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urdreamydoodles · 1 month ago

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MARVEL COMICS CHARACTERS X FEM!READER

Your first kiss

Characters: Peter Parker, Tony Stark, Steve Rogers, Thor, Loki, Clint Barton, Natasha Romanoff, Bucky Barnes, Matthew Murdock, Frank Castle, Bullseye, Marc Spector, Taskmaster, Johnny Storm, Reed Richards, Ben Grimm, Susan Storm, Felicia Hardy, Stephen Strange, Namor, Johnny Blaze, Eddie Brock / Venom, T'Challa, Elektra Natchios, Muse, Victor von Doom, Peter Quill & Nova

PETER PARKER (SPIDER-MAN)

- The city is quiet tonight, or as quiet as New York ever gets. You sit beside Peter on the rooftop of his apartment, your legs dangling over the edge, the skyline stretching endlessly before you. The neon lights paint his face in streaks of color, flickering like the embers of something unspoken between you. He’s rambling—about school, about the Bugle, about the latest science joke that made him laugh—until he stops mid-sentence, swallowing whatever he was about to say. His fingers tap anxiously against his thigh, a restless rhythm betraying his thoughts.

- It happens when he turns to look at you, his brown eyes soft and unbearably earnest. There’s something about the way the wind plays with your hair, the way the city hums beneath you, the way the space between you feels like a held breath. His hand, calloused from web-swinging, brushes against yours, tentative but lingering. "I—uh," he starts, then stops, then exhales a nervous laugh. "I think I've been waiting for the right moment, but—maybe this is it?" He’s always second-guessing, always overthinking, but this time, you see the decision settle in his gaze before he moves.

- The kiss is hesitant at first—Peter Parker, for all his brilliance, is still a boy who fumbles when he cares too much. His lips are warm, the taste of laughter and something achingly familiar laced between them. And when you don’t pull away, when your fingers find their place in his hair, he exhales against your mouth like relief, like gratitude. His arms circle around you, pulling you closer, the city forgotten, the night reduced to the way you fit against him.

- When he finally pulls back, his forehead rests against yours, his breath unsteady. "Okay," he murmurs, voice edged with wonder, "so, that was—wow." And then he grins, that boyish, lopsided thing that makes your heart stutter. "I think I need to run some tests. Y'know, for science. Just to make sure it wasn’t a fluke." He’s already leaning in again, and this time, neither of you hesitate.

TONY STARK (IRON MAN)

- The night is heavy with champagne and the soft murmur of jazz drifting through the penthouse. Tony, ever the spectacle, had spent the evening dazzling the crowd with sharp wit and sharper smiles, but now it’s just the two of you, the after-hours of the party settling into something quieter, something real. He’s undone the top buttons of his shirt, sleeves rolled up, exposing the scars that speak of past battles and victories that cost too much. His fingers trail along the rim of his glass, but his eyes are on you, dark and contemplative.

- "You know," he muses, voice rich with amusement, "I’ve kissed a lot of people in my time. Scandalous, I know." A smirk, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. "But this one—this one might actually matter." The admission is half a jest, half a confession, and wholly Tony Stark—deflecting with humor, with bravado, but never insincere. He leans forward, the world outside reduced to the warmth of his gaze, the space between you shrinking with every breath.

- The kiss is molten, slow but deliberate, the kind of thing that leaves its mark. Tony Stark is a man who takes what he wants, but this—this is different. He kisses you like a man savoring a stolen moment, like he’s memorizing the taste of you, the feel of you, like he’s afraid that if he moves too fast, you might disappear. His hands cradle your face, thumbs brushing over your cheekbones with something almost reverent.

- When he pulls away, his breath is unsteady, his eyes darker than before. "Well," he murmurs, his voice rough at the edges, "that was definitely a top contender for best kiss ever. Might have to do some retesting, though. Y'know, for science." The grin that follows is lazy, pleased, but there’s something softer beneath it—something that lingers as he pulls you in for another.

STEVE ROGERS (CAPTAIN AMERICA)

- The battlefield is silent now, the fight won, but the scent of smoke and steel still clings to the air. You stand beside Steve, both of you breathing hard, adrenaline still crackling in your veins. His shield is strapped to his back, his uniform scuffed and torn in places, but he’s whole. Alive. And for a moment, that’s all that matters. The world around you is chaos, but in this sliver of time, there is only him. The golden light of the setting sun catches in his hair, highlights the worry still etched in the furrow of his brow as he turns to you.

- "You scared me today," he says, voice quiet but steady. Not an accusation, just the truth. Steve Rogers doesn’t scare easily—not when facing enemies, not when staring down impossible odds—but you, you are something else entirely. His gloved hand reaches for yours, fingers tracing the bruises blooming along your wrist, a silent apology for the pain neither of you could avoid. His jaw tenses, and then, softer, "I don’t want to lose you."

- The kiss is inevitable, a culmination of unsaid words and lingering glances stretched over countless battles. Steve moves like a man who believes in purpose, in certainty, and right now, you are his. His lips meet yours with quiet desperation, firm yet impossibly gentle, as if he’s afraid you might break beneath his touch. But there is strength in the way you answer, in the way you hold him closer, fingers curling into the fabric of his suit. The war fades into the background, the ache in your bones forgotten beneath the weight of him.

- When he pulls away, his forehead rests against yours, breath mingling with your own. "I mean it," he murmurs, a promise laced between the syllables. His hand tightens around yours, unwavering. "I’m not letting go." And somehow, you know he never will.

THOR

- The storm rolls in like a heartbeat, distant thunder thrumming beneath your feet as the wind tangles in your hair. You stand beside Thor on the edge of a cliff, overlooking the vastness of Asgard’s golden horizon. The feast is still raging behind you, laughter and music spilling from the halls, but here, in the open air, it is just the two of you. His gaze is on you, blue and endless, filled with something deep and unshaken.

