big one, yeah, but you’re not the first guy to mess up. You’re just… Bucky, this isn’t like you. I’ve never seen you like this over anyone before.”

Bucky looks away, a sad smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “That’s because I’ve never felt this way before. Not like this. I love her, Steve. And I threw it all away over some stupid bet that meant nothing. I hurt her in ways I can’t even fix.”

Sam places a hand on his shoulder, giving it a firm squeeze. “So what are you gonna do about it? You can’t just sit here, wallowing. If she meant that much to you, then maybe you owe it to her—and to yourself—to try and make it right.”

Bucky laughs, but it’s empty, hollow. “And how am I supposed to do that, Sam? She told me herself she doesn’t know who I am. She doesn’t trust me. I don’t deserve another chance.”

Steve exchanges a look with Sam, and then he says, “Maybe. But you can’t just give up without trying. If you really love her, Bucky, you have to prove it. Show her that you’re not just the guy who hurt her, that you’re willing to fight for her. And if she doesn’t take you back… at least you’ll know you tried.”

Bucky sighs, leaning forward, resting his elbows on his knees as he stares at the floor. “I don’t know if she’ll ever forgive me. I don’t even know if I deserve it.”

Sam crosses his arms, his expression softening. “Look, man, I get that you’re hurting. But don’t you think she’s hurting, too? She’s probably out there feeling just as broken, wondering if anything between you was ever real.”

Bucky swallows hard, his chest tightening at the thought. He knows you’re hurting, knows you trusted him with something precious, something he didn’t deserve. And knowing that he’s the reason for your pain… it’s a feeling he wouldn’t wish on anyone.

Over the next few days, Bucky wrestles with himself, caught between the fear of making things worse and the desire to show you that he’s truly sorry, that he wants to be the man you thought he was. He writes and rewrites texts he never sends, shows up outside your dorm but never works up the courage to knock. He’s terrified, but he can’t ignore the way his heart aches for you, the empty, gnawing feeling that only seems to grow with each passing day.

Finally, he decides to try one last time. He doesn’t know if you’ll listen, doesn’t know if you’ll even give him a chance. But he has to try—to give you the truth, no matter how painful it might be.

And so, as the evening sun begins to dip below the horizon, casting a warm, golden glow over campus, Bucky finds himself standing outside your dorm, his heart pounding as he gathers the courage to knock. He knows this is his last chance, that this is the moment that will decide everything. And he only hopes, as he takes a deep breath and raises his hand to the door, that you’ll give him the chance to show you that he’s not the man who hurt you—that he’s ready to fight for you, no matter what it takes.

The knock on your door is soft, almost hesitant, but it’s enough to pull you from your thoughts. You’ve been lying on your bed, staring at the ceiling, trying to find the strength to move forward, to somehow patch yourself up after everything that happened. When you open the door, you see him standing there, his eyes filled with an uncertainty that’s almost heartbreaking. He’s gripping a small notebook in his hands—your notebook, the one you left in his room—and his gaze is fixed on you with a desperation you’ve never seen before.

“Hi,” he says quietly, his voice barely above a whisper.

You don’t reply right away, the sight of him dredging up the familiar ache in your chest. Part of you wants to slam the door and hide, to keep yourself safe from any more hurt. But you don’t. Instead, you meet his gaze, forcing yourself to remain steady.

“Hi,” you reply, your voice guarded.

He shifts on his feet, glancing down at the notebook before offering it to you. “I, uh… you left this. Thought you might need it.”

You take it from him, feeling the familiar weight of it in your hands. “Thanks.”

A heavy silence hangs between you, one that neither of you seems willing to break. Bucky swallows, his face creased with an anxious, uncertain look that makes him seem vulnerable in a way you’ve never seen before.

“Can we… can we talk?” he asks, his voice almost pleading. “Please. I know I don’t deserve it, but I just need to say a few things. If you don’t want to listen, I’ll understand, and I’ll leave you alone. I just… I need you to know the truth.”

You hesitate, but finally, you nod, stepping back to let him into your room. He steps inside, closing the door softly behind him, and takes a seat in the small chair by your desk while you remain standing, arms crossed protectively over your chest.

For a moment, he just looks at you, his gaze heavy with regret. Then he sighs, running a hand through his hair.

“I know you have every right to hate me,” he starts, his voice barely steady. “I know I messed up in ways I can’t even fix. And I know… I know what I did was horrible. I just—” He swallows, his throat tight. “I just need you to know that it wasn’t all a lie. When we started this… when we first got close, I didn’t expect any of this to happen. I didn’t think I’d feel the way I did.”

You look down, his words stirring a fresh wave of pain in your chest. “But it was a bet, Bucky,” you murmur, your voice trembling. “You… you did all of that just to win some money. To you, it was just a game.”

He flinches, guilt flashing in his eyes, and he nods. “I know. I won’t make excuses for it—I was stupid, and I hurt you. But somewhere along the way, it stopped being about the bet. It stopped being a game. And I started… I started caring about you, more than I’ve ever cared about anyone.”

You feel tears prickling at the corners of your eyes, but you force yourself to keep your voice steady. “Then why didn’t you just tell me the truth?”

He sighs, running a hand through his hair again, his expression tortured. “Because I was scared. I was terrified that you’d look at me the way you’re looking at me now, that I’d lose you. I know that doesn’t make it better, but it’s the truth. I tried to find the right time, tried to find the right words, but I kept putting it off, thinking maybe… maybe I could make it up to you before you ever found out.” He looks down, his voice breaking. “But that was stupid. I should’ve just been honest with you from the start.”

You take a shaky breath, feeling the full weight of everything he’s saying. Part of you wants to believe him, wants to forgive him, but the wound he left is still fresh, still raw. “I trusted you, Bucky,” you whisper, your voice barely audible. “I thought… I thought what we had was real.”

He looks up at you, his eyes filled with a desperate sincerity that takes you off guard. “It was real. For me, it was real. And I know that doesn’t change anything, but I need you to know that. I never meant to hurt you, and I’ll spend as long as it takes to make it up to you if you’ll let me.”

You study him for a long moment, searching his face, trying to find some indication of sincerity, something to show that he’s truly sorry. And when you see the remorse in his eyes, the sadness that mirrors your own, you feel something in your chest soften, just slightly.

“Bucky,” you begin softly, forcing yourself to stay strong, “I can’t just go back to how things were. I can’t pretend this didn’t happen. You hurt me more than anyone ever has, and it’s going to take time for me to get past that.”

He nods, his expression resigned, but he doesn’t look away. “I understand. And I don’t expect you to forgive me right away. I just… I just want the chance to prove to you that I’m more than the guy who hurt you. Even if we can’t go back, I want to be there for you, even if it’s just as a friend.”

You let his words sink in, feeling a flicker of hope amidst the ache in your heart. Part of you still longs for what you had, for the closeness you shared, but you know that you can’t rush back into it. If Bucky truly wants a second chance, he’ll have to earn it, piece by piece, day by day.

“Maybe…” You hesitate, feeling vulnerable but determined. “Maybe we can start as friends. Just… friends. No promises, no expectations. If you’re willing to do that, to rebuild things from the ground up… then maybe, someday, I’ll be able to trust you again.”

Relief floods his face, and he nods, a small, hopeful smile tugging at his lips. “I’ll take that. Anything you’re willing to give, I’ll take it. I’ll prove to you that I can be better. I’ll prove that I’m worth your trust.”

You give him a tentative smile, and for the first time in days, you feel a flicker of hope. It’s small and fragile, but it’s enough to remind you that maybe healing is possible.

Over the next few weeks, Bucky becomes a constant but careful presence in your life. He shows up when you need help with an assignment, offers a listening ear when you need to vent about a long day, and joins you for coffee on campus, keeping the conversation light and easy. He respects your boundaries, never pushing for more, never expecting anything beyond friendship. You’re surprised at how attentive he is, how willing he is to wait, to prove that he’s serious about making things right.

Slowly, the walls around your heart begin to crack. You start to feel comfortable with him again, to let your guard down, if only a little. You catch him glancing at you sometimes, a soft, almost wistful look in his eyes, as if he’s seeing something precious he thought he’d lost forever. It’s in these moments that you remember why you fell for him in the first place, why his smile used to make your heart race, why his touch felt like home.

One day, as you’re both sitting on a bench by the campus pond, he turns to you, a hesitant smile on his face. “I know we’re just friends right now, and I’m okay with that. But I want you to know that I’m grateful for every moment I get to spend with you, even if it’s just like this.”

You feel a warmth spread through you, a sense of peace you haven’t felt in a long time. “Thank you, Bucky,” you say softly. “For not giving up. For being patient with me.”

He reaches out, hesitating for a moment before resting his hand on yours, his touch warm and steady. “I’ll wait as long as it takes. I’ll prove to you that I’m here for you, no matter what.”

And as you look into his eyes, you feel a flicker of something you thought was lost—a tentative, fragile hope that maybe things could be different this time. That he could truly be the person he’s trying to be, the person you wanted him to be all along. And though you know there’s a long road ahead, you’re finally willing to take that first step with him, trusting that maybe, this time, he won’t let you down.

The night is alive with music and laughter as you step into the crowded frat house. It’s your first time back here since everything happened, and you can’t deny the nervous flutter in your stomach as you take in the familiar scene. But tonight feels different—Bucky is by your side, watching you with a gentle smile as he guides you through the chaos of people, his hand warm and steady on your arm.

Over the past few weeks, things between you and Bucky have been slowly mending. He’s proven himself time and time again, showing up when it mattered, respecting your boundaries, and never pressuring you for more than you were willing to give. He’s become someone you can lean on, someone who’s earned back your trust bit by bit. And, to your own surprise, you feel something new blossoming between you—something deeper, stronger, and more genuine than before.

When you reach the main room, you spot Sam and Steve near the keg, both of them giving you a thumbs-up as soon as they see you with Bucky. You laugh, rolling your eyes, but Bucky just grins, shrugging as if to say, They’re harmless.

“Glad you came tonight,” he says, leaning closer so you can hear him over the noise. “I was worried you might skip.”

You shrug, glancing up at him. “Well, I figured it was about time I faced the frat house again.”

He chuckles, a warm, rich sound that sends a spark of something familiar through you. It’s the same feeling you used to get when you first met, when you were just getting to know him, before anything got complicated. Only now, it feels even better—because you’re finally on solid ground with him, without secrets or lies standing between you.

As the night goes on, you find yourself enjoying the party, laughing with friends, and even dancing a bit. Bucky stays close, his presence a comforting, steady anchor amidst the noise and chaos. He’s attentive, offering you drinks and glancing over every so often to make sure you’re comfortable. And every time you catch his gaze, you feel your heart race just a little faster.

At one point, as you’re talking with a friend, you feel Bucky’s hand gently touch your arm, and he leans in close, his voice soft and intimate against your ear. “Want to get some air?”

You nod, letting him lead you through the throngs of people until you step out onto the back porch. The cool night air is a welcome relief from the warmth inside, and you breathe deeply, taking in the quiet calm of the evening. Bucky leans against the railing, watching you with a soft, almost nervous smile, his hands tucked into his pockets.

“I’ve been wanting to tell you something,” he begins, his voice low and steady, as if he’s thought about this moment a thousand times. “I know we’ve been rebuilding things, and I know you wanted to take it slow. But, Y/N… being with you these past few weeks, even just as friends, has been everything to me. And I can’t stop thinking about you. About us.”

Your heart stirs at his words, and you feel a warmth spread through you, a sense of longing that’s been building quietly since the day he asked for a second chance.

“Bucky,” you say softly, stepping a little closer. “I… I feel the same. It’s been hard, letting go of the past. But I think—no, I know—I’ve forgiven you. You’ve shown me who you really are, and… I like that person.”

His eyes brighten at your words, and he reaches out, his hand brushing your cheek as his thumb strokes gently across your skin. He leans closer, his gaze searching your face as if to make sure you’re truly ready for this.

“Can I kiss you?” he whispers, his voice barely audible in the quiet night air.

You feel your heart skip a beat, and you give him a small, almost shy nod, your pulse racing as he leans in, closing the distance between you. The moment his lips meet yours, it’s like the world melts away, leaving only the warmth of his touch, the softness of his mouth against yours. It’s gentle at first, tentative, as if he’s afraid of breaking the spell. But as you respond, his hand slips to the back of your neck, pulling you a little closer, deepening the kiss with a quiet, aching intensity.

When you finally pull away, he rests his forehead against yours, both of you catching your breath, sharing a smile that’s equal parts relief and joy.

“Y/N,” he murmurs, his voice full of warmth, “I promise, I’m not going to mess this up again. I want this with you—for real, no games.”

You smile, reaching up to run a hand through his hair. “Good, because you’re stuck with me now.”

He laughs, pulling you into a tight hug, and you bury your face in his shoulder, feeling a happiness you haven’t felt in a long time. You’re finally ready to move forward with him, to start fresh, knowing that this time, it’s real.

maybe I should've made it more angsty? I love angst, request angst people! lol

[deadsetobsessions]

Snart Jr.

Lovely prompt by @stealingyourbones in her long prompts list, in which Danny Phantom meets the Rogues of Central City! This will have multiple parts, I just haven't written them yet.

Disclaimer: I know very little about Captain Cold and Mirror Master despite having watched some of the Flash. The general vibe I get from Flash is that Flash just really cares about his rogues as evidenced by how he talks to them and doesn't immediately one-shot them like I'm pretty sure he could do. And that Captain Cold is a snarky asshole that just wants to steal things and follow his plans as planned? Tbh, the whole mini-arc/episode with him just felt like Snart was trying to coordinate the world's riskiest group project. He was so done by the end lmao

"Huh. That's new."

Danny hovered an inch off of the ground, having just been spat out by swirling green portal. He was going to have to get back to the Zone later to hot potato Skulker through a couple of portals in revenge. He had a math exam he had to study for, dammit.

Danny sighed. Might as well see what's happening. The portals rarely lead somewhere boring, and Danny was bored. He floated further in, form going intangible and invisible as he passed through thick but insulated marble walls. See, Jazz? He could totally plan ahead. He's also learning that he could probably rob a bank easily, but Danny would never.

"Never been spat out in a bank before," he hummed, eyes flickering on the numerous forms of cowering people in the lobby. The goons scattered about don't see him, but it would take another ghost to even detect his presence so it was to be expected. He moved further in with little hindrance and soon touched down onto polished floor behind two incredibly suspicious individuals.

"What-cha do-ing?"

The two figures, currently and obviously robbing a bank, whirled around in surprise. Their respective weapons whirred to a start before they stopped, baffled by the meta teen standing there with his white hair waving about and innocent look pasted all over his face.

Leonard Snart knew instinctively that the kid was so full of shit. He'd bet his entire plan on the fact that the kid knew exactly what kind of shit he was stirring. Still, Snart was guilty of a lot of things but direct child-endangerment wasn't ever one of them.

"How'd you get in here, kid?" Mirror Master raised his laser pistol, ready to distract and divert the kid with threats of violence- which Snart glared at him for- or with his hall of mirrors that he'd run to.

Danny shrugged. "I walked. If you guys didn't want me here, you should have guarded the place better."

"They were supposed to," Snart drawled. He cased the kid. Teen. The kid had a weird halo effect, that seemed to draw the eyes to the stylized letter on his hazmat suit. The kid was young. Meta. Non-hostile. "You trying to stop us?"

Danny shook his head. "Nah. Came from the Ghost Zone so 's really non'a my business. I was just being nosy."

Snart gave a curt nod and nudged Mirror Master back into cracking the security measures.

Mirror Master scoffed. "What the hell is a ghost zone?"

"I mean, it's pretty self explanatory, right? It's a zone where ghosts live. Hence, you know, Ghost Zone." Danny did a little jazz hands (oh, yeah, he was definitely gonna get Jazz to make that joke sooner or later) for emphasis.

Snart paused for the slightest bit before continuing with his task. Did ghosts exist?

"...Did the Flash send you here, kid?"

"I'm not a kid," Danny scowled, walking right up to them. He got enough of that from his own Rogues, thank you. "And what's a Flash?"

"The Flash, kid." Mirror Master corrected, shoving monitors and PC's and expensive looking office chairs into... a mirror dimension? Danny shrugged and rolled with it.

"Who's that? Your boss?"

"Local superhero, not our boss. You're not from here," Snart quickly deduced as a small smile wormed onto his face from successfully cracking the security without setting off an alarm. They'd have ten minutes before the system cycles the access codes again and flags the fraudulent ones. That should be enough time.

"Superhero? Are they fast? Actually, where is here?" Danny glanced around at the now bare security office like the Flash would show up.

The guy in green and yellow took everything not nailed down to the ground. Danny respected that, even if he kind of wanted to stop the robbery. But he's not really supposed to interfere. That would be uber rude, since it looked like the guy in the fur jacket seemed like he had planned everything precisely.

"You're in Central City, kid. Did you take a wrong turn trying to get to Keystone or something?" Green-yellow guy snorted.

"Gonna be real honest with you, I've got no idea where that is. What state are we in?" Danny followed as the pair rushed to the safe doors. He could offer to phase them through but no matter how flexible Danny's morals have become over the years, he was going to draw a line at actively helping a person commit crime.

"Kansas. Do you teleport? Are you a teleporting meta?" Snart asked, eyes intense as he both glared at Danny and pressed an ear to the safe door.

"Nah, I wish I could teleport. Getting to school would be so much faster. Kansas? Huh, I've never been."

"How lost are you, kid?" Mirror Master incredulously paused from robbing the packages that were delivered to the bank.