- "You are different from the others," he muses, tilting his head as if pondering a great mystery. "Stronger, in a way that has nothing to do with battle. I have seen warriors crumble beneath lesser burdens, and yet—you endure." There is admiration in his tone, reverence even, as if you are something worthy of legends. His fingers brush against yours, tentative for a god who has known conquest and war. "It is… humbling."

- The kiss is as sudden as the storm breaking overhead—lightning splitting the sky as Thor moves. There is no hesitation, no second-guessing, only the raw certainty of a god who knows his own heart. His lips are fire and fury, the taste of rain clinging to the space between you. He holds you as if he could keep you here, bound to him by the force of his embrace, by the quiet, unshakable devotion that lingers in every touch.

- When he pulls away, the storm settles, the world exhaling as if in reverence. He watches you, eyes dark with something ancient, something unbreakable. "I have lived lifetimes," he murmurs, his voice a promise carved into the bones of the universe itself. "But this—I would live them all again, if only to find you once more.”

LOKI

- The air crackles between you, heavy with something unspoken, something that has been threading through your conversations like a whispered promise for longer than either of you will admit. Loki lounges before you, the very image of ease, but his fingers tap restlessly against the arm of his chair, betraying the storm beneath his skin. His sharp green eyes trace your form, lingering, considering, as if trying to decipher a puzzle he has yet to solve. “Do you know what it means,” he muses, voice a blade honed to silk, “for a creature like me to crave something?”

- The question lingers, woven with challenge and invitation, but you do not flinch. You have never been one to cower beneath his words, and that—more than anything—has always drawn him to you like a moth to an unforgiving flame. He stands in a slow, fluid motion, closing the space between you with deliberate steps, the ghost of a smirk curving his lips. "I have held kingdoms in my hands, stolen secrets from the lips of gods—" his fingers lift, barely grazing your chin, "—and yet, I find myself most drawn to the one thing that refuses to be claimed."

- And then he kisses you. No warning, no hesitation, just the full force of Loki's unyielding will pouring into you like a flood breaking through a dam. It is a kiss spun from defiance and devotion, from a god who has never known worship in the way he craves it from you. His hands—so often wielding knives and illusions—now cradle you as though you are the only thing in this world worth holding onto. There is something desperate in the way he moves, as if he fears this moment will be stolen, as if even now, he expects the universe to take you from him.

- When he pulls away, his breath is unsteady, his usual mask nowhere to be seen. He searches your face, as if expecting you to vanish like another trick of the light. “Do you see now?” he murmurs, his voice quieter than before. “This is not a game for me.” There is something almost fragile in the confession, something that would be a secret to anyone but you. You smile—soft, knowing—and pull him back to you, sealing your answer between his lips.

CLINT BARTON (HAWKEYE)

- The first time Clint kisses you, it’s after a mission gone sideways, when the dust has barely settled and the adrenaline still thrums in your veins like a second heartbeat. The two of you sit on the rooftop of some rundown motel, passing a cheap bottle of whiskey between you while the neon lights of the city flicker in the distance. There’s a gash on his cheek, dried blood beneath his nails, but his grin is easy, effortless, as if you both didn’t almost die hours ago. “Hell of a night,” he says, taking a slow sip before handing the bottle to you.

- He watches you as you drink, something unreadable flickering in his sharp blue eyes. Clint has always been good at watching, at noticing the things no one else does—the way your fingers tremble just slightly when you exhale, the way your shoulders carry the weight of too many ghosts. “You okay?” His voice is quieter now, serious in a way he doesn’t let himself be often. And maybe it’s the exhaustion, or the whiskey burning in your throat, or maybe it’s just the way he looks at you—like he’s already made up his mind about something—but you don’t lie. “Not really.”

- And then his lips are on yours. No preamble, no hesitation—just Clint, raw and unguarded, kissing you like he’s afraid this moment will slip through his fingers like everything else in his life. He tastes like whiskey and recklessness, like battle scars and late-night confessions. His hands find your face, rough and calloused, thumbs brushing over your cheekbones as if memorizing every inch of you. He pulls you closer, like he’s trying to drown himself in you, like you’re the only thing keeping him tethered to this world.

- When he finally pulls away, he exhales a quiet laugh, forehead resting against yours. “Guess I really suck at timing, huh?” There’s something vulnerable in the way he says it, like he’s bracing for you to tell him this was a mistake. But you just shake your head, smiling as you steal the whiskey bottle from his hands. “Nah,” you murmur, taking a slow sip, “you’re just an idiot.” He grins, and just like that, the weight on your shoulders feels a little lighter.

NATASHA ROMANOFF (BLACK WIDOW)

- The rain falls in soft sheets around you, the dim glow of the streetlights casting shadows along the slick pavement. Natasha stands beside you, her red hair damp, strands clinging to her cheekbones. The mission is over, the enemy neutralized, but neither of you have moved from this quiet corner of the city. She has barely spoken since you both walked away from the wreckage, but you know her well enough to recognize the weight in her silence. “You don’t have to be okay,” you say, voice barely above a whisper. “Not with me.”

- She looks at you then, something shifting behind her guarded green eyes. Natasha is a woman who has built walls so high that even she forgets what lies beyond them. But here, in the quiet of the rain, she lets something slip—just for a moment. "I don't know how to do this," she admits, the words foreign on her tongue, heavy with a truth she rarely allows herself to speak. She takes a step closer, close enough that you can feel the warmth of her despite the cold. “But I want to try.”

- And then she kisses you. Slow, deliberate, like a secret unfolding between you. Natasha Romanoff has always been calculated, controlled—but here, with you, she allows herself to be something else. Her lips move against yours with a quiet intensity, as if she’s searching for something she has spent her whole life denying herself. Her hands rest lightly against your jaw, fingers trembling just slightly before she grips you tighter, pulling you in like she’s afraid to let go.

- When she finally pulls back, she stays close, her breath warm against your lips. “Tell me this isn’t a mistake,” she murmurs, and there is something fragile in the way she says it, something raw. You brush a damp strand of hair from her face, meeting her gaze with quiet certainty. “It’s not,” you promise. And this time, when she kisses you again, she does not hesitate.

BUCKY BARNES (WINTER SOLDIER)

- The cabin is silent except for the sound of the fire crackling in the hearth. Bucky sits across from you, his metal fingers curled loosely around a mug of coffee, steam curling in the dim light. Outside, the snow falls thick and heavy, turning the world into something quiet, something untouched. He has been different since coming here—softer, but still carrying the weight of ghosts in his eyes. “Feels like another life,” he murmurs, staring into the fire. “Like I don’t belong in it.”

- You set your mug down, moving to sit beside him on the worn-out couch. “You do,” you say simply, because it is the truth. He turns to you then, something unreadable in the depths of his blue eyes. Bucky Barnes is a man who has spent a lifetime fighting his own reflection, drowning in the echoes of a past he cannot escape. But here, now, you see something else—something softer, something searching. “You make it feel real,” he admits, voice barely above a whisper.

- And then, with a quiet resolve, he leans in. The kiss is hesitant at first, like he’s waiting for the world to pull him away from you. But when you don’t flinch, when you don’t disappear, something in him unravels. His lips move against yours with aching slowness, like he is memorizing every second, like this is something fragile he is terrified of breaking. His hands shake slightly when they settle on your waist, fingers curling into the fabric of your sweater, grounding himself in the reality of you.

- When he pulls back, his forehead rests against yours, his breath uneven. “Tell me I’m not dreaming,” he murmurs. You smile, pressing another kiss to the corner of his mouth. “You’re not.” And for the first time in a long time, Bucky Barnes believes you.

MATTHEW MURDOCK (DAREDEVIL)

- It happens in the quiet hours of the night, when Hell’s Kitchen is caught between the restless hum of the city and the stillness of something deeper, something almost sacred. You sit beside him on the rooftop, the neon glow of a flickering sign painting his face in sharp red shadows. His hands are bruised, his knuckles split open like old confessions, but he doesn’t seem to notice. Instead, his fingers twitch against his thigh, as if fighting the urge to reach for you. “You’re too good for this city,” he murmurs, his voice rough, edged with something that sounds dangerously close to longing.

- You shake your head, smiling softly. “And you’re not?” The question lingers between you, heavy with meaning, with the weight of all the nights spent tending to his wounds, of all the times you’ve felt his presence before he even spoke your name. He turns his face toward you then, unseeing eyes searching, and you wonder if he can hear the way your heartbeat stutters beneath your ribs. “I know what good feels like,” he says finally, his voice quieter now, like a confession. “And it’s you.”

- Then, before you can speak, his lips are on yours. There is no hesitation, no faltering—just Matt, breaking the tension like a dam finally giving way. His hands find your face, fingers tracing the shape of your jaw with a reverence that makes your breath catch. He kisses you like he’s memorizing you, like he’s mapping out something he’s known for years but never dared to touch. He tastes like rain and something bittersweet, something that feels like the beginning of an ache he’ll never quite shake.

- When he finally pulls away, his breath is unsteady, his hands still cradling your face like he’s afraid to let go. He presses his forehead against yours, his voice barely above a whisper. “Tell me I didn’t just make a mistake.” There is something fragile in the way he says it, something vulnerable beneath all the armor. You smile, brushing your thumb over the fresh bruise on his cheek. “You didn’t,” you promise, and he exhales, like he’s been holding his breath for longer than he’ll ever admit.

FRANK CASTLE (PUNISHER)

- The world around you is painted in blood and smoke, the aftermath of a night that should have ended differently. The warehouse still burns in the distance, the scent of gasoline thick in the air, but neither of you move. You’re standing too close to him, the heat of his body bleeding into yours, the adrenaline still thrumming between you like a second heartbeat. He’s got a cut on his forehead, dried blood tracing the line of his jaw, but his eyes—sharp, dark, unforgiving—are focused only on you. “You shouldn’t be here,” he says, though there’s no real warning in his tone.

- “And you should?” you challenge, your voice steady despite the weight of everything that’s just happened. Frank exhales through his nose, a sound that could almost be a laugh if it wasn’t so hollow. He’s looking at you like you’re something he doesn’t quite know what to do with, like you’re a puzzle with missing pieces. “You don’t get it,” he mutters, his jaw tight. “Everything I touch, it ends up—” He stops himself, shaking his head. But you don’t let him finish. “I’m still here,” you say softly, and those three words cut through him sharper than any bullet ever could.

- And then, without warning, he grabs you. His hands—rough, calloused, steady despite the storm inside him—frame your face, and then his lips crash against yours with a force that steals the breath from your lungs. Frank Castle doesn’t do anything gently, and this kiss is no exception. It’s raw, desperate, full of all the things he can’t say, all the things he’s spent too many years trying to bury. He tastes like gunpowder and whiskey, like violence and something achingly human.

- When he finally pulls back, he keeps his hands on you, his forehead pressing against yours. His breath is ragged, his grip just shy of bruising. “You’re too good for this,” he murmurs, voice barely above a whisper. But you don’t move, don’t pull away, don’t give him the out he’s expecting. Instead, you just tighten your hold on him, anchoring him to something solid. “I don’t care,” you whisper back, and for the first time in a long time, Frank lets himself believe you.

BULLSEYE (LESTER)

- The motel room is dimly lit, the neon sign outside casting an eerie blue glow against the cracked wallpaper. You shouldn’t be here. Not with him. Not like this. But you are. Bullseye leans against the doorframe, arms crossed, head tilted as he watches you with that sharp, calculating gaze of his. “You got a death wish, sweetheart?” he asks, but there’s something almost amused in the way he says it, like he already knows the answer. Like he already knows that you aren’t leaving.

- “If I did, I’d be dead already,” you answer, and that makes him grin, all teeth and danger. He takes a slow step toward you, his boots barely making a sound against the floor. “Yeah,” he murmurs, tilting his head. “Guess you’re tougher than you look.” His fingers brush against yours, a ghost of a touch, but even that is enough to send something electric skittering down your spine. He’s testing you, waiting for you to flinch, to pull away. You don’t.