Danny shrugged. "Oh, I'm Danny. Who are you guys?"

"Captain Cold. That's Mirror Master."

Danny shifted as the safe clicks open. "So, uh, are you guys the villains here?"

Captain Cold shot him a weird look. "We're actively robbing a bank, kid. That should be obvious."

"Also, you're acting real calm for a kid speaking to two of Fawcett's best super-villains." Mirror Master chimed in, laser-ing off locks on deposit boxes and shoving cash and stuff into his mirror dimension.

Danny padded in after them. "Eh, you haven't shot at me- not even on sight- yet, which is more than I can say for law enforcement, so you're pretty chill in my book."

Captain Cold snorted, pointedly taking his freeze gun and breaking off a large manual lock. "I believe it's my job to be the chill one. Plus, we don't kill. The Flash would be up our... business if we did. It's not worth the trouble."

"You can say ass. I've heard worse."

"Not from me, kid."

Danny hadn't had that kind of consideration from anyone in a long time. Even if it's a bit... mother-hennish, the halfa couldn't find it in him to be annoyed. "Ah, okay. Well, you also haven't kidnapped me or tried to stop me from following you, so..."

Mirror Master shoved a giant painting into his dimension. "You haven't tried to stop us; it'd be weird trying to stop you."

"Makes sense."

"Heh. You're alright, kid. Though... who's kidnapping you?"

"My fruit loop of a godfather. It's a thing," Danny avoided the searching gaze like a pro.

"Hold this." Captain Cold said suddenly, giving Danny a massive dufflebag.

"Wait, what?"

Captain Cold began stuffing the bag with cash and once the money in the vicinity (not that much) went in, he said "Go look around. Having another person in here is a risk so you might as well make up for it."

Danny's calling it. Captain Cold was full of shit. The guy's a big softie. Danny smiled sheepishly and agreed. Danny circled the place, pointing out expensive looking stuff- "for fun" and not because they were nice to him- when he felt the tell-tale zaps of an anomaly in Clockwork's domain.

"Move!" He shouted at the two villains, both of whom dove out of the way. Instinctively, Danny threw out his gloved hands and iced the floors, instincts bristling at the incoming danger. His jaw dropped as a blur encountered the ice and went ass over tea kettle onto the floor, unable to stop its own momentum.

"Oh shit!" Danny uttered, eyes wide as the blur slammed into the opposite- reinforced- wall with a pained shout. The stopped person was wearing red, with a lighting bolt motif all over their uniforms. That implied speed. Speed implied "The Flash." Danny knew a hero when he saw one and he just iced him. Shit.

"What-" The Flash groaned. Mirror Master and Captain Cold gaped.

"OhmyancientsI'msosorrygottagobye!" Danny shouted.

"Hey, wait, kid-!" Captain Cold shouted. Danny ignored him, going invisible in a panic and sank into the ground, mortified. After thirty seconds of self-hatred, he zoomed out and away. Danny held his head in his hands as he flew back to where Amity was...

Only to stare down at the empty plots of land where his city was supposed to be. Danny shoved a hand into his chest and pulled out his phone.

[No results for Amity Park. Did you mean "Amity Arkham"?]

"What."

Any research he did after that only turned up a Jasmine Fellona, a budding neurobiologist in her field, and other people that were adjacent to the people Danny knew. But nothing, nothing from Amity Park.

"Oh, yeah, we're definitely not in Kansas anymore, Dorothy."

---

As the Flash stood around to keep an eye on the hand-cuffed villains, he couldn't help but ask.

"So, uh, Snart. Did you... get a kid?"

"What." Snart asked, incredibly done with this shit.

"You know. Snart junior? With the ice and everything?" Flash gestured at the un-melting ice that covered the floor leading into the safe. "I mean, I'm not thrilled you're pulling your kid into a life of crime..."

"No."

"Wait, you had a kid and didn't tell me?" Mirror Master asked, mildly offended. "That was your kid? No wonder no one shot at him!"

"He's not my kid." Snart gave Flash the stink-eye. "And don't you have a couple of baby sidekicks running around?"

"C'mon dude, you're so obviously fond of him. It's okay, you don't have to hide it." Flash avoided the topic... in a flash.

"Can someone arrest me right now so these idiots can be removed from my vicinity?" Snart snarked to the approaching officer, jerking his head to point at the beaming Flash.

"You and me both, buddy," Officer West sighed.

---

One trip to the zone and a stressful conversation with Clockwork later, Danny was found in his keep, smacking his ghost head into the ghost wall of his ghost keep. Danny would unleash a Wail if it didn't have the nasty habit of bringing everything around him.

Apparently, he got "Amity'd," a process which meant Amity spat him out like an over chewed dog bone and refused to take him back.

"That doesn't even make sense! I left there a bunch of times! And came back!"

"The city has decided that it was your time to leave, Danny." Clockwork spared a wane smile for the curled up boy-king.

"I have people to protect there! My entire life! My haunt!" Danny yelled, breaths that he didn't technically need coming shorter and shorter. The neon green of the Zone whirled in and out of his vision in a dizzying shudder of anxiety and incoming panic.

"It wasn't your haunt, I'm afraid. The city nurtured you as a young spirit- thus shared her haunt- and has decided that it was time for you to... leave the nest, so to speak."

That stopped Danny's panic in its tracks. "Are you telling me she NightVale-d me? Some kind of involuntary coming-of-age bs?"

If he weren't on the edge of hysterical laughter, Danny would take a moment and proudly say to Mr. Lancer that he had paid attention in class.

"...Yes."

"Fuck." Danny dropped his head down in despair. His head made a loud thunk. The bag of cash he'd accidently made away with sat innocently at his feet. Further proof that it wasn't some nightmare he'd wake up from anytime soon.

---

Danny slumped over the desk, exhausted. Technus had lent him a ghostly hand and hacked into government data bases to re-establish his social security number and all the other dumb bits and bobs that he needed to establish his identity because Amity was an actual ghost town. Ghost to reality, ghost to real life. Ancients, Amity even had their own data network, which he couldn't access outside of Amity itself. This meant that Danny couldn't even call anyone. Ugh.

"I gotta find a place to live," he mumbled to himself. Danny, despite knowing that he needed to do things, did not move for another ten minutes.

Then, as his phone alarm went off, buzzing on the table. Like... Clockwork... Danny sat up straight and wiped all traces of wallowing self pity off his face. The people in the library- students- gave him solemn nods of solidarity. Danny nodded back and left the library.

He wandered around Fawcett City, somewhere Clockwork had recommended he stayed. With Clockwork, recommendations tended to be life-important (plot-important?) orders. Danny liked the place, really. It gave off the weird and settled "what-the-fuck,-Box-Ghost-did-you-have-to-destroy-the-mall?" vibes Amity constantly gave off after the ghosts started coming through. He thought he even saw a talking tiger! Awesome.

"Hey, are you new here?"

Danny looked down. His reflection stared back at him.

Did he have another kid? Did someone clone him again? Ancients curse you, Vlad!

"Uh- yeah."

"Oh. Do you need help getting around? I was born and raised here all my life, so I can totally do that!"

Oh thank the Ancients, this wasn't another Dani. Just a weirdly similar looking kid.

"You know I'm a stranger, right?"

"I don't think anyone helping Nanny Mae pick up her oranges would hurt kids," the kid said archly, but with a grin so like Dani, it made Danny miss his younger sister.

"Okay, you got me there. But still."

The kid sighed. "I know how to be safe, thanks. I'm Billy!"

"Danny. Nice to meet you."

"Okay, Danny, where you off to?"

"I'm actually trying to find a place that'll be cheap to rent." He's sixteen, but Danny could totally pass as eighteen. "I'm thinking about moving to Fawcett. It's nice here, with all the ambient magic and stuff."

This got him a wide-eyed look. "Do you use magic?"

"Something like that."

"Cool."

Danny took in the considering glint in Billy's eyes and decided that it was future!Danny's problem. Present!Danny was currently occupied with trying to stay off the streets. That giant bag of cash he'd accidently absconded with would be helpful and Danny felt kind of bad... but his growling stomach had chased that away quickly.

"This way!"

Danny shrugged his wavering morality off and followed the kid, shouldering his new and stolen duffle bag. If anything happened, he could just go ghost. It wouldn't be the weirdest thing that's happened in this city, Danny made sure to check.

"Have you been by the zoo?" Billy began to rattle off his favorite details about the Fawcett city zoo as he wove around the city.

Danny didn't think he'd actually have to go ghost.

"Not yet, actually. Is it true that there's a talking tiger there?"

"Yeah! Tawky Tawny! He's my friend!"

"Awesome."

[aamircoeur]

just distressed (still not a damsel) ー ultraman, ken sato.

ultraman getting to know his damsel as kenji sato, the baseball player.

SEQUEL. PART 1.

sfw, female reader. UNEDITED.

you smiled at the chef and sat down on a stool, looking around to examine the place. it was clean and the lighting inside was warm, and the place had a lingering smell of fried eggs and soy sauce, which you really liked.

it was seven in the evening and you were at tonkatsu tonki for dinner, as per ultraman's suggestion. you had small chats with the chef as he made your order, with you being the only customer that he had as of the moment.

a few weeks have passed since your lengthy chat with japan's superhero. although you had been in the scene when yet another kaiju attacked this week, you weren't as involved as the previous times, which made you sad about not having the chance to talk to ultraman again. it was for the better, though, you thought. the poor guy sounded like he needed all the rest he could have.

he handed you your bowl of tonkatsu and poured water to your glass. while you were talking to the chef, a replay of this morning's baseball game was playing on the television that hung on the wall of the restaurant. you took a peek every now and then whenever the chef made reactions about the game, making you curious. "are you a fan of baseball?" you asked, taking a bite of your tonkatsu.

you got to know the chef for the past thirty minutes that you've been in the restaurant. he's a sarcastic man who genuinely cared for the food of the customers and their well-being, saying that his regulars had been coming in and out of his restaurant for more than twenty years.

"huge fan. i used to watch the games held in tokyo dome with my daughters," he said, his eyes never leaving the television. "but they've grown older, and we only watch together when they're free."

you hummed in response. "i was a huge tigers fan, and my daughters were even bigger fans of the giants." he laughed, and you smiled at him. "what about you? you like baseball?" he asked, wiping the spatula that he used.

you drank water to help you swallow your food before answering. "ah, not really. it never really piqued my interest." you said.

in the middle of your conversation, a group of rather tall men walked into the restaurant, greeting the chef before sitting down, who only waved his hand at them as he focused on his conversation with you.

"what do you mean it never piqued your interest?" the chef echoed, his eyebrow raised in a rather animated way which made you laugh at him.

"i-it just never crossed my mind much."

"baseball never crossed your mind much?" the chef asked in disbelief. "it's the best sport there is! don't tell me you're one of them basketball people."

"i have nothing against baseball. personally, i just don't like it. it looks fun though!" you explained yourself.

"you hate baseball?" the chef asked in front of you.

"i donー"

"you hate baseball?" the guy who sat near your stool chimed in.

"i don't!" you said, rubbing your cheek to show light-hearted annoyance.

the chef looked at you and faked a scoff, before walking to the group of men further from you to ask for their order. you laughed at him and sighed before drinking from your glass of water.

"so," the guy from beside you called out. "what was the "you hate baseball" argument with the chef?" he asked, taking off his sunglasses before hanging it at the front of his shirt.

you smiled and playfully rolled your eyes. "what i was saying is that i don't hate baseball." you said, taking a bite of your food after. "it's just not in my area of, uhm, interest or expertise."

the guy chuckled, running his hand through his jet-black hair. "i don't think i've ever met anyone who told me that they don't like baseball."

"what is it with guys and baseball?" you joked.

"hey, everyone likes baseball." he responded. he reached out his hand in front of you, offering a handshake. "i'm kenji." he said.

you accepted the handshake and held his hand, shaking it. "i'm [name] [surname], pleasure being baseball buddies with you."

"don't think that us being baseball buddies would work, considering how you don't like baseball," he joked with a forced frown on his face.

you groaned and he just laughed at you.

kenji ordered his usual and kept quiet, listening to his teammates as they debriefed the game that they had earlier. he was happy to have a close friendship with each and every one of them after struggling with adjusting to moving back to his home town two years ago.

but what made him the happiest is this restaurant, and seeing you in it. the night after his talk with you downtown, was the only time that he got a good night's sleep the whole week despite him getting only five hours.

not in a million years would he admit it, the chances of seeing you during a kaiju attack was the thought that made him feel light on his feet and eager to protect the city (to see you). but to his surprise (he was bummed the whole day), he didn't catch at least a glimpse of your [color] hair, but it was fine, he thought.

he didn't need to see you all the time, he thought. that would be greedy and desperate, he thought. your safety is what matters, it's a good thing that you weren't near another kaiju attack, where he had the chances of talking to you again, he thought.

"so, were you near the kaiju attack last week?" kenji asked.

why the fuck did he ask that.

you looked at him and tilted your head. "uhm," you said, chewing on your food and swallowing it as your facial expression questioned the weird conversation starter.

great, kenji. now she probably thinks you're a freak, he thought.

on the outside, kenji was as cool as ice with his unbothered look and relaxed body language. but internally, he was on his way to drive his motorcycle off mount fuji.

"i was near it, actually." you said, drinking your water. "i was a few streets down from the kaiju, so thankfully i didn't have any trouble getting to a safe place."

kenji sighed out of relief, thankful that you were safe, and that you didn't seem to think of him as a freak. "that's good," he said.

"funny you mentioned kaijus," you said. kenji looked at you with shock in his eyes, beads of sweat forming on his forehead.

did you figure it out . . ?

"i've recently gotten my old apartment building ruined by one just a few weeks ago." kenji sighed.

"oh, i'm sorry," kenji said and you just waved your hand to let him know that it was okay. "how are you holding up?" he asked.

"alright, i guess. the landlord was kind enough to give us back two months worth of rent back for the inconvenience and exposure to danger. i guess the kdf offered their aid to him." you said as you continued eating your meal.

kenji hummed. "what about you?" you asked, placing the back of your forearms against the table counter, your elbows brushing against his.

kenji took notice of this and cleared his throat. "i haven't been near one," an obvious lie. "there was one time when a kaiju attacked the arena that i played in, it was gigantron, i think?" kenji said.

"oh, that's unfortunate. glad to know you're safe." you said.

"oh, no, i'm really not. the kaiju now holds me hostage in my own home."

"huh . . ?" your eyebrows knit together in worry, your [color] eyes staring into his purple ones.

kenji stared back into your pretty eyes and felt warmth on his cheeks. he looked at how your expression says that you believed every word he said. kenji covered his smile with the back of his hand and laughed, squinting his eyes.

you immediately frowned at the joke and gave his shoulder a soft punch before taking another bite at your food.

suddenly, the lights of the restaurant started swinging and flickering. you felt the ground shake and you looked at the people in the restaurant, before locking eyes with kenji once again who gave you a worried look.

a speaker that came from the street alerted everyone of the happening. "this is the kaiju defense force. evacuate the area immediately." the speaker repeated.

the roof of the restaurant broke, a red-colored foot piercing into it. you heard the people that kenji came in with shouting as they guided to help each other scurry to exit the building. as the others left, everyone was divided and you were with the chef and three other people. the chef led you all to the back exit of the restaurant and you all ran into the street, gathering with the other people in the neighbouring buildings who went out for their safety.

"are you all okay?" the chef asked, beads of sweat forming on his forehead from the sprint.

you gasped for air, trying to ease your breathing as you threw him a thumbs up.

"kenji and the others went out into the street to where the kaiju is," one pointed out.

another held onto his shoulder and gave him a worried look. "i'm sure they're alright." he said.

the crowd talked amongst themselves while the tmpd (tokyo metropolitan police department) made sure that everyone was okay and that the injured were provided aid. ultraman appeared as always, his glowing eyes acting as the sun in the cold night.

after an hour, ultraman had guided the kaiju back to where it came from. the kdf gave the tmpd the green signal and told all the civilians to go home for the night, asking those with the damaged properties to stay behind to discuss insurance and such. you bid farewell to the chef who asked you to stay safe before he was guided by the policeman to talk in an office.

a man tapped your shoulder and bowed farewell to you along with his mates, hoping for your safe travels. they were the people you were separated with in the restaurant. you greeted them good bye and started walking home.

alone again, you sighed to yourself and rested your hands in the pockets of your jacket.

this was probably the first time that you were dangerously near a kaiju attack without talking to ultraman, you thought.

turning right into a dark street, you saw a big motorcycle parked on the side as you were about to pass it, and before you knew it, a huge being emitting a beam of light was falling from the sky.

what the fuck?!

you covered your face with your arms before it landed to spare yourself from accidental blindness, and you were surprised to lower your arms just to see the man that you met earlier at the restaurant instead. "little ma'am?" he called out, eyes widened as he panted.

you stared at him with complete shock visible on your face. "kenshi?!"

taglist: @ttulipwritezz @c-losur3 @saeyari @taleiak @spencerrxids

[phoenixyfriend]

Somewhere out there is an essay about superhero movies where villains co-opt, misuse, or even just misunderstand the language of the left to push methods and goals that are incompatible with the actual theory of the left, but that sound Right And Good to viewers who aren't thinking it through entirely. And the essay is not just about how they compare to each other, but how they are a litmus test for viewers to know how susceptible they are to propaganda.

Co-opt: Most obvious example and the inspiration for this post is the Riddler in Batman (2020, the one with RPatt). The Riddler recites leftist rhetoric about corruption, wealth hoarding, and redistribution, but his actual actions and goals are unrelated. He's an accelerationist who's more interested in tearing down a system that didn't benefit HIM than in actually rectifying the problems, and who cares if a few kids get traumatized or even killed along the way?