- And that’s all the permission he needs. His lips crash against yours, all heat and hunger and something far more dangerous. Bullseye doesn’t kiss like a man who loves—he kisses like a man who consumes. His teeth scrape against your lower lip, his hands gripping your waist like he’s daring you to run, like he wants to see just how far you’ll let him go. He tastes like sin, like something forbidden, like trouble wrapped in leather and bad intentions.

- When he finally pulls away, his breath is uneven, his pupils blown wide. He runs his thumb over your swollen lip, his smirk laced with something almost possessive. “You’re playin’ a dangerous game, sweetheart,” he murmurs, but he doesn’t let you go. He doesn’t want you to. You tilt your head, smirking back at him. “So are you.” And just like that, he’s kissing you again, laughing against your lips like he’s just won something.

MARC SPECTOR (MOON KNIGHT)

- The desert air is cool against your skin, the stars stretching endlessly above you in a sky so dark it feels like you could fall into it. Marc stands beside you, his posture tense, his fists clenching and unclenching at his sides. He hasn’t spoken in minutes, but you can feel the war raging inside him, the weight of something he can’t seem to shake. “You don’t have to do this alone,” you say finally, your voice quiet but steady. He exhales a sharp breath, running a hand through his hair. “That’s the thing,” he mutters. “I do.”

- You step closer, closing the distance between you. “No, you don’t,” you insist, and something in his expression cracks. Marc has spent years running, years convincing himself that he is nothing more than the sum of his mistakes. But here, now, with you, he feels something he doesn’t quite know how to name. Something terrifying. Something real. He swallows hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “You don’t know what you’re getting yourself into,” he warns.

- And then he kisses you. It’s sudden, desperate, like he’s trying to brand the moment into his memory before it disappears. His hands are firm, holding you like you’re the only thing keeping him grounded. He kisses like a man who’s afraid this is the last time he’ll ever be allowed to. He tastes like dust and exhaustion, like prayers whispered into the void.

- When he pulls away, his forehead rests against yours, his breath uneven. “I don’t deserve this,” he murmurs. But you just cup his face, forcing him to meet your gaze. “That’s not your call to make.” And when he kisses you again, it’s softer—less like a battlefield, more like a promise.

TASKMASTER (TONY MASTERS)

- The night is heavy with the scent of rain, the pavement slick beneath your boots as you follow Taskmaster through the abandoned lot. His mask hides his expression, but you’ve known him long enough to read the tension in his movements—the tight set of his shoulders, the way his fingers flex at his sides like he’s bracing for something. “You got a habit of walking into trouble,” he mutters, voice edged with something sharp, something protective. “Yeah?” you counter, stepping closer, tilting your head. “Then I guess it’s a good thing you never let me walk alone.”

- He exhales sharply, tilting his head toward you. His mask catches the neon light in slashes of blue and red, making him look almost inhuman. But you know better. You know the man behind the skull, the one who memorizes the way you move, the one who catalogues your tells, your habits, the way your breath hitches when he stands too close. “You keep getting in my head,” he mutters, and there’s something dangerous in the way he says it, something that sounds almost like surrender.

- And then, without warning, he lifts his mask just enough to press his lips against yours. The kiss is firm, deliberate—like a decision made in the space between one heartbeat and the next. His hands find your waist, pulling you closer, his body a wall of heat and tension and unspoken words. He tastes like adrenaline, like a man who’s spent too long in the dark and doesn’t know how to step into the light. You grip the fabric of his jacket, anchoring yourself to him, and he lets out a quiet, almost frustrated groan, like he hadn’t meant to let himself do this.

- When he finally pulls back, his breath is uneven, his mask still lifted just enough to show his mouth, his jaw. He stares at you for a long moment, his fingers still curled against your hip. “This is a bad idea,” he says, but he doesn’t let go. You smile, brushing your thumb over the fabric of his glove. “Then why does it feel like the best one you’ve had in a long time?” He huffs out something that’s almost a laugh before tugging his mask back down. “Damn you,” he mutters, but when he walks away, he reaches back, just once, and takes your hand in his.

JOHNNY STORM (HUMAN TORCH)

- The rooftop party is in full swing, music pulsing through the warm summer air, laughter spilling over the edge of the building like champagne bubbles. Johnny stands beside you, drink in hand, his usual smirk in place—but there’s something different about the way he looks at you tonight. Less cocky, more searching. He’s used to attention, to adoration, to people flocking to him like moths to an open flame. But you—you don’t just admire him. You see him. And that scares him more than he’ll ever admit.

- “You’re quiet tonight,” he muses, nudging your arm with his elbow. “That’s a first.” You roll your eyes, but there’s warmth in your smile. “Just taking it all in,” you reply, letting the city lights reflect in your eyes. He watches you like you’re something he’s trying to memorize, something fleeting that he’s afraid will slip through his fingers if he looks away. “You ever think about just… leaving it all behind?” he asks suddenly, his voice softer than usual. “The fame, the cameras, the expectations.”

- And then, before you can answer, he kisses you. It’s sudden, impulsive—because Johnny Storm has never been one for patience, never been one to hesitate when he wants something. His lips are warm, impossibly so, like he’s carrying embers beneath his skin. One of his hands cups the side of your face, fingers threading into your hair, while the other settles against the small of your back, pulling you flush against him. He kisses you like he’s afraid this moment might burn away before he gets to hold onto it.

- When he finally pulls back, his forehead rests against yours, his breath mingling with yours in the warm summer air. He chuckles, a little breathless, a little dazed. “That was—” he starts, but then he stops himself, grinning. “—about damn time.” You laugh, shaking your head, and he grins even wider before pulling you in for another kiss, because Johnny Storm has never been one for half-measures.

REED RICHARDS (MISTER FANTASTIC)

- The lab is quiet, save for the soft hum of machines and the occasional scratch of pen against paper. You sit across from Reed, watching as he scribbles furiously in his notebook, his mind a million miles away. He gets like this sometimes—lost in thought, in theories, in equations only he can fully understand. But tonight, there’s something different. His brow is furrowed, his fingers tapping against the desk in a distracted rhythm. “You’re staring,” he remarks, not looking up.

- “You’re brooding,” you counter, tilting your head. That finally earns you a glance, his sharp eyes meeting yours over the rim of his glasses. “I don’t brood,” he mutters, and you can’t help but smile. He sighs, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “It’s just… I’ve been considering something.” You raise a brow, waiting. He hesitates, then stands, moving to stand beside you. “An experiment,” he murmurs, voice quieter now. “A hypothesis I need to test.”

- And then, before you can fully process his words, he leans down and kisses you. It’s careful at first—measured, precise, like he’s cataloging every detail, like he’s analyzing the way your lips fit against his, the way your breath hitches, the way your fingers instinctively grip his sleeve. But then something shifts, and the scientist gives way to the man beneath. His arms tighten around you, his hands splaying against your back as he deepens the kiss, no longer thinking—just feeling.

- When he finally pulls away, his gaze is sharp, searching. “Fascinating,” he murmurs, more to himself than to you. You blink, still catching your breath, and then you laugh. “Did you just kiss me for science?” He smirks, adjusting his glasses. “No,” he says simply, and then he kisses you again, because some things don’t need an explanation.

BEN GRIMM (THE THING)

- The night is quiet, the world softened by the glow of streetlamps and the distant murmur of the city. You sit beside Ben on the park bench, your fingers just barely brushing against his. He’s always careful with you, always so aware of the strength in his hands, the weight of his presence. But tonight, there’s something heavier in the air, something unspoken. “Y’know,” he mutters, staring straight ahead. “I ain’t exactly what most people would call… kissable.”

- You frown, turning to face him fully. “That’s not true,” you say, your voice firm. He lets out a rough chuckle, shaking his head. “C’mon, sweetheart. I ain’t exactly soft.” His voice is gruff, but there’s something vulnerable beneath it, something that makes your chest tighten. “Ben,” you say gently, reaching for his hand. He flinches, just slightly, but doesn’t pull away. “You don’t get to decide how I see you.”

- And then, before he can protest, you kiss him. You feel the moment he freezes, the way his breath catches in his throat. He doesn’t know what to do with this—with you, with the way you touch him like he isn’t something to be wary of. But then, slowly, carefully, he responds. His lips are warm, hesitant, like he’s afraid of breaking you, of breaking himself. His hands tremble slightly as they settle against your waist, his fingers barely curling around you, like he can’t quite believe this is real.

- When you finally pull back, he stares at you, wide-eyed, like he’s waiting for you to take it back. “You… you really mean that, don’t ya?” he murmurs, voice rough. You smile, pressing your forehead against his. “Yeah, Ben. I really do.” And for the first time in a long time, he lets himself believe it.

SUSAN STORM (INVISIBLE WOMAN)

- The evening is quiet, the world outside the Baxter Building hushed under the glow of the city. You sit beside Susan, watching the skyline through the vast glass windows, the lights flickering like stars fallen to earth. She is always composed, always poised, but tonight there’s a restlessness to her—a quiet tension in the way her fingers trace the rim of her glass, the way she exhales just a little too sharply. “I never let myself have this,” she murmurs, and when you turn to her, she’s already looking at you, her blue eyes full of something unreadable.

- You know what she means. Susan Storm carries the weight of leadership, of family, of responsibility. She is the glue that holds everything together, the lighthouse in the storm. But for all her strength, for all her brilliance, there are moments—fleeting, rare—where she lets herself be something else. Something softer. Something just for herself. And tonight, you realize, you are one of those moments.

- She reaches for you, hesitant at first, like she’s testing the shape of the decision she’s about to make. And then, suddenly, she moves—decisive, certain, as if she’s crossed some invisible threshold. Her lips meet yours, warm and insistent, the weight of unspoken things pouring into the space between you. There is something fierce in the way she kisses—something that speaks of restraint finally abandoned, of walls finally lowered. One hand tangles in your hair, the other resting lightly against your cheek, like she’s memorizing the feel of you.

- When she pulls back, her breath is uneven, her eyes searching yours for something—reassurance, maybe, or permission to fall just a little deeper. “I don’t want to lose myself in this,” she whispers, but you shake your head, touching her face, gentle and steady. “You won’t,” you promise, and something in her melts at the certainty in your voice. She leans in again, this time slower, softer, the weight of the world momentarily forgotten in the warmth of your touch.

FELICIA HARDY (BLACK CAT)

- The city belongs to you both tonight, the rooftops your playground, the neon glow painting Felicia in slashes of silver and blue. She moves like moonlight—fluid, untouchable, slipping between the cracks of the world with a smile that’s equal parts mischief and danger. “You’re keeping up,” she teases, glancing back at you over her shoulder. “I’m impressed.” You roll your eyes, but you know she can see the amusement flickering at the corner of your lips. “Maybe I just don’t want to give you the satisfaction of losing.”

- She grins, sharp and knowing, because that’s always been your game—this endless push and pull, this dance on the edge of something electric. You don’t chase Felicia Hardy. You don’t catch her. You match her. And that, more than anything, is what keeps her coming back. She leans in slightly, her voice dropping into something lower, silkier. “You know what I love about you?” she muses, tilting her head. “You make me want to break my own rules.”

- And then she kisses you, swift and decisive, like a thief taking exactly what she wants. There’s no hesitation, no uncertainty—only the heat of her mouth against yours, the way her hands find your collar, tugging you closer as if she’s daring you to keep up. She tastes like adrenaline, like the promise of trouble, like midnight secrets whispered against bare skin. The kiss deepens, slow and teasing, a game in itself—because Felicia Hardy never gives anything away for free.