Misuse: Easy mode, this one's Thanos. He talks about ensuring there's enough for everyone to eat, but like. Bro.

Misunderstand: Erik Killmonger, who has the benefit of both some incredibly legitimate grievances and a pretty face, but also kind of fails at the idea of intersectionality, proportionality, or Start With Words Before You Escalate. He's the easiest to sympathize with, because he has some really good points and ultimately does appear to be legitimately pursuing those goals... but he's also a misogynist, jumped to international terrorism before "call up my cousin who doesn't know I exist," and there's something in there about the role played by his time in the US military, which gave him emotional trauma, head trauma, and a sincere belief in the validity of US-style insurgency operations based on hostile takeovers of inconvenient countries. He's charming and pretty and sincere... he's just also, in many ways, wrong. And the parts where he's right makes it easy to try to ignore the bits where he's wrong if you're predisposed to like him and prefer some absolutism.

Anyway, yeah, there are definitely other examples, but the ones that were suggested to me didn't quite vibe with the base idea (Mysterio and Vulture both had disgruntled union moments in the MCU, but they left those roots so quickly that I don't think the concept of using leftist rhetoric as cover/justification for the crimes really applies since, they very quickly shift gears into revenge and greed respectively).

Someone's probably done this better orz.

[fuckyeahimafangirl]

I come here late to give my opinion on what Nicole Maines said in her book about the Supercorp fandom (go to Twitter for more info, but she basically gave her point of view of things as a queer actor on the show having expected things from the queer fans, confirmed we were being queerbaited while also blaming us for some actors getting fired). I appreciate her side of things and feel for her. But reading that I felt that A LOT was overlooked, especially the context of it all. So sit back if you care enough to read this and come with me as I go on a rant and we go down memory lane to give some context into what it was like to watch Supergirl live as a Supercorp fan.

The first season of Supergirl had its fair share of ships. People liked Kara/Cat, Kara/James, Kara/Win maybe anyone? I don't remember that one but I'm sure there were people out there who liked them. Some people even liked Alex/Kara (a conversation for another time). Kara/Cat shippers could also like Kara/James, because both ships had some strong foundations in the narrative, they were undeniably good ships, regardless of how you feel about age-difference relationships or straight relationships lol. There wasn't mostly an issue, except with the ones that liked Kara/Alex.

In between the first and second season of Supergirl it was announced that a main character would be gay. They didn't say who, though. Speculation began, of course. They did say that Maggie Sawyer was coming to the show but it was not confirmed that she was going to be a lesbian and even less whose love interest. 

Then the second season premiered. And in the very first episode Kara Danvers meets Lena Luthor. Their scenes together were filled with sexual tension from the very beginning, look at their meeting scene without context and a bit of an open mind and most people will see their chemistry and think that maybe Kara was meeting her soulmate. And the first scene of Supergirl meeting Lena Luthor? It was already drawing a parallel between them and Lois/Clark, one of most iconic, recognizable and undeniable canon ships of all time. Drawing parallels between these two ships was the creators of the show's favorite pastime and it started from day one, before the ship had any fans because we hadn't met Lena just yet.

But in that episode we did meet her. And we fell in love fast. Because their interactions and the interest concept of Lena's character were good. Could it really be that Kara was the main gay character? Could it really be that they were going to give us an epic love story with Supergirl and a family member of her family's historically known enemy? Could they dare to make the famous superhero anything other than straight?

It wasn't just a delusion on our part at that time. It was a real possibility based on real facts. Kara had suddenly dropped the guy she spent the entire previous season chasing after. She got him and dumped him for no good reason (the writers didn't bother to give it a good excuse) and in the same episode she meets this woman, at the start of the season we were going to discover a main gay character.

These are all facts.

A few episodes later Maggie Sawyer makes her debut and it's clear that she's Alex's love interest from the first moment. Cool. It's not Kara but at least it's Alex (because, at the time, we know, WE KNOW, that they don't have two lesbian/queer women characters in the same show unless they're dating each other. How could we think that gay people will surround themselves with other gay people? silly us), that was the reaction: We still LOVED that it was Alex, because it still made sense. And it was difficult to find Sanvers fanfic without it having Supercorp in it because we were all the same people, of course most of us liked both ships. 

Now, I obviously don't know her, but I seriously don't think that Chyler can say she felt overlooked by the fans that season. Alex's coming out scenes were some of the best we had seen in our entire lives up until that point, and we made that known. Not all of us might have been on board with Sanvers (some storyline choices could've been questionable) but with Alex? No one loved her more than the queer Supergirl fans. And in the meantime Supercorp kept getting screen time, their friendship progressing in a Clois kind of way that was beautiful to witness. While Maggie and Alex's relationship advanced pretty quickly from an "I'm not gay" to a rejection to a proper first kiss, Supercorp was building a bit more organically as Supergirl kept saving Lena's life, as Lena opened up only to Kara, trusting her all the while Kara was keeping this huge secret from her. We ate that shit up, of course we did.

After season two was over we got the news that Floriana Lima (Maggie) was going to leave the show. I remember Chyler saying that she wanted to do right by us and whoever came next was gonna stay. And I'm not faulting Chyler for what came next, at all. Chyler was and always will be one of the best things on Supergirl and she has always treated the fandom with the utmost respect and love. And I hope she only received the same treatment back (and I hate to know she got those letters from people threatening to kill themselves, but let's have a little compassion for those people and their mental health, I hope they're doing well).

So Maggie left. And while some fans were not coping well with that, most fans understood it was the actress' decision. That was fine. What wasn't fine was the decision the writers made by making the breakup about not wanting babies when they were about to get married. How on Earth (any Earth) a couple don't talk about that particular issue BEFORE deciding to get married? It was an easy way out. But okay, it's just a TV show, I don't write it, we can move on from that... In the same season, at the same time this whole discussion and breakup occurs, the very same person who wanted to have kids has a meet-cute with a SINGLE MOTHER, Sam. The story was full of promise, she had a kid already with whom Alex got along amazingly, there was great chemistry between all three of them, Sam also had a dark secret being basically her sister's most powerful enemy, their relationship was mostly well built throughout the entire season. But guess what? She wasn't her new love interest, and left at the end of it. 

A lot of Supercorp fans LOVED AgentReign (Sam/Alex), by the way. A lot of Supercorp fans also loved ReignCorp (Sam/Lena) and a few even loved AgentCorp (Lena/Alex) and SuperReign (lol what was the name of this ship? I don't remember but Kara/Sam). And guess what? There wasn't a war between us. We were mostly the same people multishipping because it's fun and because these were interesting characters with interesting relationships created by the writers. We were inventing and wishing for stuff, but the foundations were laid for us, some (most) things were there and most of us were just screaming that we liked what we were being given and wanted more of that.

And that's why come season 4, some people were having a hard time accepting Dansen. Because we were mourning the loss of Sam and her relationship with Alex, the what ifs are always the worst, no matter the situation.  But most Supercorp fans embraced Kelly (and Azie, we love Azie and what we got to see of her relationship with Chyler, and Katie and Nicole), the vast majority of us ended up loving Dansen despite the writers not always doing a great job at writing their arcs. And it's awful that some fans treated her and other members of the cast horribly, but that was by far a small portion of the Supergirl fandom in general, and especially the Supercorp fandom. And, by the way, as a side note because racism was part of the problem for a minority of the fandom, A LOT of us in the Supercorp side of it are not white people from the US, A LOT of us are from other countries/races/cultures (that can be racist too of course, but the point is we don't know the races and motives of everyone behind a keyboard).

And that season most of us also embraced Nia because she was the first trans superhero, because of her queerness, because she was an awesome fun character, because she was relatable and geeky like most of us. We embraced her, her relationship with Kara and her relationship with Brainy. And we showed that by trending Nia related things, by adding Nia to our fanfics and fanarts. Nia was a Supercorp ally for most of us and we didn't exclude her from the art because we loved her as much as we love some of the other characters in the show.

Now, if Kara would have had, after the first season, one male love interest that was decent enough, we would have still love and wanted Supercorp, that's true (especially when it had been years of build-up) but most of us probably would have liked the pairing anyway, because we loved Kara Danvers and wanted her to be happy and to have the love she wanted at the beginning of the show (which she didn't get, by the way).

But the writers decided to give her, instead, another man who didn't treat her well. And I couldn't honestly tell you half of William's storyline because I couldn't care less. The creators of the show didn't make me care. Hell, I didn't even see Kara cared enough about that character. The writers should know their audience and should know that the audience needs moments to make them care about the characters, the writers have the power to make that happen. Many times I've seen a fandom hate a character one episode and love them by the next one, because sometimes all it takes is one good scene, or one good arc. William never had that. And now we have confirmation of what we knew all along, that maybe they were writing half-assed storylines for their love interests because they were too busy trying to figure out new ways to queerbait us. If they would have put a quarter of that effort into creating good love interests for Kara and/or Lena (but especially Kara), most of this conversation wouldn't still be happening 3 years later.

We embraced Andrea Rojas, we embraced her so much that we shipped her with Lena. Most of us weren't the blind Supercorp-or-nothing crazy fans a lot of people to this day make us out to be. When things were good, we mostly liked them. But please, please, let's be honest here, a lot of the time Supergirl was not a great-written show. And I get that those are Nicole's friends but a little objectivity, especially after all these years, would have come a long way.

These past few days I've read a couple of people saying Supercorp was the only good thing about the show. Those kinds of people were and still are a very very minority. A lot of us started the show before Supercorp existed and LOVED (still love) the Danvers sisters with all of our hearts. And the writers, at times, didn't know how to keep up with that relationship, the one that at first was the very center of the show, all that well either.

Most Supercorp fans didn't actually like that the 100th episode revolved all around Supercorp. 1) Because it was queerbaiting at its finest. 2) because it should've been about the Danvers sisters. Or at least about all Supergirl's most important relationships in equal measure. Yes, Lena was a big part of her, but ALEX EVEN MORE SO. The fandom didn't make that happen, we didn't fire any actor either. These were decisions made by the people who had the power to make anything in the show happen. If we would have had our way we all know what we would have done, and no, it definitely was not p**n (the most used AO3 tags for our ship speak for themselves).

I didn't see Nicole's last paragraph on the subject shared much. A lot of people didn't see that she acknowledged a small portion of the good the Supercorp fandom did.

But by the time you get to it, you already have a bad taste in your mouth. Because it still reads as if she's talking about us all without a care that "the toxic fans" were just a loud minority. Not to say that the good guys weren't louder, because Supercorp is still what it is to this day because we're still loud. So why is there very little mention of that? The way we supported Nia's episode? The way we supported Kelly's?

And because we were having fun and we were loud about our love for two fictional characters, WE WERE ALSO RECEIVING THREATS from some toxic fans, hell, the day before yesterday some fans were receiving death threats like it's 2017. Everything she says the cast and crew were dealing with, the Supercorp fans were dealing with it as well, and more so because the toxic people felt validated by the choices the creators made. Validated by some writers on Twitter making it worse. Validated by some of the actors who were also mocking us. We were all called delusional, and that was the most chill thing you could be called.

I understand her point of view, and I imagine that was not a great first experience in that kind of set, and I would love to have the opportunity to talk to actors about this topic that fascinates me (relationship between fandoms and cast/crew). But context is important, to see other people's point of views is important when having these conversations. She felt her own community wasn't supporting her when most of us were and that didn't come across at all. Not even with her final words. 

The fact is, they were hurt by a small part of their own fandom (which, by the way, they have no idea how old those toxic fans were. Not to say that adults are not toxic. But we, as the non-toxic adults, should also think of the demographic and react accordingly). And most of us, the queer Supercorp shippers, were also hurt by the toxic part of the fandom and by some of the people she's trying to defend. Let's be clear, there's not "mayyyybe," they were 100% wrong in queerbaiting the hell out of us from day one and mocking us for believing the bait. Make no mistake, most of this is a consequence of THAT. 

[infinizero]

Danny as The Ghostly Informant TM except nobody realizes it's the same person

Danny after retiring, maybe because the portals are closed or maybe because he became Ghost Royalty or Important Ghost TM who told everyone not to come to Earth, decides to go travelling like or with Dani/Elle

Its really up to anyone whether it was reveal gone right after graduation and dude wants to find himself before doing the whole college thing or reveal gone wrong and is running away maybe in another dimension maybe in the same and Amity Park is a blind zone in any case he goes travelling

The first one he encounters is a more easygoing JL member maybe Flash maybe Wonder Woman trying to figure out how to defeat a Realms ghost so Danny, seeing them struggling, decides to help and either talks the ghost down or soups them

In both cases he opens a portal to the realms and lets them go back through.

They talk a little, Danny as Danny introduces Infinite Realms ghosts as they are trying his best to figure out if they also want to hunt down ecto-entities. The JL member would want to learn more so they exchange information details just in case something like this happens again

Around this time, a JLD member gets wind of the new Important Ghost around the area and needs to find out more about them. After scouting around a little, he finds a way to summon what seems to be a young protective spirit who seems close to the Important Ghost.

Spoiler alert: the protective spirit and Important Ghost are both Danny. All the time travel stuff are attributed to Important Ghost and the beating up other ghosts who come near a specific place to protective spirit. Bonus points if there is a misunderstanding that Important Ghost is protective spirit's parent that's why they beat up Pariah Dark

So they summon Danny as Phantom to ask questions and eventually get the ok to summon him again just in case they need to know things, with the understanding that neither will hurt each other (the JLD member also has the vague idea of asking Phantom to bring Important Ghost over to their side if another worldending thing happenes again)

Soon enough, Danny as Danny meets one of the younger JL adjacent teams (Teen Titans or Young Justice when they're babies? Maybe even Damian's team that I don't know the name of? Maybe the Outlaws?) and helps them out against one of his rogues.

If it's the same dimension, Danny sees that they are younger superheroes and/or not as connected to the government as the older ones, so he warns them about the anti ecto acts and being careful since being so close to death is very slowly making them more liminal/if they're liminal then tells them to stay away from GIW

If not the same dimension then he just gets talking to them about ecto-entities and does basically the same thing as the first JL member he met, eventually exchanging contact information

This pattern continues for a while as Batman receives reports from whichever Robin about ecto-entities being a thing and either holding a meeting because of the anti ecto acts or because there is an entire species that could destroy all of us by possessing Superman and none of you JLD thought to inform me???

At this point of time, most of the JL has met and some even asked for his help and they talk about the various things they've learned from their Informant(Danny) and because it's Danny they slowly get a full picture of everything because he talked about obsessions with one person and cores to another and so on so forth

They all eventually come to the conclusion that they should ask for more details from their Informant

Cue Danny being bombarded by text messages of all the people he's helped asking him about the Realms while being summoned as Phantom.

[meltedheartz]

thinking about ftm!reader and mean!izuku who thinks it's so cute how they just can't defend themselves against him :((

tw : college!au, dub-con, condescension, mild bullying (in a way), chubby reader, reader wears glasses, reader's a bit of a loser, dacryphilia, creampie, no protection (don't be silly, wrap that willy!), mating press, izuku's a whore for reader, praise and petnames, don't care how big you are cuz izu's bigger, gn pronouns used :3

word count : wrote this on a whim, so i honestly don't know..

it starts when you accidentally bump into him, stumbling back yet he was barely even startled. you apologize profusely, and izuku just waves you off at first.

you think it's rude, before rushing off to wherever you were trying to get too—forgetting about it.

but izuku spots you around that coffee shop near the campus, sees you in the hallways with books nearly stumbling from your arms, watches as you take notes as the professor speaks.

a couple of people whisper about you, how you never bother speaking to anyone, and how nervous you seem when someone approaches you.

it's like cornering a bunny, izuku thinks when he decides to speak to you.

well, it's more like being passive aggressive than actually conversing.

"wow, you're soo smart. you must be real fun to be around, huh? your voice is really high pitched, are you sure you're alright?"

you tell him to stop being a dickhead, if he doesn't wanna be around, he doesn't have to be. izuku waves you off and laughs, says you're like a startled animal that thinks it's intimidating, and it makes you frown.

"you're an ass," you poke at his chest, before picking up your bag and adjusting your glasses.

"hm? where are you going?" izuku pointedly ignores your insult, but it feels more ticklish than insulting or hurtful.

you ignore him right back, attempting to storm out of his dorm room. of all the people you get to work with, you get paired with him. it's annoying—more an inconvenience, than anything.

izuku watches as tears well up behind those clear rims you wear, sees the furrow in your eyebrow and nearly laughs at it, wants to call you a crybaby for it; just like everyone used to do to him.

he can sort of see why they did it, and when it comes down to someone as soft and quiet as you, it's nearly impossible to resist.

"we're not done with either of our parts. you don't need help on yours?"

when you don't answer, izuku takes it upon himself to grab you hard enough to stop you, but not enough to hurt. it causes a slight discomfort, makes your breathing stutter a bit as you sniffle and try to pull away—but you physically can't.

izuku speaks again, looming over you with a small scowl. "why are you ignoring me? i thought you wanted to get this done, what happened to that?"

you just wanna slap him for asking that. he knows the answer — knows exactly what he did wrong and why you got fed up.

"let go of me. i'll work on my part by myself, dickweed."