- When she finally pulls back, her lips are curled into that signature smirk, her fingers still hooked in the fabric of your jacket. “Careful, darling,” she purrs, her voice thick with amusement. “I might just steal you next.” But you only smile, catching her wrist before she can slip away. “Maybe I’ll let you,” you murmur, and for the first time in a long time, Felicia Hardy wonders what it would feel like to be the one caught.

STEPHEN STRANGE (DOCTOR STRANGE)

- The Sanctum is still, the air heavy with the scent of ancient books and forgotten incantations. Stephen stands at his desk, eyes scanning the open pages of a tome older than memory itself, but his mind is elsewhere. You can tell by the way his fingers twitch against the parchment, the way his jaw tightens as if battling thoughts he refuses to voice. “Something’s on your mind,” you say, stepping closer. His gaze lifts to meet yours, sharp and contemplative. “You,” he admits, and the honesty of it knocks the breath from your lungs.

- Stephen Strange is not a man who loves easily. He is a fortress of intellect and discipline, a scholar of the arcane who has spent lifetimes mastering the impossible. And yet, here he stands, unraveling just slightly in your presence. He lifts a hand, fingers brushing against your cheek in an almost hesitant gesture—like he is tracing the edges of a spell too powerful to fully comprehend. “I was never meant for this,” he murmurs. “For softness. For wanting.”

- And then, like surrendering to something he cannot fight, he leans in. The kiss is slow, deliberate—a study in patience, in precision. His lips press against yours with a quiet intensity, as if memorizing the very essence of you. One hand rests at the nape of your neck, steady and grounding, while the other lingers at your waist, his touch both careful and commanding. He kisses you like he is trying to rewrite fate itself, like he is making a choice that defies every law he has ever known.

- When he finally pulls away, his breath is uneven, his usually composed expression softened in a way few have ever seen. “I should warn you,” he murmurs, his thumb tracing absent circles against your skin. “Nothing in my world is simple.” You smile, reaching up to touch his face, grounding him in something real. “Then it’s a good thing I’ve never been afraid of the impossible.” His lips quirk into something small, something almost reverent, before he kisses you again, sealing the spell between you.

NAMOR (THE SUB-MARINER)

- The ocean sings in the distance, waves lapping against the shore like the heartbeat of the earth itself. Namor stands beside you, the moonlight casting silver across his sharp features, his dark eyes reflecting the vastness of the sea. “This world is fragile,” he says, voice laced with something ancient, something heavy. “It does not deserve you.” You glance at him, at the way he watches you—not with admiration, not with softness, but with something deeper, something possessive. “And yet,” you murmur, stepping closer, “I am here.”

- Namor has never been a man to beg. He does not kneel. He does not ask. He takes what he wants, claims what he deems worthy. But with you, there is hesitation, a silent battle waging beneath the surface of his control. His fingers brush against yours, the slightest touch, but it is enough to set the air between you alight. “You tempt me,” he admits, voice low, almost reverent. “And I have never been a man with much patience.”

- And then he kisses you, fierce and unyielding, like the tide crashing against the shore. His hands settle on your hips, drawing you against him as if daring the world to try and pull you apart. There is no hesitation, no second-guessing—only the heat of his mouth, the sharp inhale of breath as he claims you the way he has always wanted to. He tastes like salt and storm, like the very essence of the ocean, like something wild that refuses to be tamed.

- When he finally pulls back, his grip remains firm, his forehead resting against yours as he exhales slowly. “You are mine,” he murmurs, not a question, not a plea—an undeniable truth. And for the first time, you realize you do not mind being claimed, not when it is by him.

JOHNNY BLAZE (GHOST RIDER)

- The desert wind howls through the canyon, a restless spirit caught between sand and sky. The motorcycle beneath Johnny hums like a living thing, its metal frame still warm from the hellfire that lingers in his veins. You sit beside him on the hood of an abandoned car, the silence stretching between you, thick with something unspoken. He isn’t a man of easy words, and neither are you, but there are moments like this—where the quiet speaks louder than any confession ever could.

- He glances at you, the flickering embers of his curse hidden beneath the deep blue of his eyes, and you feel the weight of his stare like a brand. “I don’t get good things,” he mutters, voice rough, shaped by years of regret and roads paved in fire. “Not for long.” You know he means you, means this, the fragile thing growing between you both. And maybe he’s right—maybe fate has already written tragedy into your story—but right now, with the stars burning above and his hand ghosting over yours, you want to defy it.

- He moves before you can answer, his lips crashing into yours with a hunger that speaks of desperation, of stolen chances and borrowed time. His hands are warm—almost too warm, like he’s barely holding back the fire inside him—but he doesn’t pull away. Not this time. The kiss is rough, raw, a clash of teeth and longing, and for a moment, you taste the hellfire that runs through his soul. He kisses you like a man who’s already lost everything once and refuses to lose again.

- When he finally breaks away, his breathing is uneven, his forehead pressed against yours as if grounding himself in the reality of you. “I don’t deserve this,” he whispers, but there’s no regret in his voice—only the trembling remnants of a man still learning how to hold onto something good. You grip the front of his jacket, pulling him closer, and when you speak, your voice is steady, unwavering. “Then we’ll steal it.” A slow smile tugs at his lips, something wild and reckless, and when he kisses you again, it feels like a promise to fight whatever hell comes next.

EDDIE BROCK / VENOM

- The city is a restless thing at night—buzzing, pulsing, alive. You stand on the rooftop beside Eddie, the neon lights casting shadows across his face, the distant hum of traffic filling the space between you. There’s tension in his shoulders, the kind that never quite leaves, the weight of a body that’s never entirely his own. “He likes you,” Eddie mutters, gesturing vaguely to the symbiote that lingers just beneath his skin. “Says I should stop being a coward and kiss you already.”