"nuh-uh, that's not fair to either of us, is it?" izuku coos, grabbing your bag for you and tossing it onto the futon he has sitting just a little bit away.

you sniffle again, more tears welling up and threatening to tip over and down onto your chubby cheeks, and you can't even wipe them away cuz you're arguing with such an asshole.

you seem so frustrated and angered, but he knows that instead of yelling, you cry. it's pathetic, makes him wanna bite your cute face and boop your nose just to see you sniffle some more.

"you mad at me?" izuku asks, tugging you back into the small apartment that you stupidly decided to visit to get your joint assignment done.

"this is stupid — let me go, midoriya." he frowns at that, his grip loosening just a bit before it tightens again.

he clicks his tongue and drags you right back to his room, with all the superhero posters and expensive collectors items that can't be found anywhere else.

izuku sits you down but doesn't let you go—hasn't let go of your arm since he got a hold of it. "what happened to calling me by my name?"

"that is your name," you snark back. you watch as his eyes narrow a bit and he makes his way on to the bed, looming over you.

you feel.. small. it's not like you were ever bigger than him, he goes to the gym more times a week than you can keep track of and is over 6'0" — of course you aren't bigger than him.

"don't get smart with me honey. you know you don't wanna do that." izuku sighs and makes you lay down, and you feel your heartbeat speed up as your eyes widen.

you struggle and squirm, but he just smiles and puts more of his weight on you, making it near impossible to even move.

"m-midoriya—"

"izuku. say it," he breathes out, tucking his face into the crook of your neck almost forcefully.

he hears you hiccup, sees as the tears flow over and how your eyes get all glassy—all doe-eyed and he laughs.

"izuku, get off me—" you try to move again, you feel the grip around your wrist tighten more and it feels more and more uncomfortable as it does.

"i love you. you're so cute, what would you have done if it was someone else on top of you? hm?" izuku raises his head to look at you, and feels bad.

feels that guilt of actually making you cry, seeing how scared you are of him. "ah-ah, shh. i'm sorry. i didn't mean to make you upset, okay?"

that doesn't make the tears stop, but izuku thinks it's fine. the apology sounds genuine—more genuine than the usual sarcastic 'sorry' he gives you, more genuine than the mean laughs he gives you after making you throw a crumbled paper ball at him.

"i hate you, you're s-so mean," you hiss, wanting to kick and scream at him.

you feel the hold he has on your wrists loosen, but he doesn't let go entirely. but it's more than enough for you to wriggle free.

izuku smiles again, "i know. i know, 'm sorry."

the words that leave his mouth make you hiccup and stare at him, the typical scowl you always give izuku on your lips.

"you never show that you're actually sorry." you sniffle, and have to move to wipe the onslaught of tears the stumble down your pretty face.

izuku pauses when you say that, eyes grazing over your face before he lights up.

"how about i prove it, would that make you feel better?"

"s-slow down—"

"mgh—s-sorry," izuku gasps, but doesn't make any move to slow down, hips stuttering into yours as he watches you shake and clutch at the sheets.

it's been a little over thirty minutes, you think, but you're not sure. it's not like you can think when you can feel izuku's pretty cock all the way in your tummy—making sure you know he's actually sorry.

he spent all his time before this slurping at your pretty cunt, fingering you to completion as he sucked at your cute clit and made sure you felt good.

even now, izuku was trying to make sure you felt as good as you possibly could with him, watching your eyes roll back with every thrust into you.

"love you s'much, soo soft n pretty-" izuku whines, kissing you all sloppily yet so lovingly.

it makes you clench up around him, trying to close your legs but you jus can't because of the mean mating press he has you in.

"such a good boy for me, yeah?" the words paired with his dick stirring up your guts make you wail.

it's almost too much, but it's not enough as you cream around his cock—a milky white ring forming at the base of it as he pants and gasps right next to your ear.

he pounds a little faster—a little harder before his thrusts get sloppier and nearly lose rhythm. you can barely see his face without your glasses and the tears blurring your vision further.

but izuku makes sure that you can hear him good and well as he moans and whines, feeling the blunt tip press against your cervix as though it never wants to leave.

"shit, shit— 'm cumming," he gives short little thrusts as he does, cumming harder than he has in months just knowing that he finally has you.

you're both sweaty and you feel a little icky, embarrassed at all the crying you did. izuku kisses you—softer than he did before, wiping some hair from your face as he does.

"love you." izuku mutters. he doesn't care if you don't say it back, just as long as you know he loved you at the very least.

"i love you too."

A/N ; i haven't written smut or anything in MONTHS. i hope this is good in some parts, it's very rushed and not well thought outt :((

b4 anyone asks, minors are allowed to interact with my account. i don't care, as long as you aren't under 15. i fully understand that you guys have hormones, and the "minors dni" thing is straight bullshit to me. luv you guys, i will be making an account intro, but it won't be anytime soon cuz i'm lazy.. ＼(≧▽≦)／

[fuctacles]

hi!!! congrats on 500 followers!! you deserve them and so many more! i love your writing sm. i will take some more from crazy cat lady stevie 💛

thank you, thank you! 💚 It's a joy to write for y'all. Here's the next 500 words of CCLS(lmao):

Prev: 😺😺 Next: 😺😺😺😺

"Here." Steph pushes back the notepad after setting down a string of digits. Her handwriting is small and neat. It suits her. "Feed the little shits twice, today evening and tomorrow morning, water the plant once today. They should be fine alone, but stay with them to make sure they eat their food and, I don't know…" she waves her hand in the air. "Scratch them if they get really whiny or something. Call me if anything's wrong."

Eddie nods along at her instructions.

"Don't worry, I got this. I've befriended Jeff's hateful little Siamese in a day. I think cats like me," he assures her. "We'll be fine."

She puts a hand on his shoulder and squeezes.

"Of course you will. I trust you."

This touch and her words are all he can think of while they talk for the ten minutes Steph has left. Mostly her and his uncle, because his brain is running wild while trying to soak in the information they share.

He finds out that Robin lives in Indianapolis with her girlfriend. Wayne isn't surprised by that information, but Steph gives Eddie a cursory glance. He gives his best to show how much he doesn't care she's friends with a lesbian. He wants to scream that he's bisexual but it doesn't seem like time and place for that.

He also learns that Dustin is around five years younger than her and married, and she seems to be both proud and jealous of that.

Eventually, she looks at her watch and makes a distressed noise, before hastily gulping down the rest of her coffee.

"I gotta go," she informs them, standing up. Eddie follows.

"I'll walk you off."

"You don't have to—"

But he ends up grabbing her duffel, putting his slippers on, and opening the door in front of her anyway.

"M'lady." He bows, earning himself an amused huff.

"Goodbye, Wayne!" she says, leaning into the kitchen.

"Have a safe trip!" Wayne offers back, and then they're off, walking down the stairs.

Steph grabs the duffel near the front door, basically prying it away from his grasp.

"Thanks again for stepping in. Wayne is lucky to have a family like you."

To have a family.

"No problem," he assures her. "I wouldn't just help anyone, though. You seem like a good person."

"Thanks." She smiles timidly. Then, she leans in, and brushes his cheek with her lips. "See you soon. Don't kill my cats."

"Uh-huh," he agrees eloquently. The heady smell of her perfume must have dazed him.

On her way out the door, she turns.

"Love your pants, by the way. Though I'm more of a Captain America fan." She disappears after that, giving him one last wave.

He's about to swoon. Gorgeous, queer-friendly, and likes superhero comics? He could fall in love.

But he's not going to swoon for a lady that's at least ten years older than him, and probably still single for a reason. And it goes the other way too.

[astroboots]

EVERY YOU EVERY ME: ISSUE #4

Pairing: Miguel O'Hara x female reader

Summary: Miguel O'Hara saves you from falling off the Chrysler building for a second time, and he's not very happy about it.

Word count: 4,400 words.

Content: Slow burn so slow we're getting a reverse speeding ticket, Spidey-boy has a lot of emotions and really needs therapy, he also swears a lot, tiny speck of angst.

Astroboot’s Masterlist | Series Masterlist | Spiderverse Masterlist

[Previous] [Next]

It's shocking how fast the ground approaches from a height of 72 stories. You always imagined it would take longer given the distance. In movies, the freefall is always captured in a hypnotizing slow motion, but real gravity is brutal and unforgiving.

This time, as you fall through the sky, you don’t see the New York concrete grow wider or nearer. All you see is the vast gap between you and the crystal blue sky rapidly pulling away from you. The buildings looming higher with every second. The blinding sun reflected in the thousands and thousands of glaring windows towering above.

You can't feel your heartbeat or the wind beating against your face. There should be panic. But at the sight of familiar inky-blue piercing through your view, an eerie calm takes over until a comforting numb spreads through your limbs.

Call it misguided naivety. No one should ever place this much trust with their life on a stranger they don't even know to come and save them.

But misguided or not, there's no fear in you this time around. You don't think about how you are plummeting down to your death. Not when you see him speeding after you. Diving head-first into the vast empty space as he closes the distance between you, hand outstretched, reaching for you.

His hand catches around your wrist in mid-air. It's a firm grip like he never means to let go. He reels you in until you're defying gravity, gliding up through the air to meet him until he can wrap his arms around you.

Everything decelerates. The reflection of the rows and rows of windows no longer flashing by. It's a gentle descent as the breeze flows pleasantly through your hair, and if you don't think too hard about how you can't control the direction of movement, you can almost believe you’re flying.

The landing is gentle. He sets you on your feet with such great care that it takes you a second to adjust to the feeling of firm concrete beneath your soles.

Once again, you find yourself standing face to face with the masked superhero who has saved your life more times than you can count on both hands.

You crane your neck to meet his gaze, head tilting upwards until your neck strains, and it strikes you that you've forgotten how tall he was. His head tips down, the dark outline of his masked eyes staring down at you, and it makes the hair on the nape of your neck prickle.

Say something. 

You rack your brain, trying to remember all the questions you had meticulously written down in the notepad hidden in your desk as you planned for this very moment. But they’re missing, wiped cleanly from your mind now that he's here in front of you. Your mouth parts, trying to remember how to use your vocal cords again.

Before you find it, the blue fabric recedes until it reveals his face again. You're met with cutting eyes that glow an otherworldly crimson and the bared sharp canine teeth of a predator as he growls at you. 

"What the hell were you thinking?!" 

The low rumble of his words scrapes down your spine and locks you in a fight or flight response. Except you're doing neither. Fixed in place, unable to move.

One of his hands reaches up to pull at his hair in frustration, as he starts to mumble to himself. He's tugging it so hard you think he's going to yank them out by the roots.

"I can’t believe you! Me estás matando. Casi me da un ataque cardíaco–"

You blink up at him dimly, confused until you realize that he's broken into Spanish. But he's speaking too low and too fast. You can only make out about half of it.

"–No puedo más! I am dying of stress. You're impossible! I turn away for one second…” 

One sentence flows directly into the next without stopping for a single breath, and you're surprised he doesn't go lightheaded from lack of oxygen with how long he goes on.

You raise your hand slightly, reminiscent of a gesture you used to pull in school when you wanted to get the teacher's attention to ask a question. But he doesn't notice. Doesn’t even throw a glance in your direction.

“... and you go Anna Karenina on me. I can't with you, I can't, I can't–"

You try to follow along, looking for an appropriate break in his rant to get a word in edgewise. But like the line of tourists lining up for the Statue of liberty, there doesn't seem to be an end in sight. As rude as it is, the only thing you can think of is clearing your throat, loudly, trying to draw attention to yourself, but that's soundly ignored as well.

"Me vas a sacar canas verdes–-"

One broad hand covers his face as if he's trying to scrub away the beginnings of a migraine, and he keeps going.

Listening to him makes you feel like a child on the receiving end of a scolding by an exasperated parent. Any lingering thread of fear or intimidation gives way to irritation at this man who is so subsumed by his tirade that he doesn't even seem to be aware of your presence, not three feet away from him.

"–Siempre haces esto, una y otra y otra vez–"

You don't know exactly how long he’s been going on for by now, but you know that it's long. You could even swear the shadow by your feet has shifted to the opposite end of the patch of concrete at your feet in the time he’s been talking.

"Well? Aren't you going to say anything?" he asks, apparently finally done. He stands there, arms crossed, with a condescending set to his jaw as he looks down on you.

And god, where to even start with this man? You have enough material about his difficult and avoidant behavior to make a powerpoint presentation out of it. You should block out the boardroom for three whole hours and hold a Q&A after.

How, if he had just spoken to you after you left him not one, not two, but several requests to meet with him, then things could have ended up a lot more civilized.

How, if he hadn't been hiding from you this whole time—gaslighting you— you wouldn't have had to spend over $200 on budget DIY spy crap (in this economy!) on an utterly wasted attempt to catch him. And, to add insult to injury, you’re sure you are never going to use any of that stuff ever again!

How, if he hadn't been talking non-stop and had the self-awareness to take a second to observe others, he'd have realized that you had plenty of things to say to him, if only he had paused long enough to let you.

But somehow in the face of his expectant expression, all that comes out of your mouth is, "I don't know what you want me to say."

His face falls. There's a split second of disappointment, raw and anguished, that flitters across his face. Then it's gone as quickly as it appeared, and he turns away from you. Whatever he was expecting from you, that was obviously not it.

When he speaks again, his voice has turned calm and quiet. He almost sounds resigned.

"Yeah. I don't know either." 

There's a sluggish, awkward silence that lingers on the three feet of concrete stretched between the two of you. The echo of traffic below, the cab horns and chatter swarms the space. After everything that’s happened, it all feels very anti-climatic somehow.

"Can you take me back to my apartment and we can talk? I have coffee. Cake too," you say, trying to break the silence.

"I don't drink coffee." His tone is curt, severing the olive branch you were trying to extend with a sharp snap, and your shoulders sag in defeat and disappointment. But then his face tips back in your direction and meets your eyes. The line of his mouth twitches as if he’s war with himself. 

"But I'll have some cake," he concedes. 

Had you known that a superhero was coming over for a visit, you'd probably have done a better job of cleaning up and making the place presentable.

You would have put away the heap of unfolded, wrinkly laundry that's piled up on your bed, granny panties in full sight. Would have washed the dirty dishes stacked up in your sink like a dangerous game of porcelain Jenga. Or at least cleared out the sad looking take out box where your half-eaten pizza is still resting in a greased up spot on the table.

Still, you're not sure how impressed he would be even if you had. Your studio apartment is a standard size for NYC, meaning in most other places it would be classified as a closet. With his height, he has to duck to make it through the threshold of your door and can barely stand upright without banging his head against the ceiling. It’s ironic that the window entrance is probably less hazardous for him.

You get him a plate of cake and set it on the table in front of him, delicately placing the dessert fork on the side.

"Sorry, I don't have any cookies for you today, just coffee cake."

The sight of him sitting hunched over your Ingatorp IKEA dining table is slightly comical. The table looks like a miniature doll set against his broad frame, and as he picks up the small dessert fork in his large hand, that only adds to the absurdity of the situation. He looks like he’s playing at having a tea party with a child’s play tea set. 

You sit down across from him, watching him intently, trying to gather the nerve to ask the questions you've been dying to ask since this all started. But you're hesitant and fumbling, stumbling on your words like an idiot, "Uhm, so I wanted to ask if you– if you knew why all of this is happening to–"

"No."

You frown at his interruption. "You didn't let me finish," you protest.

He leans back against his chair, waving away your protests dismissively into the air. "I didn't need you to. The answer is no. Next question."

You bite down on your lip to stave off the curse stuck in your throat, trying to force its way out. You hold it. Stemming the tide, as you focus on the task at hand.

"Who are you?"

His head tilts to the side at your question, as his hand draws up and gestures vaguely over the spider emblem of his costume draped over his chest. "Isn't it obvious?" he snarkily responds, "I'm Spiderman"

Great, he's a rude and sassy superhero. You narrow your eyes at him

"You're not the Spiderman I know of."

He doesn't respond to that. Just glares down at the cake as he pierces it with a sharp stab of the fork, making the porcelain underneath clank. Then he scoops a large spoonful and shovels it into his mouth.

God, who eats cake so angrily?

"Why did you save–" you start, but he holds up one finger, motioning for you to pause. 

He cleaves off another piece of cake and shoves it into his mouth, chewing slowly. You watch as he beats the Guinness record of slowest chewer across the table from you, before you finally get to repeat your question.

"Why do you keep saving me?"

"I'm a superhero. I save people. It's what I do."

Bright irritation pings through you at his sarcastic attitude. 

This is like playing the world's shittiest game of 20 Questions, except here the whole goal of the game is to see whose sanity cracks first.

Naively, you had thought that being able to sit down with him in person would mean you could finally start getting some answers. You hadn't been expecting the need to deploy strategic maneuvers, and you pause, taking your time before you speak. 

You need to pick a question he won't be able to evade. You think back at the footage of the nanny-cam, that time he carried you to bed. The worry when you weren't where he expected you to be. The over-familiarity that seeps out of his every action with you as if he already knows you and that the last thing you heard as you fell off the ledge was his voice calling out your name.

"How did you know my name?" you finally ask him.

His back stiffens at the question, jaw grinding down until the small muscle there flexes with irritation.

"I don't."

Liar.

"You called my name when I fell," you remind him.

This time instead of answering, he slides the now empty plate at you across the table.

"Can I have another slice?"

You frown. It's an obvious ploy to buy himself some time to avoid answering your question. But you can't deny his request either.

With a sigh, you push away your chair to bring the plate to the counter. You cut up an obscenely big slice so that he won't be able to use this as an excuse a second time.

Turning back around, you find that the gluttonous self-proclaimed Spiderman is pinching the bridge of his nose. He looks a little worse for wear, a pained expression etched into those tightly knitted brows.

"Are you okay?" you ask, concerned.

"No. I–" He breaks off, his broad palm gripping the back of the chair, and you notice a slight tremor in his fingers. "Something’s wrong." 

He pushes the chair back, trying to get to his feet, but to your surprise, he stumbles and sways. 

He seems just as surprised as you are at his newfound lack of coordination. 

"What the–" He looks down on his feet with concentrated effort. Then he takes another step. It's wobblier than the one before, his knee giving way, and his arm shoots out to grip at the edge of your table for balance.

Alarm bells start to go off in your head. You don't understand what's happening, but he's definitely right, something is wrong. A man that can gracefully scale down the Chrysler building from 72 floors down shouldn't be struggling this much just to take two steps back in your living room.

"Maybe you should sit back down," you suggest, looking up at him. There’s a slight sheen of perspiration that's settled on his forehead. The beginnings of a rosy flush tinting his cheeks. "Do you have any food allergies?"

"No. I don't. No. Super metabolism kind of cuts down on that sort of–” he’s stumbling over his words, each syllable slurred on his tongue, as he shakes his head at you. “No, no allergies. No food sensitivities of any kind except...."

He glares around wildly and his eyes land on the remaining slice of cake perched on your kitchen counter. 

"Did you put fucking coffee in that cake?!?!"

“"Yes?” You whip around, and look at the cake on your counter, not understanding the relevance of his question. “I mean... It's a coffee cake? I told you that!" 

You push aside your growing panic as you try to remember if the EpiPen stored away in your kitchen cupboard is past its expiration.

"You didn't tell me there was coffee in it!"

Is he serious?

"I said ‘coffee cake’! What else would be in there? It's in the name," you snap. 

And god, you can't believe this is what you're arguing with him about at this moment.

"Okay, yeah," he concedes testily, "but coffee cake is its own thing too! Isn’t coffee cake just… cake... that you, like... serve with coffee? It doesn't have coffee in it! Why the fuck does it have coffee in it?"

Does the man even hear himself? You're trying to figure out if you need to call an ambulance, and he is arguing with you on the technicalities of what constitutes coffee cake.

"Okay, wait, but are you dying?" you ask, trying to stay calm despite the pandemonium of panic ringing in your head. 

"No! I'm just intoxitac– intocita– intoshica– I'm just fucking drunk okay!?" he spits out.

Your brain stalls at his statement. Intoxicated!? When did he have time to drink? He seemed fine just a few minutes ago, but now he's slurring and about to topple over.

"You're drunk? How–"

"Spiders get drunk on coffee," he interrupts, and the flush on his cheek deepens to a deep alarming red. If you didn't know better, you'd almost think he was blushing.

"Okay, let's sit you down." You rush over, rounding your dining table as you reach for him.

At the sight of your extended hands, his eyes widen in alarm, He steps back from you, eyeing you like you're something dangerous.

"No. No, I'm–" he takes another step backwards, flinging himself away from your touch, but loses his footing in the process. He tilts over, hand grappling for the edge of the table as he goes, but instead of the edge he manages to take the cake plate with him on the way down.

There's a clank of shattered porcelain, followed by the loud thud of his body hitting the ground.

With the large size of him in your tiny studio apartment and the breaking of porcelain left and right, this feels like the idiom of a bull running wild in a China shop, come to life.

You reach out your hand to help him get up, but he doesn't acknowledge it, anchoring his elbow to the floor for leverage, only to wobble and fall flat against his back again with an angry curse.

Why is he so goddamned stubborn? 

You glance down at him, this gigantic man that is lying sprawled out on the floor with the gravitas of a turtle trapped on its back. He's so huge that he's eating up half of the floor space of your entire home. If he doesn’t get up, you won't be able to take two steps without accidentally stepping on him.

Shaking your head in disbelief at the ridiculousness of the situation, you hunch down on your knees beside him.

There's hesitation etched in those otherworldly crimson eyes as you come near. But as much as he's scowling at you, baring his fangs and trying to look scary, there isn't much he can do from the floor.

"Let me help you," you insist, "let's get you in bed until it wears off. I can't have you passed out on my floor like this."

He takes your outstretched hand, and you pull backwards, trying to bring him up with you. Between the two of you, you manage to get him on his feet again. Barely. 

Whoa.

You crane your head up, up, up til you meet his eyes. Yup, the man is still huge. Must be damn near 7 feet tall and heavy, and you quickly realize there's not much you can do but try to steer so that he falls in the direction of your bed.

Somehow you manage to shepherd him in the right direction, until his knees hit the edges of your bed. He lands with a dramatic thud and you hear your bed frame groan in protest. 

“Do you need anything?” you ask, but he doesn’t answer you. His broad arm drapes over his eyes, blocking you out. 

You sigh, turning on your heels to clean up the mess of coffee cake and broken plates off your floor.

You barely manage to finish sweeping up the floor before you hear soft snoring filling your home.

Knock-off Spiderman is sound asleep, his large shape curled up on your mattress, entirely still.

You settle yourself back at the dining table, eating the leftover coffee cake as you pull up a book on your phone and wait for him to wake.

This was not how you had imagined your first extended interaction would turn out.

Honestly, you can't make sense of any of your interactions with him. How he's constantly avoiding you, yet can't seem to stay away and routinely checks in on you.

How he acts overly familiar in one instance and excessively rude and put off by you the next.

Maybe you remind him of someone else... Maybe even an ex? It feels weird to speculate, but it would explain a lot of things. His belligerent attitude towards you. The way he looks at you with eyes full of resentment, even as he's saving you from certain death. That look in his eyes like he knows you, even though you've never met him.

It doesn't explain how he knows your name though.

From the bed, you can hear him stir, shifting against the mattress with a quiet groan muffled into your pillow. He's softly murmuring something that you can't quite make out, and then he turns in his sleep again, making a pained noise that makes worry squeeze tight in your chest.

Maybe letting him sleep it off wasn't the brightest idea you've had. You probably should've called for the ambulance as soon as he showed physical signs of distress.

You're not a biologist. You don't know how a hybrid spider-human’s physiology works.

What if he's not just drunk? Whoever heard of coffee making someone drunk! And how could it affect him so quickly? There was barely a minute between him stuffing his face and falling all over the place. Some quick, panicked googling confirms that coffee makes spiders a kind of drunk, but it doesn’t say if it’s outright toxic to them.

Oh fuck, what if he's dying!? Oh god, what if a superhero dies in your bed? How will you explain this to your landlord? Or the police! “I fed him coffee cake, and it killed him, officer.” Right, that’s going to go over like a lead balloon! It’ll probably look like you poisoned him. TMZ will be swarming the place. You'll be classified as a supervillain.

Setting down the book, you make your way over to sit on the edge of your bed. You lean over his sleeping form and peer down at him, checking for any signs of physical distress.

That red flush from earlier is still riding high on his cheeks, looking like the beginnings of a fever. You reach out your hand to rest it on his forehead to check his temperature.

Warm.

He stirs at the touch, turning his face and practically nuzzles into your palm. It’s almost endearing as he buries his sharp nose into your wrist.

You hold your breath, worried that exhaling would be loud enough to wake him as you gaze down on him. Up close like this, when he's not being rude, and stubborn and defensive, he's... quite attractive.

He has the kind of sculpted face that Hollywood dreams are made of, angular jaw and a prominent nose that makes him look regal. Not to mention those chiselled cheeks of his are a fucking marvel to look at. But more than that, curled up asleep in your bed, there’s a gentle softness to his features that hadn’t been noticeable when he was awake.  

Now that  he’s not frowning down at you and the line of his mouth isn’t pulled into an angry snarl, you can see that his lips are full and luscious, delicate even. His heavy brows look less intimidating now that his face has relaxed from its perpetual scowl. 

He looks... soft, somehow.

There's a spark of something heated in your veins that has you feeling flushed and warm. You have to turn your eyes, shaking your head and tutting at yourself, because you’re creeping on the drunk guy passed out on your bed, and it’s not a good look on you. 

The commotion makes him stir, his eyes blink softly open. He looks up at you, with half-lidded eyes, and it's different from how he's looked at you up until now. His gaze is still so…. soft.

"Nena," he says quietly.

Your cheeks warm at the warmth in his voice , and you gently pull your hand away from his forehead.

"Sorry, I was just checking if you were okay," you explain awkwardly as you start to back away from him, sliding your knee along the mattress to climb off the bed.

At your movement, he darts upright into a seated position and pulls you to him, clinging onto every inch of you as he buries his face to your side. 

“Don't go,” he murmurs into your neck. His voice is trembling, and you can feel the panic radiating from him as the grip he has on you tightens until it’s bruising.  

"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry," he says, keeps repeating it. You don’t know what he’s apologizing for but the guilt and sadness in his voice tugs at something deep inside your chest. 

Nena, he said, and you realize that even though you're the one he's holding in this moment, he's not talking to you. He thinks you're someone else.

"Please don't leave me again. I-I can't–" he chokes out the words into the hollow of your throat where he's pressed his face tight into your skin. You can't help but notice the damp wetness that gathers there. "I'm trying, but I can't– I don't know how to do this without you."

The words are raw in his throat, and despite your confusion, your chest squeezes tight with a sympathetic ache at the man's obvious heartbreak.

You don't know what's going on here or who he thinks you are. The only thing you know is that you want to make him feel better. To make his hurt a little less painful. To make the consuming guilt you can hear in his voice a little bit smaller. 

"It's okay," you say. 

What the it refers to, you have no idea. But the least you can do is to give the man who has saved your life over and over, a tiny crumb of comfort.

You return his embrace, circling an arm around his shoulder, matching the tightness with which he’s holding you. Your other hand slides into his hair and he shivers at the touch, face burying deeper into your neck.

"I'll protect you,” he murmurs into your skin, “I can do better this time. Keep you safe. I promise.”

"It's okay. It’s okay. I’m already safe," you reassure him, giving him the only truth you know for sure in this moment, "You saved me."

~ Next Issue

Dedication & Credits: as always to my collaborator on this series, who helps me brainstorm, write, edit and beta-read and everything in between and over with this series. This exists because of her, and I am so grateful to her. The hours I spend shouting into her DMs and bother her on the daily since this series infected my mind. You guys don't know what I put poor @thirstworldproblemss through.

Also to @guruan who was kind enough to read through this and steer me in the right way with the spanish, but also for giving me porn that has kept my brain buzzing for days!!!

Please follow both of these insanely lovely, kind and talented people.

Author's note: the Spanish in this chapter has been left untranslated on purpose, so that it's left ambiguous whether reader speak/understand Spanish. The idea is that if you as a reader understand it, then so does the reader, and vice versa 🥰

I don’t have a tag list but please follow me on astroboots-writes and turn on notifications to be notified when I post something new!

[amethystarachnid]

Hey rose! I'm really excited for the Marvel holiday special!! Can I please request Steve Rogers x short!Reader (is this self indulgent? Maybe!😭 People literally have to bend down to hug me idk, tall genes of my family skipped me) for the second prompt- miseltoe mishap? Thank you!<3 🩷

P.s. I LOVE all of your fics 🤌✨

UNDER THE MISTLETOE

⤷ STEVE G. ROGERS

ᯓ★ Pairing: Steve G. Rogers x short!fem!reader

ᯓ★ Genre: romance, fluff

ᯓ★ Request from: MARVEL Holiday special

ᯓ★ Story type: one shot

ᯓ★ Word count: 6.2k

ᯓ★ Summary: Steve's new year resolution was simple: confess his feeling for you, but as a new year approaches he still hasn't said a word. So, after a mysterious Christmas gift you receive, you decide to take matter into your own hands.

ᯓ★ TW(s): so much fluff it needs a tw and some teasing and flirty comments from y/n

ᯓ★ I'm sorry but as you all may have noticed the requested aren't being written in the chronological order they were requested because I got confused between the asks and the comments in the post and can't figure out who has requested before who, so I'm just writing it following the prompt list. I'm sorry but don't worry, your request will be written!

ᯓ★ My Masterlist

ᯓ★ MARVEL Holiday Special

ᯓ★ MARVEL Multiverse - choose an AU, pair it with your favorite character and make a request!

ᯓ★ Songs & Superheroes tales - The Game (to make a request, follow the rules on the link!)

ᯓ★ MARVEL Bingo

ᯓ★ English isn’t my first language

The Avengers Tower is a beacon of Christmas cheer this time of year, buzzing with the energy of festive preparations. Garlands hang from the railings, twinkling lights are draped across every conceivable surface, and the smell of hot cocoa wafts from the kitchen. It’s a cozy chaos, and you’re in the thick of it, perched on a step stool as you wrestle with a particularly stubborn string of fairy lights.

Your arms ache from holding them above your head for so long, but you’re determined to get them just right. The lights have to be even—no awkward gaps or clumps. It’s a matter of principle, and besides, you know Tony will be annoying about it if you don’t.

“Need a hand?” a familiar voice asks from behind you.

You glance down and find Steve Rogers standing there, all broad shoulders and gentle eyes. He’s holding a box of ornaments, his cheeks tinged pink—not from the cold (you’re indoors, after all), but something else. The sight of him is enough to make your own cheeks heat up, though you do your best to ignore it. Steve has that effect on people.

“I’ve got it,” you reply, gritting your teeth as you stretch a little further. The stool wobbles, and his hands dart out instinctively, steadying you with a feather-light touch. You freeze, your heart doing an Olympic-level somersault.

“You sure?” he asks, his voice low and careful. “That stool doesn’t look very—uh—stable.”

“It’s fine,” you insist, though your confidence in the stool’s structural integrity is rapidly dwindling. You glance down again and catch the crease of worry on his brow. The man is the living embodiment of chivalry; there’s no way he’ll let you keep going without making it his mission to help.

With a sigh, you step down. The lights can wait. “Fine,” you concede. “Knock yourself out, Captain Christmas.”

Steve chuckles, setting the box of ornaments down on a nearby table. He steps up onto the stool, and you’re struck again by just how tall he is. He’s got at least a foot and a half on you, which is something you’re reminded of constantly—like when you have to crane your neck just to look him in the eye. Or when he easily reaches shelves that are practically a mile out of your range.

He’s annoyingly perfect. Not just in the tall, strong, and ridiculously handsome way, but in the kind, thoughtful, and genuine way too. He’s the kind of man who offers his umbrella to strangers in the rain, who remembers how you take your coffee, who actually listens when you talk. And if that weren’t enough, he’s also awkward—adorably so, especially around you.

You suspect it’s because you’re small and he worries about crushing you with a handshake. Or maybe it’s because he thinks you’re fragile, which would be ironic, considering how many missions you’ve both survived. Either way, his awkwardness only fuels your ridiculous, head-over-heels crush.

As Steve strings the lights, you busy yourself unpacking ornaments from the box he brought. Most of them are classics—shiny globes, candy canes, and snowflakes—but there are a few oddities mixed in. A Hulk-shaped bauble makes you snort, and you hold it up for Steve to see.

“Look familiar?” you tease.

He glances down from his perch and grins. “Bet Bruce loves that one.”

“He’s probably going to hide it on the back of the tree,” you reply, setting it aside. Your fingers brush against a different ornament—this one shaped like a little star. It’s simple, but pretty, and you hold it up to admire it. “This one’s cute.”

Steve’s hands falter for a split second as he adjusts the lights. You don’t notice, too focused on the star, but he notices. Oh, he notices. Because you just called something “cute” in that soft, slightly breathless way that makes his chest tighten. He swallows hard and refocuses on the task at hand.

“Y-yeah, it’s nice,” he manages, hoping his voice doesn’t crack.

Why is this so hard?

Steve has faced down alien armies, assassins, and world-ending threats without breaking a sweat, but the thought of confessing his feelings to you is enough to make him panic. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. At the start of the year, he’d made a resolution—a promise to himself—that he would finally tell you how he felt. But every time he’s tried, the words get stuck in his throat.

And now, with Christmas just days away, the deadline he arbitrarily set for himself is looming. The idea of starting another year without telling you makes his stomach twist, but so does the idea of screwing it up. What if you don’t feel the same way? What if he ruins everything?

“Steve?” your voice snaps him out of his spiral.

“Hm?” He blinks down at you, realizing he’s been staring blankly at the half-lit string of lights in his hands.

“You okay?” you ask, your brow furrowed. “You zoned out for a second there.”

“Oh, uh—yeah, I’m fine,” he says quickly, though his ears are burning. “Just thinking.”

“About?” you prompt, tilting your head.

You shouldn’t do that. It’s unfair, how cute you look when you’re curious. It makes it harder for him to keep his cool.

“Nothing important,” he lies, offering a sheepish smile. “How’s the ornament situation?”

You hold up the Hulk bauble again with a smirk. “I think this one’s going front and center.”

Steve laughs, shaking his head. “Bruce is gonna love that.”

You giggle, and the sound is like music to his ears. It’s one of the things he loves most about you—your laugh. It’s warm and infectious, and he’d do just about anything to hear it.

Before he can spiral further into his thoughts, you step closer to hand him the star ornament. “Here,” you say. “This one should go up top.”

Steve takes it, his fingers brushing against yours for the briefest moment. It’s nothing, really—just an innocent touch—but it sends a jolt of electricity through him. He wonders if you feel it too, or if he’s imagining things.

“Good choice,” he says, his voice a little quieter now. He focuses on securing the star to the top of the tree, grateful for the distraction. When he’s done, he steps back to admire his work, and you join him, standing so close that your shoulder almost brushes his arm.

“Not bad, Captain,” you say, your tone light but genuine. “I think we’ve got ourselves a pretty solid tree.”