- A low, amused growl echoes in the back of Eddie’s throat—not entirely his own. “Yes,” Venom rumbles, voice curling through the night air like something alive. “She is ours.” Eddie groans, rubbing a hand over his face, but there’s no real annoyance in it. If anything, there’s something close to agreement buried beneath the exasperation. He turns to you, gaze flickering between hesitation and something darker, something unspoken. “You want this?” he asks, voice rough, uncertain. “Me? Us?”

- You don’t get the chance to answer. One moment, you’re staring at him, the city sprawled beneath your feet. The next, Eddie has you pressed against the rooftop ledge, his mouth on yours, his hands tangled in your hair. The kiss is desperate, consuming, an unspoken plea wrapped in heat and longing. And when the symbiote joins, its inky tendrils curling around your skin, it isn’t unwelcome—it’s protective, claiming, a silent promise that you are theirs, that they will never let you go.

- When he finally pulls back, his breath is ragged, his pupils blown wide. “Too much?” he asks, but you shake your head, fingers still fisted in his jacket. “Not enough,” you murmur, and a slow, wicked grin spreads across his lips. Venom purrs in agreement, and as Eddie leans in again, you realize that whatever this is—whatever you’ve become to them—it’s already too late to turn back.

T’CHALLA (BLACK PANTHER)

- The air is thick with the scent of blooming jasmine, the Wakandan night stretching vast and endless above you. T’Challa stands beside you on the palace balcony, his gaze sharp and contemplative as he watches the city below. He has always been like this—thoughtful, deliberate, a man who carries the weight of a nation with grace that borders on impossible. But tonight, he is not just a king. Tonight, he is simply a man, standing beside the one person who makes him forget the weight of his crown.

- “There is a saying in Wakanda,” he murmurs, voice low, reverent. “That love is not something taken, but something earned.” He turns to you then, his eyes dark with meaning, with unspoken truths. “I do not take this lightly. I do not take you lightly.” There is something beautiful in the way he says it, in the way he allows himself to be vulnerable with you, to let his guard drop even for a moment. You lift a hand, brushing your fingers along his jaw, and he exhales, his composure faltering just slightly.

- And then, like a tide giving way to the shore, he closes the distance between you. The kiss is slow, deliberate, like the turning of a page in an ancient story. His hands settle at your waist, steady, grounding, as if anchoring himself to the moment. There is no rush, no urgency—only quiet devotion, the kind that lingers, that settles deep in the bones. He kisses you with the weight of a man who has spent his life making careful decisions, and this—this is the one he chooses without hesitation.

- When he pulls back, his fingers trace a slow path along your cheek, his gaze still heavy with something unreadable. “You are my greatest risk,” he murmurs, and you know he means it. Because love, for a king, is always dangerous. But when you smile, pressing your forehead against his, he only exhales softly, as if surrendering to something inevitable. And when he kisses you again, it is no longer with hesitation, but with certainty.

ELEKTRA NATCHIOS

- The rain falls in thin silver threads, washing the city clean in its quiet embrace. You stand beside Elektra on the rooftop, the neon lights below flickering against the wet pavement. She is always beautiful like this—sharp, lethal, untouchable. But tonight, there is something different in the way she watches you, something softer, something almost fragile. “This is a mistake,” she whispers, but she doesn’t move away.

- You know what she means. Elektra is not made for gentle things. She is blood and steel, shadow and fury. She has killed men for less than what you make her feel. But even knowing this, even with the sharp edges of her past pressing against the space between you, you do not flinch. Instead, you step closer, watching as something in her gaze flickers—fear, maybe, or something far more dangerous.

- And then she moves, closing the distance between you with a swift, decisive grace. The kiss is not soft. It is not hesitant. It is fire and hunger, teeth and desperation. Her fingers curl into your hair, pulling you against her like she is trying to burn the shape of you into her memory. She tastes like danger, like a storm breaking over the city, like something you should run from but never will.

- When she finally pulls back, her breathing is uneven, her lips slightly parted as if she is about to speak. But she doesn’t. Instead, she presses her forehead to yours, the tension in her body slowly unraveling. “You should walk away,” she murmurs, but when you don’t move, when your hand finds hers in the dark, she exhales, defeated. And when she kisses you again, it is not a warning—it is surrender.

MUSE

- The world around you is a canvas, but Muse does not paint in colors meant for beauty. He sculpts in blood, in the echoes of silent screams, in the jagged edges of chaos where meaning is stripped bare. You should not be here—you, with your warmth, your softness, your ability to turn even the void into something full of light. And yet, he lets you stand beside him in the dim glow of a flickering streetlamp, his hands twitching at his sides as if unsure whether to destroy or to hold.

- "I see you," he murmurs, voice rasping like something broken. His eyes—dark, unreadable, filled with a hunger that has nothing to do with flesh—trace the lines of your face like you are something he will never be able to capture. "I see you in a way I don't see anything else." His art is made of madness, but you, you are the only thing that remains clear in the haze of his unraveling mind. And it terrifies him. It excites him. It pulls him closer, the weight of obsession curling around his ribs like wire.

- His hands move before his mind catches up, fingers ghosting over your jaw as if memorizing the texture of your skin. And then—without prelude, without hesitation—his mouth crashes against yours. It is not gentle. It is not kind. It is a claim, a signature scrawled in fevered ink, a vow written in the space where language fails. He tastes of copper, of sleepless nights and the sharp tang of something unhinged, but he does not pull away. He drinks you in like a man starved, like an artist who has found his only masterpiece.

- When he finally parts from you, his breath is ragged, uneven, his forehead pressed against yours as if trying to anchor himself. "I will ruin you," he whispers, a warning and a promise both. But your hands do not tremble when they pull him back in, when you whisper against his lips, "Then make it beautiful." And for the first time, in a life stitched together by violence, Muse finds himself desperate to create something that will not break.

VICTOR VON DOOM (DR. DOOM)

- The air is thick with the scent of burning embers, the remnants of his latest experiment still crackling in the distance. You stand within the towering walls of Doom’s kingdom, a place where gods are made and broken, where the laws of nature are rewritten by the will of a single man. He watches you with an intensity that borders on divine, his green cloak casting shadows against the molten glow of machinery and magic entwined. Doom does not love like mortals do. Doom does not kneel before lesser emotions. But Doom has chosen you.