He glances down at you, his heart doing that stupid fluttery thing it always does when you’re near. You’re smiling—bright and proud—and for a moment, he forgets how to breathe.

“Yeah,” he says softly, more to himself than to you. “It’s perfect.”

You glance up at him, your smile faltering just slightly. There’s something in his expression—something raw and unguarded—that makes your pulse quicken. For a second, you think maybe, just maybe, he feels the same way you do.

But the moment passes, and Steve clears his throat, stepping away under the guise of tidying up.

“So, uh,” he says awkwardly, bending down to gather the empty ornament boxes. “What’s next on the agenda?”

You blink, trying to shake off the lingering warmth of his gaze. “I think we’re supposed to decorate the common room. Nat said something about needing backup with the garlands.”

“Right,” Steve says, straightening up with the boxes in hand. “Lead the way.”

As you head toward the common room together, you can’t help stealing glances at him. He’s trying so hard to act normal, but you know him well enough to sense when something’s off. There’s a tension in his shoulders, a hesitation in his words.

You wonder what’s on his mind. And you wonder if it has anything to do with the way he looks at you—like you’re the most important thing in the world.

Christmas morning in the Avengers Tower is a mix of chaos and cheer. The common room is alive with laughter and good-natured teasing, wrapping paper scattered across the floor like confetti. The massive Christmas tree glows softly in the corner, its branches weighed down with ornaments and twinkling lights.

Everyone has gathered here to exchange gifts, and the room feels warmer than usual—maybe because of the crackling fireplace, or maybe because of the bonds you all share. You’re sitting cross-legged on the floor, a pile of unwrapped presents beside you, and your cheeks ache from smiling so much.

Natasha is chuckling as Clint holds up a sweater that has “World’s Okayest Archer” stitched across the front in bold letters. “This is slander,” Clint grumbles, but he’s grinning. “I’m amazing.”

“Sure you are,” Natasha teases, her smirk sharp and playful.

Thor, meanwhile, is marveling at a “World’s Greatest Dad” mug that someone (probably Tony) had sneakily customized to include a picture of Thor holding Stormbreaker like a proud parent. “This,” Thor declares, raising the mug, “is a mighty gift.”

“Very mighty,” Tony quips from his spot on the couch, a Santa hat perched crookedly on his head. “You’re welcome.”

Steve sits near the tree, mostly quiet but smiling at the antics around him. He’s already unwrapped his gifts—a vintage Captain America action figure from Tony (complete with the original shield), a sturdy leather-bound journal from Natasha, and an assortment of hand-knit sweaters from Thor’s mother. He’s grateful for all of them, but his focus isn’t on the gifts anymore. It’s on you.

You’re radiant this morning, your laughter lighting up the room more than the Christmas tree ever could. Steve doesn’t know if it’s the cozy glow of the fireplace or the joy of the season, but something about you seems especially beautiful today. Not that you aren’t beautiful every day—but today, you’re breathtaking.

And it’s making him nervous.

Because tucked beneath the tree is one last gift. A gift for you. A gift from him.

“Looks like that’s the last of it,” Clint says, stretching his arms above his head. “Nice haul this year, guys.”

“Not quite,” Tony interrupts, pointing toward the tree. “There’s still one left under there.”

Everyone turns their attention to the tree, and you lean forward curiously. Sure enough, there’s a single box nestled beneath the branches. It’s wrapped neatly in silver paper, tied with a red ribbon, and it has your name on it.

Your brow furrows as you reach for it. “I don’t remember putting this here.”

“Must’ve been one of us,” Natasha says, though she looks just as intrigued as everyone else. “Check the tag.”

You glance at the label, but it doesn’t give you any clues. It simply says To Y/N—no indication of who it’s from.

“Secret Santa, maybe?” Bruce suggests.

“Someone’s being mysterious,” Tony says, leaning back with a smirk. “Come on, open it. Let’s see what you got.”

You hesitate for a moment, your fingers brushing over the ribbon. Whoever left this for you went out of their way to remain anonymous, and that makes you feel oddly shy. Still, curiosity wins out, and you carefully untie the ribbon, peeling back the wrapping paper.

Inside the box is a smaller velvet box. You blink, your breath catching as you open it.

Nestled inside is a delicate silver necklace, the pendant shaped like a tiny star. It’s simple but stunning, the kind of piece that feels timeless. You stare at it for a moment, your chest tightening.

But that’s not all.

Beneath the necklace, folded carefully, is a sheet of paper. You unfold it slowly, revealing a drawing—a sketch of you, caught mid-laugh. The details are astonishing, from the crinkle of your eyes to the way your hair falls. It’s you, but somehow more: the joy on your face, the warmth in your expression—it’s like the artist captured not just your likeness, but your spirit.

The room falls quiet as you stare at the drawing, your hands trembling slightly.

“Wow,” Natasha murmurs, leaning in for a better look. “That’s... beautiful.”

“It’s incredible,” you whisper, your voice thick with emotion. You trace the edge of the drawing with your fingertip, your heart racing. “Who...?”

“Not it,” Tony says, raising his hands.

“Wasn’t me,” Clint adds.

Everyone else shakes their heads, except for Steve, who sits frozen, his heart pounding so loudly he’s surprised no one else can hear it.

It was a gamble, leaving the gift anonymously. He couldn’t bring himself to sign his name, not when he was terrified of how you might react. But now, watching the way your eyes glisten as you hold the necklace and the drawing, he’s second-guessing everything.

Should he say something? Should he let you wonder? Should he...?

You glance up, scanning the room. Your gaze lingers on Steve for a moment, and he feels like a deer caught in headlights. He quickly looks away, pretending to adjust the hem of his sweater.

“Well, whoever it’s from,” you say softly, clutching the necklace in your hand, “thank you. It’s... it’s perfect.”

Steve lets out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding. Perfect. You think it’s perfect. Relief washes over him, followed by a flicker of pride. He spent weeks working on the drawing, pouring every ounce of his feelings into every pencil stroke. Seeing you appreciate it—cherish it—is more than he could’ve hoped for.

But then you put the necklace on, and his chest tightens all over again. The star catches the light, and it suits you so perfectly that he has to look away before he does something stupid—like stare too long or blurt out the truth in front of everyone.

“Whoever did this really knows you,” Natasha says, eyeing the necklace. “It’s thoughtful.”

“And talented,” Bruce adds, gesturing to the drawing. “That’s some serious skill.”

Steve shifts uncomfortably, trying to hide his reddening face. He’s not used to compliments, especially not ones directed at his art.

“Guess I’ve got a secret admirer,” you joke lightly, though there’s a hint of hope in your voice.

“Or someone with terrible taste,” Tony quips, earning a pillow to the face from Natasha.

The room dissolves into laughter again, and the attention shifts away from you and your mysterious gift. But you’re still holding the drawing, your fingers brushing over the lines and shading. It’s so personal, so intimate, that it makes your heart ache in the best way.

And Steve? Steve sits quietly, watching you from the corner of his eye. He doesn’t know how long he can keep this secret, but for now, he’s content to see you happy. Even if you never find out it was him, this moment is enough.

Or at least, that’s what he tells himself.

The days between Christmas and New Year’s feel suspended in time—a cozy limbo filled with leftover cookies, twinkling lights, and lazy mornings. At the Avengers Tower, the pace has slowed to something resembling normalcy, with everyone enjoying a much-needed break.

You, however, have been anything but relaxed. Not since Christmas morning, when you opened that mysterious gift.

The necklace still rests around your neck, the tiny star pendant catching the light whenever you move. The drawing that accompanied it is safely tucked away in your room, though you’ve stared at it countless times since then. You can’t stop thinking about it—or, more specifically, about who gave it to you.

For days, you’ve replayed the moment in your mind, analyzing every detail. The craftsmanship of the drawing, the thoughtfulness of the gift—it could only be from someone who knows you well. Someone who cares about you deeply. Someone who, despite their care, wanted to stay anonymous.

And you have a pretty good idea of who that someone is.

Steve.

It’s the only explanation that makes sense. He’s been acting... different around you ever since Christmas. Quieter. More awkward. You’ve caught him stealing glances when he thinks you’re not looking, and when you smile at him, he stammers like a kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar.

The thought that Steve might like you—that he might really like you—makes your heart race. You’ve had a crush on him for what feels like forever, but you never imagined he might feel the same way. Now that you’ve started piecing things together, it feels almost too good to be true.

And yet, there’s still no confirmation. No grand confession. No slip of the tongue. Nothing to cement your theory. Which is why you decide to take matters into your own hands.

It’s late afternoon when you start your search for Steve. You’ve checked the gym, the kitchen, and even the lounge, but he’s nowhere to be found. Finally, you decide to check his room—a bold move, but you’re running out of options.

When you knock and get no response, you hesitantly push the door open.

“Steve?” you call softly, peeking inside.

The room is empty, neat and orderly as always. The bed is made, the desk is tidy, and his shield leans against the wall like it belongs in a museum. You step inside, glancing around for any sign of where he might be.

Your gaze lands on the leather journal sitting on his desk. The one Natasha gifted him for Christmas. It’s open, a pencil resting on top of its pages.

You know you shouldn’t. You really shouldn’t. But curiosity gets the better of you, and you find yourself drawn to the desk.

“It’s just a peek,” you mutter to yourself, your fingers brushing over the leather cover.

The page it’s open to stops you dead in your tracks. It’s a drawing—of you.

Not just any drawing, either. It’s almost identical to the one you received on Christmas morning, the same detail, the same expression, the same care in every line. Your breath catches as you realize what this means.

Steve drew this. Steve gave you the necklace. Steve has been hiding his feelings for you all this time.

A smile tugs at your lips, and a thrill runs through you. He likes you. He really likes you. And yet, he hasn’t said a word. Typical Steve—too noble, too careful, too worried about messing things up.

You close the journal carefully, placing the pencil back where you found it. You won’t confront him about this—not yet. No, you have a much better idea.

If Steve won’t confess, then you’ll make it impossible for him not to. And if that means teasing him a little, well... all’s fair in love and war.

You find Steve in the lounge a little while later, sitting on the couch with a book in hand. He looks up when you enter, and his face brightens instantly, though he tries to hide it.

“Hey,” you say, leaning casually against the doorway.

“Hey,” he replies, setting the book aside. “Looking for something?”

“Actually, I was looking for you,” you say, crossing the room to sit beside him. You’re closer than usual, your knee brushing against his. He stiffens slightly, his eyes darting to yours.

“Oh?” he says, his voice a little higher than usual. “What for?”

You shrug, tilting your head as you study him. He looks nervous—adorably so—and it only fuels your confidence.

“Just wanted to see how you’re doing,” you say, your tone light and sweet. “You’ve been kind of quiet lately.”

“Have I?” he asks, clearing his throat.

“Mm-hmm.” You reach out to adjust the collar of his sweater, your fingers grazing his neck. He freezes, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallows hard.

“You sure everything’s okay?” you ask, your voice dipping slightly.

“I—I’m fine,” he stammers, his cheeks turning pink. “Really.”

You lean back, feigning innocence. “Good. I’d hate to think something was bothering you.”

He nods, clearly unsure of how to respond.

You spend the rest of the evening finding subtle ways to fluster him. Leaning closer than necessary when you talk. Touching his arm when you laugh. Complimenting him on everything from his sweater to his hair. By the time you part ways, Steve looks like he’s been through an emotional whirlwind.

The next day, you up the ante.

Steve is in the kitchen making breakfast when you join him, your hair slightly tousled and your sweater slipping off one shoulder. He nearly drops the pan he’s holding when he sees you.

“Morning,” you say, your voice soft and syrupy.

“G-good morning,” he replies, turning back to the stove.

You step closer, peeking over his shoulder. “Whatcha making?”

“Just eggs,” he says, his grip tightening on the spatula.

“Smells good,” you say, resting a hand on his back. You feel the muscles beneath his shirt tense, and it takes all your willpower not to laugh.

“Want some?” he asks, his voice strained.

“Sure,” you say, flashing him a smile. “Thanks, Steve. You’re the best.”

His ears turn red, and you bite your lip to keep from grinning.

By the third day, Steve is visibly unraveling.

You’ve spent the last forty-eight hours being as sweet, flirty, and touchy as you can manage without outright declaring your feelings. Every time you brush against him, compliment him, or catch him staring, he looks like he’s about to combust.

You find him in the training room that afternoon, throwing punches at a heavy bag like it owes him money. He doesn’t notice you at first, and you take a moment to admire him—his broad shoulders, his focused expression, the way his sweat-soaked shirt clings to his chest.

“Working hard?” you call out, stepping into the room.

Steve pauses, glancing over his shoulder. “Oh, hey. Didn’t see you there.”

“Clearly,” you say, walking toward him. “What’d that poor bag do to deserve this?”

“Just... letting off some steam,” he says, wiping his forehead with his arm.

“Need a sparring partner?” you ask, raising an eyebrow.

His eyes widen slightly. “You want to spar? With me?”

“Why not?” you say, stepping closer. “Unless you’re scared I’ll kick your ass.”

A laugh escapes him, and you feel a spark of satisfaction. “I’d like to see you try.”

You grin, stepping onto the mat. “Suit up, Rogers.”

After a playful (and very one-sided) sparring session, Steve is more flustered than ever. You’re lying on the mat, catching your breath, and you turn to look at him.

“You’re holding back,” you tease.

“Didn’t want to hurt you,” he replies, still trying to recover from your relentless teasing.

“You’re sweet, Steve,” you say, your voice soft. “Really sweet.”

He looks at you, and for a moment, the tension between you is palpable. You’re half-tempted to just kiss him and get it over with, but you want him to make the first move.

“I should... hit the showers,” he says abruptly, standing and heading for the door.

As he disappears, you smile to yourself. He’s close to breaking. Very close.

And when he does, you’ll be ready.

It’s New Year’s Eve at the Avengers Tower, and the entire building is buzzing with excitement. Tony, true to form, has outdone himself, transforming the common areas into a glittering wonderland of gold, silver, and twinkling lights. The air hums with music, laughter, and the promise of a fresh start as the year draws to a close.

You’re in your room, standing in front of the mirror with a slight frown as you adjust your dress. The sparkly red fabric hugs your figure perfectly, but the zipper in the back refuses to cooperate. Despite twisting, stretching, and trying every awkward angle imaginable, you can’t quite reach it.

With a sigh, you grab your phone and type out a quick message:

Hey Steve, can you come to my room for a sec? Need a hand.

You press send before you can overthink it, a mischievous smile tugging at your lips. You already know he won’t say no—he never does when it’s you.

Steve arrives less than two minutes later, knocking lightly on your door.

“Y/N? Everything okay?” His voice, deep and warm, filters through the door.

“Come in!” you call out, keeping your tone casual. You hear the door creak open, followed by the soft sound of his boots against the floor.

“Y/N, I—” Steve starts, but the words die on his lips when he sees you.

You turn to face him, clutching the front of your dress to keep it from slipping down. His eyes widen, and his breath catches in his throat as he takes you in. The dress is a vibrant, glittering red that hugs your curves like a second skin, the hem brushing mid-thigh even with the extra height your heels give you. Your hair is styled elegantly, soft waves cascading over your shoulders, and your makeup highlights your features just enough to leave him completely speechless.

“Wow,” he finally manages, his voice barely above a whisper. His cheeks flush a deep pink, and he looks away, as if giving you privacy in a moment that clearly isn’t private.

You bite back a smile, pretending not to notice his reaction. “Thanks for coming. I need a little help.”

Steve clears his throat, his hands fidgeting at his sides. “Help with...?”

“The zipper,” you say, turning around to show him the back of your dress. You hold the fabric up with your hands, revealing the delicate, stubborn zipper that sits halfway down your back. “I can’t reach it.”

“Oh.” Steve’s voice cracks slightly, and he clears his throat again. “Right. Sure. I can do that.”

You hear him take a hesitant step closer, and your pulse quickens. There’s something thrilling about having him this close, about knowing he’s flustered because of you. He smells like clean soap and cedarwood, and the sheer size of him behind you is enough to make your breath hitch.

His large, calloused hands brush against your back as he takes hold of the zipper, and you have to resist the urge to shiver at the contact. He hesitates for a moment, clearly nervous, before carefully tugging the zipper upward. His fingers graze your skin as he works, and the sensation sends a rush of warmth through you.

“Is... is this okay?” he asks softly, his voice rough around the edges.

“Perfect,” you murmur, glancing at him over your shoulder. His face is closer than you expected, and the intensity in his blue eyes makes your heart skip a beat.

The zipper finally reaches the top, and Steve’s hands linger for a moment longer than necessary before he steps back, his gaze darting anywhere but at you.

“There,” he says, his voice tight. “All set.”

You turn to face him, giving a little spin. “What do you think?”

Steve stares at you, his mouth opening and closing like he’s searching for the right words. “You... You look amazing,” he says at last, his voice full of awe.

His honesty makes you blush, and you grin. “Thank you. You’re not looking too bad yourself, you know.”

Steve glances down at his outfit—a crisp navy suit that fits him perfectly—and rubs the back of his neck. “Uh, thanks,” he says, a shy smile tugging at his lips.

“You’re welcome, Captain,” you tease, stepping closer. “Shall we head to the party?”

“Y-yeah, sure,” he stammers, stepping aside to let you pass. His hand hovers near the small of your back as you leave the room, but he doesn’t quite touch you.

The elevator ride to the party is quiet, but not uncomfortably so. You steal glances at Steve as he stands beside you, his shoulders stiff and his jaw clenched like he’s holding something back.

“You okay?” you ask, nudging him lightly with your elbow.

“Yeah,” he says quickly, though the slight crack in his voice betrays him. He clears his throat, flashing you a tight-lipped smile. “I’m fine.”

“Steve.” You raise an eyebrow, a playful smirk tugging at your lips. “You’re acting weird.”

“I’m not acting weird,” he protests, but the redness in his ears says otherwise.

You decide to let him off the hook—for now. The elevator doors slide open, revealing the main event: Tony’s New Year’s Eve extravaganza.

The party is already in full swing by the time you and Steve arrive. The common room has been transformed into a glamorous ballroom, complete with a dance floor, a live band, and a fully stocked bar. Guests in glittering dresses and sharp suits mingle beneath cascading strings of fairy lights, and the energy in the room is electric.

“Y/N!” Natasha calls out, making her way toward you with a drink in hand. She gives you a once-over and lets out a low whistle. “You clean up nicely.”

“Thanks, Nat,” you say, twirling for effect. “You look amazing too.”

Natasha smirks. “Oh, I know.”

Steve hangs back slightly, his hands stuffed into his pockets as he watches you with a soft smile. He doesn’t seem to notice the way Natasha’s eyes flick to him, her smirk widening.

“Well, don’t you two make a picture-perfect couple,” she says casually, raising an eyebrow.

“We’re not a couple,” Steve blurts out, his face turning an impressive shade of red.

Natasha raises her glass in mock surrender. “Whatever you say, Rogers.”

She winks at you before disappearing into the crowd, leaving you and Steve standing awkwardly by the entrance.

“She’s relentless,” Steve mutters, rubbing the back of his neck.

“She’s not wrong, though,” you say, your tone light and teasing.

Steve looks at you sharply, his eyes wide. “What?”

You laugh, giving his arm a reassuring pat. “Relax, Steve. I’m just messing with you.”

His shoulders relax slightly, but the pink in his cheeks doesn’t fade.

The night unfolds with laughter, dancing, and plenty of drinks. You make a point to stay close to Steve, brushing against him whenever you can, leaning into him when you laugh, and catching his gaze across the room. Each time, his reaction is the same—wide-eyed, flustered, and utterly endearing.

At one point, you drag him to the dance floor, your hand firmly clasped in his. He protests at first, claiming he’s not much of a dancer, but you refuse to take no for an answer.

“You’ll be fine,” you assure him, pulling him close as the band starts a slow, jazzy number. “Just follow my lead.”

Steve hesitates, but when you rest your hands on his shoulders, he relents. His large hands settle on your waist, and the two of you sway to the music, moving in perfect sync despite his earlier protests.

“You’re better at this than you let on,” you say, tilting your head up to meet his gaze.

Steve chuckles nervously. “You’re easy to dance with.”

The compliment makes your heart flutter, and you tighten your grip on his shoulders. For a moment, it feels like the rest of the party fades away, leaving just the two of you in your own little world.

You’re about to say something—something bold, something that’s been on the tip of your tongue for days—when the song ends, and the moment is interrupted by a burst of applause.

Steve steps back, his hands dropping to his sides. “That was... nice,” he says, his voice soft.

“Yeah,” you agree, your chest tightening. “It was.”

You’re not sure how much longer you can keep up this game of subtlety and teasing. The clock is ticking, and the New Year is just around the corner. If Steve doesn’t make a move soon, you might just have to do it for him.

The party is in full swing as midnight approaches, the energy in the room building with each passing minute. The band has picked up its tempo, and laughter and clinking glasses echo through the air. You and Steve have stayed close all night, and now the two of you make your way toward the bar for a drink before the countdown begins.

“What’ll it be?” Steve asks, glancing at the menu. He’s been doing everything he can to appear calm, but the slight tremor in his voice and the way he keeps running a hand through his hair are clear giveaways.

“Champagne,” you say with a smile, leaning casually against the bar. “It’s tradition, isn’t it?”

“Good choice,” he says, signaling to the bartender. Moments later, two glasses of champagne appear in front of you, the golden liquid fizzing enticingly. You pick yours up and raise it in a mock toast.

“To the end of a very interesting year,” you say. “And the start of a better one.”

Steve clinks his glass against yours, his blue eyes warm. “I’ll drink to that.”

You take a sip, savoring the bubbly sweetness. The two of you fall into easy conversation, and for a moment, it feels like the rest of the room doesn’t exist. That is, until your eyes drift upward—and you notice the sprig of mistletoe hanging above you.

Your heart skips a beat, and a mischievous smile curls at the edges of your lips.

“Steve,” you say, your voice tinged with amusement.

“Yeah?” he asks, oblivious, before taking another sip of his champagne.

You tilt your head upward, your gaze fixed on the mistletoe. His eyes follow yours, and when he realizes what you’re looking at, he freezes.

“Oh,” he says, his voice barely audible. The tips of his ears turn bright red, and he looks away quickly, as if avoiding eye contact will somehow make the situation disappear.

“Did you know Tony hung mistletoe all over the tower?” you ask innocently, though the twinkle in your eyes betrays your intent.

Steve scratches the back of his neck, shifting awkwardly from foot to foot. “Uh, yeah. I might’ve noticed. He’s… thorough.”

You take a step closer, your heels clicking softly against the floor. Even with them on, you still have to crane your neck to look up at him. He’s towering above you, his broad shoulders blocking out everything else, and the nervous way he’s fidgeting is almost too cute to bear.

“So,” you say, your tone teasing. “What are we supposed to do when we’re under mistletoe?”

Steve swallows hard, his eyes darting between you and the small sprig above. “I—uh—well, I think… traditionally… people…”

You raise an eyebrow, waiting patiently as he struggles to form a coherent sentence.

“They kiss,” he finally blurts out, his voice cracking slightly.

You can’t help but laugh softly. “They do,” you agree. “It’s tradition, after all.”

His blush deepens, and he looks like he’s about two seconds away from bolting. You can see the internal battle playing out in his mind, the way he’s torn between his feelings and his nerves. The countdown begins in the background, voices ringing out in unison:

“Ten!”

“Steve,” you say, stepping even closer. “You know what I think?”

He blinks, staring down at you like a deer caught in headlights. “W-what?”

“Nine!”

“I think you’re overthinking this.”

“Eight!”

His mouth opens, but no sound comes out. You’re not sure whether to be exasperated or endeared by how utterly flustered he is.

“Seven!”

“Six!”

“Steve,” you say firmly, reaching up to place a hand on his chest. You can feel the rapid thud of his heartbeat beneath your palm, and it sends a thrill through you.

“Five!”

“If you don’t kiss me right now,” you whisper, your voice low and teasing, “I’m going to have to take matters into my own hands.”

“Four!”

“Three!”

Still, he hesitates, his lips parting as if to speak but no words escaping. You sigh dramatically, rising onto your tiptoes and tugging him down by his tie.

“Two!”

Before he can protest—or, more likely, overthink himself into oblivion—you press your lips to his.

The kiss is soft and sweet at first, your lips fitting perfectly against his. His initial surprise quickly melts away, and his hands come to rest lightly on your waist, steadying you as you lean into him. Even with your heels, he has to bend down significantly to meet you, and the height difference is so absurdly Steve-and-you that it makes you smile against his lips.

When you deepen the kiss slightly, sliding your hands up to his shoulders, he lets out a quiet, surprised sound that sends a rush of warmth through you. He tastes faintly of champagne, and the sheer rightness of the moment makes your head spin.

The countdown fades into a deafening roar of cheers and applause as the clock strikes midnight, but you barely notice. For this moment, it’s just you and Steve, wrapped up in a world of your own making.

When you finally pull away, you’re both breathless. Steve looks down at you, his expression a mixture of wonder, disbelief, and pure adoration.

“I…” he starts, his voice shaky. “I’ve wanted to do that for so long.”

You laugh softly, your hands still resting on his broad shoulders. “You don’t say.”

“I mean, I—uh—I’ve liked you for a while now,” he stammers, his words tumbling out in a rush. “A long while, actually. Since before last Christmas. And I wanted to tell you, but I didn’t know how, and then the gift—I mean, the necklace—I thought maybe it would say it for me, but then you didn’t say anything, and I—”

“Steve,” you interrupt gently, placing a finger over his lips to stop his rambling. He freezes, his eyes wide and uncertain.

You smile, rising onto your tiptoes once more to kiss him again. This time, it’s slower, sweeter, a silent reassurance that you feel the same way. When you pull back, you whisper against his lips:

“Happy New Year, Steve.”

He stares at you, his blue eyes shining with so much emotion it makes your chest ache. “Happy New Year, Y/N.”

And as the room around you erupts into celebration, you know this is going to be the start of something truly amazing.

I'm sorry (not really) but I can't imagine Steve as nothing else than a softie, like, I don't know where you all see the big dominant man...I see a puppy

[noamm7]

Your Help

paring : peter parker (tom holland) x male reader

genre : angust and fluff

summary : peter needs your help after a mission

On an ordinary night, you were enjoying music in the comfort of your apartment, when you heard a knock on the window and soon after a voice calling your name. The voice was familiar, and you immediately recognized it. It was your boyfriend, Peter. "Hey? Y/N...? Can you please open here...?" Peter's voice sounded weak and tense, causing you to panic. Without hesitation, you ran to open the glass window, only to be greeted by a vision that shocked you deeply.

Peter's face was marked by bruises, his clothes torn and stained with blood, showing evidence of a previous combat, his heavy eyes showed the extreme pain he was going through. Despite the injuries, he gave a weak smile, desperately trying to mask his pain. He looked at you with a touch of hope and vulnerability, while he was there, leaning on the window. He didn't want you to worry, but it was clear that he was in serious trouble.

It was evident that, as a superhero, he was used to dealing with dangerous situations, but this one seemed to be different. "Peter...what happened to you?" You say opening the window quickly and helping him enter the warm and cozy apartment.

"Oh, it's nothing, just a small beat...he was just..a little too big.." Peter tries to smile, but makes a grimace of pain. "Can you...can you help me with some of these...cuts, please." Peter finally looks at you with those slightly watery brown eyes.

You study him with your eyes before finally answering "Yes, Yes, of course.. can you stand walking to the bathroom?" You ask approaching him a little more "Of course..I can" Peter says "Okay, I'll go, I'll help you, okay?" You say approaching him and putting your arms around him to support him to be able to go to the bathroom without making much effort.

You gently lead Peter to the bathroom and help him sit on the edge of the bathtub. “I think a shower would be good to care for the cuts and maybe relax a bit,” you say, looking at him. Peter nods in agreement, acknowledging the need for a shower to take even better care of his cuts.

“Yes, it’s better to take a shower. It will relieve some of the pain and fatigue,” he says as he rises carefully, leaning on the wall once more to avoid carrying weight on his injuries. Peter approaches the shower, preparing to take off his clothes and step in.

✁…After the shower

"Okay, let's take care of it, okay? Maybe it hurts a little... but it's nothing you haven't already felt" you say trying to give a slight smile trying to make you as relaxed as possible "It's okay.." he says between sighs, you then begin to carefully examine the damage, cleaning the blood and applying dressings.

Peter observes you take care of your wounds. With each soft and careful touch on the injuries, a sigh of pain escapes from his lips, but he tries to stay calm. "Thank you..." he murmurs with a hoarse voice, trying to control himself so as not to complain about the pain of the wounds. "I...I really don't know what I would do without you." Peter says with a slight corner smile.

"Nah, you don't need to thank me, I like to be your personal nurse" You speak with a slight smile changing your attention to look at him who also lets out a slight laugh in the form of a tired sigh.

After a few minutes Peter leans against the wall and relaxes a little, knowing that he is in the capable hands of his partner, and takes a deep breath before closing his eyes. "I'm already finishing here, you're going to sleep here, right?"

"I..I didn't bring sleepwear..don't worry I can get home well" you turn your attention to him again "I have your clothes that you left here, they're clean, you're not going anywhere, you need a proper rest, and I'm not going to discuss this with you."

Peter knew you were right, he had no way to go around jumping through buildings, at least not now "Well, if you insist...", he answers with a sigh. "Great! I'm done here too, I'll get clean and comfortable clothes for you, I'll be right back, okay?" You say taking one last look at Peter before leaving the bathroom and going to closet to get a pair of clothes.

"Okay, here it is" You say entering the bathroom again with the clothes "Do you want to help get dressed?" You ask Peter, who kindly signals yes with his head "okay, come here". So you help your boyfriend get dressed and help him walk to the room, laying him on the bed carefully so as not to touch any injury.

"Is everything okay?" You say joining him lying next to him "Yes yes, I just...I keep thinking about how much you do for me...thank you for..all this" Peter says pointing to his own body already patched "I love you very much you know that, right? I don't know what would be without you" Peter says turning to look at you "Nah, don't thank me for that, I love you too much to find anything that does minimally bad" you say with a slight laugh

Peter who also laughs, says "You know, you're the best boyfriend anyone could ask for" Peter speaks with an attempt to stretch to you to give a light kiss, you understand the message and quickly seal your lips with his resulting in a calm and comfortable kiss. So you end the night, hugged, snuggled up to each other, just enjoying the heat that radiated between both bodies.

Observation: Okay, that's not cool, I really didn't like this story, this wasn't reviewed so I'm sorry for any mistakes you have ❤️‍🩹

Dividers by @cafekitsune

[canirove]

Pedri Imagine

Author’s note: This is a request I got on Wattpad, something sweet and cute after he got injured at the Euros. Hope you like it and thank you for reading! 💜

Masterlist

“Hi.”

“Hello.”

“Are you feeling a bit better?”

“Yeah” Pedri says over facetime. “I'm sorry about earlier, tho.”

“Uh?”

“When I kept ignoring your calls and texted you that I wanted to be left alone. I was kind of rude.”

“Pedri, you had just left the game with an injury that meant that the tournament was over for you. It is normal to be angry and frustrated and to want to be left alone.”

“Yes, but… I don't know” he shrugs. “I feel like I was a bit rude with you. With the person who is always there for me on the good and bad days.”

“It's ok” I smile. “But urgh, don't remind me of how much it sucks that I am stuck here with work and that I've only gotten to watch you play once. I should be there taking care of you, not about to start a 24 hour shift at the hospital.”

“I miss you too. But I'm fine, I'm taken care of. Your patients need you a lot more than I do” he says.

“You are being taken care of by who? Nurse Ferran?” I chuckle.

“Among others. Unai has been offering to carry me around.”

“Lucky bitch” I whisper.

“What?” Pedri laughs.

“Nothing.”

“I heard you. Who is a lucky bitch, me because I get to be carried around by Unai, or him because he gets to carry me?” he smirks.

“What do you think, Pedri?”

“Him, obviously. Carrying me is an honour.”

“What are you now? A prince?” I laugh.

“A king, actually. King of your heart” he winks, making me laugh again.

“I'm glad you are making jokes, tho. That means you are feeling a bit better.”

“I'm not joking. I am the king of your heart.”

“Of course you are” I smile. “Have they told you when are you coming back?”

“Actually…” he says, running a hand through his hair. “I'm not.”

“What?”

“They are allowing me to stay with the team and start my recovery here.”

“Oh, that's… that's really nice of them.”

“It is. See how De La Fuente isn't that bad?” he says with a teasing smile.

“Yeah, whatever” I reply. “But if you are staying…”

“We won't be seeing each other in person until they've made me champion of Europe. Which they will.”

“I see…”

“Aren't you happy about it?”

“Of course I am, Pedri. Seeing you this positive after what happened makes me really happy. Relieved too. But I just… I just wished I could get to at least see you once before you come back. Get to enjoy the atmosphere of the Euros together and not just through a screen.”

“Me too… But this isn't my last Euros or international tournament. There will be more in the future, and we will experience them together. I promise you.”

“Ok” I say, forcing myself to smile. “Anyway, I gotta go. My shift is about to start and I need to finish getting ready. Can I leave you in the hands of nurse Ferran and nurse Unai?”

“You can” he chuckles. “But what about you?”

“Uh? What do you mean?”

“Are you ok? You looked a bit gutted after I told you I'm staying in Germany.”

“I'm fine, Pedri. Don't worry. I'll call you tomorrow, ok?”

“Ok. Go be a superhero” he smiles. “I love you.”

“I love you too” I smile back before hanging up.

━━━━━━❃━━━━━━

A few days later…

“They are very optimistic about the injury. They say that if I work hard during the summer, I'll be back sooner than I think” Pedri says.

“Yeah, well. Let's not rush things.”

“Oh, hello!” Ferran says, showing up on the screen next to Pedri.

“Hello” I smile. 

“How are things in Barcelona?” he asks me.

“Same as always. Over there I've been told you've been so good at your job as a nurse that you may steal mine.”

“Yeah… But I don't think there will be a second time. I don't know how you can deal with him, Pedri is the worst patient ever.”

“Hey!” Pedri complains, giving Ferran a little push and only managing to make him laugh.

“It's the truth, bro” he shrugs. “Anyway, have you shared the news yet?”

“The news? What news?” I say.

“I… ummm…” Pedri says, nervously touching his face. “I've got a surprise for you.”

“Ok…”

“It's a good surprise, of course. It doesn't have to do with my injury or anything.”

“Pedri, c'mon!” Ferran urges him.

“Yes, ummm… I got you a ticket for the final.”

“You what?” I say.

“I made some calls, and you are gonna be free for a couple of days, which means that you can come watch the Euros final with me and my family.”

“Pedri, that's… how… I mean…”

“Someone is speechless” Ferran chuckles.

“But how… How did you manage to do this?” 

“Perks of being Pedri González” he shrugs. 

“I… I don't know what to say, I…”

“See? Speechless?” Ferran says again.

“Just say yes. Say that you are coming to watch them make me champion of Europe and then celebrate with us” Pedri says.

“I… Yes.”

“Yes?”

“Yes, Pedri. I'm going to Germany” I smile.

“Thank God” he sighs. “I thought you were going to say no.”

“And miss the chance of being carried around by Unai while celebrating that Spain has won the Euros? No way” I say with a teasing smile. 

“What?” Ferran says with a confused look.

“Inside joke” Pedri says. “Will I see you in a couple of days, then?”

“You will. Germany, here I come!”

━━━━━━❃━━━━━━

“See? I told you the will make me champion of Europe!” Pedri says, limping towards me.

“They did, yes” I laugh. “But please be careful” I say, nodding towards his knee.

“I'm fine, don't worry” he smiles as he reaches me. “Did you enjoy the game?”

“It was the best. I still can't believe I'm here, to be honest.”

“You're welcome” he says, still smiling. “Now, before the boys come kidnap me again… Can I get my first kiss as champion of Europe?” he smirks.

“You can. But” I say, stopping him as he wraps his arms around me. “First I need to say something.”

“Yes, Unai will carry you somewhere if that's what you want.”

“What?” I laugh. “I mean, I do want a photo with him later. And maybe we could take it while he is carrying me… But that's not what I wanted to say.”

“Then?”

“I wanted to say that I am so proud of you, Pedri. And not only because of that medal around your neck. I am really proud of you because of everything you've done during this tournament even if you didn't manage to finish it on the pitch, and especially because of how positive and strong you've been. Not many people are capable of doing that after what happened to you, you know?”

“Yeah, well” he says with a shy smile.

“I love you, Pedri.”

“And I love you too. Can I get that kiss now?”

“Yes, you can” I laugh before kissing him.

[melissa-kenobi]

🎃 Kinktober 2024 🎃 Peter Parker + Sex Pollen

Waheeyyy, 2nd part of Kinktober, we've got Peter Parker up next!

Under 18s, DNI

Warnings: Breeding, Web Fluid, Dirty Talk, Sex Pollen, Possessiveness.

Word Count:

🎃 Kinktober 2024 MasterList 🎃

***

Peter was causally making this way through the room filled with hunters. His spidey instincts were on fire, and every inch of him itched to rid his city of these people. But he couldn't, not now. He had a job to do, to find Kraven.

He made his way through the Hunters, making sure that he maintained his cover as a waiter trying to serve Mr Kravinoffs bodyguard.

Peter was getting anxious. He carried the platter on one hand before heading through the door, looking behind before rushing inside and accidentally bumping into the other servers.

"Oh no! I'm so sorry!" Peter apologises, putting the platter down, trying to help before the other waiter yells at him for not looking where he was going.

"Hey! Why don't you watch where you're going?"

"I'm sorry!" Peter apologises and backs up before the doors open again, and another waiter crashes into the two of them, making the tables topple over each other. The waiter curses and yells at the other man, making Peter's eyes go wide at the mess.

Quickly scanning the area for an out, he spots the elevator.

Bingo.

Peter backtracks to the elevator, hoping that he will finally find Kraven. Once the elevator reaches the final stop Peter hesitantly steps out eyes flickering around before he senses there's no-one there.

"All clear." He whispers to himself as he stalks around the room, noticing all the trophys and animal heads hung up as prizes, "Spider-Spy to the rescue."

"Spider-Spy? Really?" A sickly sweet voice echoes from behind him.

In an instant, Peter feels the hairs on his arms stand up as he whips around, only to come face to face with a real-life tiger.

"Hey, so at least you're real and alive..." Peter mummers under his breath, eyes wide before they fall upon a female hunter sat atop the tiger, watching Peter carefully. Needing to be cautious, Peter casts a glance at female hunter.

"I've been watching you, Spider-Man. You're not as slick as you think you are." You say before flipping off the tiger and standing right in front of Peter. You'd been watching the little spider make his rounds. You had to admit was pretty fit under that mask of his. He had a cute, handsome face. "You ought to be more careful with the way you walk around, you stuck out like a sore thumb."

Peter is slightly speechless, he thought he was more slick and undercover, "What do you want?"

"I want a lot of things little Spider, but mainly I want your head on a platter for Kraven." You say tilting your head at him whilst stroking the tiger, eyes still on the Spider.

"Well, I can't say its the first time I've heard that." Peter retorts, "How about I apologise and leave swiftly before you unleash that tiger on me and we pretend I was never here?"

"No can do." You say before lunging at him with your bladed knife. Peter swiftly jumps out the way, shooting a web at your arm which you block and flip over.

Your eyes follow the Spider's every move, waiting for him to throw another attack at you. Within seconds, he attacks, shooting web after web at you. You grimace as you dodge each and everyone but not before some of it lands on your thigh.

"That is disgusting. Is this stuff coming outta you?" You say as you swipe off the remains of his webs on your thigh.

Spider-Man shrugs, "It's complicated." He swings up in the air, being held up by one of his web as he hangs upside down, "Look I don't really want to hurt you."

"I do." You growl, eyes focused on his mask before gesturing for your tiger to approach. You watched as the eyes on his mask widened as he watched your tiger approach him, with a menacing glare.

"Hey kitty, good kitty..." Spider-Man said, slowly lifting himself up but not before you threw a knife at his web, instantly cutting through it, making the superhero tumble to the floor as he landed on a vase of something. The vase broke under the weight of Spider-Man, and a yellow puff of smoke erupted from it. Your tiger growled as she inched forwards in front of you, closer to the Spider, almost as if she was protecting you.

You inched closer, gently kicking at his thigh whilst he lay still on the broken vase. He didn't move.

Was he- Was he dead?

You moved closer and bent down to look at him, "Hey- wake up. You can't die that easy." Sighing, you got up to grab some rope to tie the Spider up only to turn around and find that he was gone.

"Fuck- where'd he go?" You spin around to ask your tiger only to find that she too was gone. You curse under your breath as you find your animal gone and the smell of meat lingering. Shit, he had gotten rid of her too.

Before you knew it, you were being swung in the room and webbed up against the wall, and Spider-Man hanging above you as he slowly decended and watched you. You growled as you tried to rid yourself from the webs.

"Let me go." You hiss at him, noticing a slight change in his demeanour.

"Where is Kraven?" He growls, tone darker and voice more gravely as he inched closer to you, pressing his chest to yours. He traced your face with his finger, swiping at the yellow substance.

"You'll never find out from me." You smirk, taking in the yellow powder that coated the bottom half of his suit. You sniffed the air only to cough and spit out the scent. Your eyes fell upon a bulge that was poking through the crotch element of his suit, "Oh fuck-"

Of course he had to fall into that pot.

"Look- Spidey, you're not well. You need to- "You begin to say before you're cut off by him sniffing at your neck. He lifted the bottom half of his mask off and kissed at your throat, moaning softly at your sweet scent.

"You- what did you do to me? I feel-" He hisses, sniffing at your neck, loving the smell of you. It surrounded him like a hoard of bees. The sweet, tangy scent of you was stuck in his mind, in his head, he ached to feel it around his cock, "What is that? It smells so good. You smell so good."

"I-" You begun but was cut off as Spider-Man pushed his lower body against you, slowly rutting his hips against your thigh, "Wait- Spider-Man, you don't want this."

"What was that substance I fell into?" He growls in your ear. Fuck that was hot. Nope. No you shouldn't be- oh shit, now you were going to be affected too.

"It was the pheromones from a plant. A very dangerous plant, one that Kraven used to use to help our population increase." You admit, suddenly feeling your core ache and become wet.

"What does that mean?" He growls again, still not understanding. He moves back a little bit, but not enough to give you room to escape.

You watch his reaction, almost as if he was having a mental conversation with himself about something. His head tilts as he mutters to himself, "Ours?"

Suddenly, his eyes fall upon you, "Her?" He says, sniffing and licking at your neck once more.

"Mine." He growls once more in that low baritone voice, one that sounded so unlike the friendly neighbourhood Spider-Man you had seen. He rips his mask off before lunging forward and sucking on your neck, almost possessively. His hands tear at your outfit, ripping it to shreds leaving you exposed whilst his own suit opened up to reveal his cock.

"Holy fuck-" You curse, eyes widening with shock as you watch him pump his cock. That thing was huge, and leaky and red and angry. Fuck, the pollen must have really affected him.

He glances at you before positioning his cock against your lower lips, the head of his cock tapping light against your clit making you moan softly.

"Soaked." He whispers in awe whilst sliding his cock back and forth between your lips before plunging himself in, in one go. You scream and roll your head back against the wall as he penetrates your pussy.

He moves with quick rapid thrusts, not caring at all about your pleasure, only wanting to find his release, and if you weren't so horny you would care. But you enjoyed the way he filled out your pussy, the way you could feel him in your stomach, almost as if he was going to break you. His thick length pushes against your walls, and you loved the way it hurt but felt so good. You wanted more of him.

Peter wasn't holding back. He wanted you. His instincts wanted him to breed you, to fill you, to claim you. You were his, and this was the only way. He didn't care that you were one of Kravens hunters. You were his now. Reaching his peak, he gripped your throat gently, pulling you to his lips before placing a soft kiss on them.

"Mine. You belong to us." He whispered before letting out a low growl of your name and filling you with his cum.

***

[dyns33]

No Fear

Being a while since I wrote about Homelander. I want to do a second part for this story, but I'm not sure about the ending yet.

Homelander didn't have a soulmate.

That was what was written in his file, written by scientists who had brought him into the world, raised him in a lab, studied him for years, in order to make him the ultimate superhero.

If you had asked Y/N for her opinion, she would have said that they hadn't done a great job, and that the report could be thrown in the toilet.

For the most part, Frenchie's partners seemed to agree with this conclusion.

When he had called her to ask for a favor, she had hesitated. Vought was a big fish, and Y/N had never liked fishing.

The job paid well, as well paid as it was dangerous. But that wasn't the problem. because danger didn't scare her. She wasn't afraid of anything.

If she had to thank her father, it was for showing her that soulmates were bullshit, that no one should be trusted, and that there was no reason to be afraid.

The worst thing that could happen was death, relentless, certain, and since she had died in their basement during the time he had kept her locked up, there was nothing left to make her tremble.

If she hesitated, it was because she didn't know Frenchie's companions well, he wasn't always reliable himself, and she hated wasting her time with undoable jobs.

She had followed from afar the adventures of the small team against the big bad corporation that created fake heroes, and they had never really had any results.

For her part, Y/N didn't give a damn about the supes. She had no direct grievance against them. They were assholes like billions of others in the world, the only difference being that they were harder to kill.

Butcher's rage against Homelander was understandable, after what he had done to his wife, his soulmate. If he didn't try to stab her in the back to achieve his ends, everything would be fine.

The supe didn't have a soulmate, since he was superior to everyone, he came out of a tube and he had no soul. It was possible to use the information to hurt his fragile ego in constant demand for love, but nothing else.

It seemed smarter to avoid annoying Homelander, or even if possible not to attract his attention so that the job would go well.

But Butcher was not able to keep his distance nor his tongue in his pocket, to the point that his best enemy could recognize his scent on other people.

"How's dear William ?" Homelander purred as if everything was normal, while he was alone in the Vought elevator with Y/N, who had posed as a delivery girl.

"Dying but still a pain in the ass."

"I don't think we've met before. He recruits into his little gang of losers and they send them to get killed instead of him ? That's heartbreaking."

"Hmm." was Y/N's response who hadn't looked at him for a single second, focused on counting the time left for Serge's creation to hack the building's systems.

"… Excuse me, I'm telling you I'm going to break your neck."

"That's great, big guy. I would believe it if there wasn't a camera, no proof that I'm a criminal or a danger, and you didn't look like you were totally having a blast. This is my floor, bye."

She even had the audacity to pat him on the shoulder as she left, which left him speechless.

It had really happened without her thinking about it. The problem with being afraid of nothing and not caring at all about Homelander.

If she had been a little more interested, Y/N would have known that he hated being ignored more than anything, but that he was also very intrigued when people weren't scared in front of him.

Since he didn't have a soulmate, he quickly and dangerously latched onto people who made him feel something other than disgust.

It was Frenchie who had insisted on installing surveillance cameras in the small apartment she was renting for the duration of the mission, since she refused to stay with them longer than necessary.

Half-laughing, she had told him that he was a pervert. Since she didn't see the need for this surveillance at all, Y/N had never looked at the footage.

No point in looking at empty rooms or herself sleeping, the rare times she was there.

"Maybe you should look, love." Butcher muttered with a serious look that he rarely displayed, almost as if he was worried about another human being.

"Because you have access to the images ? Do I have to charge you a subscription ?"

"Haha, you're not my type. But obviously, you had an effect on the super cunt."

Since the elevator, Y/N had seen Homelander two or three times. They hadn't really talked, she had continued to talk to him as if he were just a harmless guy with a big maniac smile and his eyes that never left her.

There had been a tiny change the last time. A strange feeling in her chest, a buzzing in her ears, and Y/N had felt like he was coming, which was impossible.

With his vision passing through walls, his sense of smell and his obvious paranoia, Homelander also always seemed to know where she was.

That didn't explain his recurring presence in her apartment.

He had first come when she wasn't there. According to Billy, the supe loved doing that, to study the enemy, mark his territory, prove that he could do what he wanted.

Like a big cat, Homelander could be seen wandering around the rooms, touching absolutely everything, searching the fridge, testing the couch, sniffing her clothes.

Y/N wasn't going to pretend that it made her happy. But they were just objects, nothing really important. While he was having fun like a child, she could enter protected areas with the certainty of not running into him.

The problem was rather when he came while she was there.

Sometimes while she was showering, he could be seen through the window, or who remained in the entrance, staring at the wall, before leaving. It was ridiculous to feel uncomfortable, because he could see through her clothes absolutely all the time.

More and more often, he came while she was sleeping. Y/N had had nightmares for a large part of her childhood. It still happened sometimes, waking her up with a start, feeling stupid.

While she was tormented by her inner demons, her body continued to not give a damn about the superhero standing right next to her. Sometimes, when she was agitated, he would put his gloved hand on her cheek, as if he wanted to reassure her. You couldn't say that it had any effect, but it seemed to please her.

He didn't touch her as much as he could have. Most of the time, he just looked at her, standing more or less close.

Obviously, he sometimes talked to her. The video didn't pick up the sound, so it was impossible to tell what he was saying.

Homelander was in the middle of a long monologue when he strangely froze, leaning over Y/N, and kissing her without warning. A quick, simple kiss, so simple that it hadn't woken her up despite a slight flinch.

It had been several weeks already. Since then, he came regularly, almost all night long, and by hacking into a few surveillance cameras, it was obvious that he also followed her during the day whenever he had the chance.

Y/N had often had this strange feeling when he was around, without ever being able to determine what it was.

"… Shit." she murmured as she looked at the images.

"Shit indeed."

"This is going to be a problem, a real problem. I mean, he was already keeping an eye on Butcher, so now it's going to be impossible to move without that motherfucker on our backs."

"We could use that."

"No, Butcher !" Hughie said with his expression of constant worry that was bordering on constipation. "It's too dangerous !"

It took Homalander coming just to save her for Billy to admit that there was indeed a problem.

For the cunt to save him from the explosion of Stilwell's house to laugh and show him Becca and Ryan, okay. But for him to break the sound barrier, traveling all over town, just to catch Y/N, when he had no way of knowing she was in danger ?

That bastard was known for having no heart, but at that moment, he thought of his wife, he thought of what she had been through, and even if he didn't know Y/N well, he didn't want her to end up like that.

"You have to get out of here."

"And what ? I hide in a zinc-walled dungeon for the rest of my life, praying that he doesn't find me or that he gets tired of me ? Please, Butcher. Because he will get tired of me, I'm sure of it."

She wasn't sure. She knew these types of guys. For a long time, she had hoped that her father would come to his senses and let her go. Then she had stabbed him thirty-two times before burning down the house.

After several attempts, it was obvious that it would not be possible to do the same thing with Homelander. But he hated humans, it could only be a passing fascination.

A way to fill the boredom and emptiness, since he had no other women to harass, all the others having been killed or committed suicide.

Running away could have been a good option, since it would have indicated that Y/N was afraid and it would have been a disappointment to Homelander. But he could have still chased her away just for that.

"Why does it always have to end like this with you Serge ?"

"What can I do, chérie ? It's all your natural charm. You broke my heart the first time we met, so it's not that incredible that you seduced the great fucking Homelander."

"You fall in love with everyone. He hates 'mud people'."

"You're not 'people'. I shouldn't have brought you here, désolé."

Frenchie spoke to her as if she were already dead. The whole team looked at her with sad and resigned eyes.

The receptionist looked at her the same way when Y/N showed up at the reception of the ridiculous Vought tower, asking to see the flying cunt. In fact, the request had made the woman laugh at first, a mocking laugh, but she had still called Homelander's apartment, and that's where she had looked panicked.

But maybe it was more about the fate he had reserved for her for speaking badly to Y/N, and not for the future of the woman who got into the elevator, armed only with her courage and a small knife hidden in her shoe.

Homelander's bright blue eyes looked at it with a small smile, as if he found it adorable, before returning to her face.

"We need to talk." Y/N said calmly as she stood in the middle of the hallway.

"I think so."

And if at the end of their little discussion, there was no way to reason with him, then one of them wouldn't be leaving this apartment, even if she had a pretty good guess as to which one it would be.