- "You are a fool to stand beside me," he muses, voice rich with arrogance, with certainty. "There is no safety in my presence. No mercy. No retreat." He speaks as if this is a warning, as if you have not already chosen to stand in the eye of the storm. You meet his gaze, unflinching, and something in the iron walls of his soul fractures. He does not understand it, this defiance wrapped in something so soft, so steady. He does not understand you. And Doom despises what he does not understand.

- The kiss is not an accident, nor is it impulsive. Doom does nothing without calculation. It is a conquest, a declaration, a moment where even the weight of the world bends to his will. His gauntleted hand cups your cheek, the cool bite of metal a stark contrast to the heat of his mouth against yours. He does not kiss like a man—he kisses like a ruler branding his empire, like a god bestowing a gift upon the only mortal he has deemed worthy. It is overwhelming, intoxicating, and it is absolute.

- When he pulls away, his gaze is unreadable, something ancient and unfathomable lingering in its depths. "You belong to Doom," he states, as if it is law, as if the universe itself would sooner collapse than deny him this truth. And perhaps he is right. For when he kisses you again, you realize that the world has already reshaped itself around his words.

PETER QUILL (STAR-LORD)

- The stars stretch endless above you, the vast expanse of space humming with the quiet melody of a universe still singing itself into existence. Peter leans against the railing of the Milano, his usual bravado dimmed into something softer, something more honest in the quiet glow of starlight. “You know,” he starts, voice lazy, teasing, but edged with something deeper, “if you keep looking at me like that, I’m gonna think you actually like me.”

- You roll your eyes, but the truth lingers between you, unspoken but undeniable. Peter has always hidden behind humor, behind cocky grins and deflective quips, but you have learned to read between the lines, to hear the way his voice wavers when he talks about the things that matter. And you—you are one of those things. He won’t say it outright, not yet, but it’s there in the way his fingers drum against his thigh, in the way he leans closer without meaning to.

- "You ever think about how weird this is?" he asks suddenly, gesturing between the two of you. "Like, of all the people in all the galaxies, somehow, it’s us?” There’s something vulnerable in his voice, something almost hesitant. You don’t give him time to second-guess it. Instead, you grab the front of his jacket and pull him in, and for once, Peter Quill is speechless. The kiss is electric, dizzying, like the first rush of a jump through hyperspace. His hands find your waist, pulling you closer as if he’s afraid you’ll disappear into the stars.

- When you finally part, he’s breathless, grinning like a man who just won the greatest jackpot in the galaxy. “Okay,” he says, voice slightly dazed. “Yeah. That was definitely my favorite thing that’s ever happened.” You laugh, shaking your head, and he presses another quick kiss to your lips, just because he can. “You’re in trouble now, sweetheart. ‘Cause I’m never letting you go.” And when he pulls you into another kiss, you believe him.

RICHARD RIDER (NOVA)

- The weight of the Nova Force thrums beneath his skin, a power that has shaped and shattered him in equal measure. Richard is used to battles, to the endless war against forces greater than himself. But this? This is different. This is not something he can fight, not something he can outrun. You stand beside him on the edge of a dying world, the stars reflecting in your eyes, and for the first time in a long time, he feels like maybe—just maybe—he’s not fighting alone.

- "You make me want to stay," he admits, voice rough with exhaustion, with the kind of honesty that takes more strength than any battle he’s ever fought. He turns to you, something raw and unguarded in his gaze. "That’s dangerous." He has spent too long losing people, too long watching the universe take and take until there is nothing left. But you—you are something the universe has given, and it terrifies him.

- The kiss is sudden, but not thoughtless. It is the culmination of something inevitable, something that has been building since the moment he let himself care. His hands cup your face, firm but reverent, as if afraid you’ll disappear the moment he lets go. He kisses you like a man clinging to the last piece of something real, like a soldier who has finally found a reason to return home. And in that moment, for the first time in a long time, he feels weightless.

- When he pulls away, his forehead rests against yours, his breath steadying. “If I could choose anywhere in the universe to be,” he murmurs, “it’d be right here.” His fingers tighten around yours, and as the stars continue their endless dance above, he wonders if, for once, the universe will allow him to keep something good.

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itscrazycasey · 8 months ago

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Peter, talking to Ned as they walk into the tower: and that’s how I almost died!

Tony: excuse me?

Steve: who and where?

Bruce: No one’s going to get away with that one, need me to send the other guy?

Clint, coming down from the vents: I can take care of them.

Peter, confused: I was just telling Ned about the time a building fell on me.

Ned: Yup!

Tony, Steve, Bruce, and Clint: WHAT?

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autumnistic-danmei · 15 days ago

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Peter: Do you care if I take the skin off this Furby?

Peter: I want to make him a God. Once he is free of his sinful flesh, he can begin a path towards enlightenment. He will take care of Us.

Peter: I also want to softhack his circuits.

Tony: I literally could not care less but never say anything as frightening as that ever again.

#incorect quote #peter parker #spider man #tony stark #iron man #iron dad #spiderson #irondad and spiderson #marvel #mcu #incorrect marvel quotes #marvel incorrect quotes #marvel mcu #mcu incorrect quotes #incorrect marvel #marvel cinematic universe #mcu incorrect quote #incorrect mcu quotes

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mugglebornmarvelite · 25 days ago

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hi, im in love with your writing, please don't stop

can you do something where Bucky can't find sunshine and nobody else is concerned because they know that you're okay? like you went to the mall or to get coffee, but didn't tell Bucky

oh! and I'd love some more sunshine and peter parker chaos. he's bestie material!

I need something funny and sweet after today, or I'll just reread old stories from you 🤧

thank you 💞💞💞

Caffeine and Chaos

Paring: Avenger! Bucky Barnes x Avenger! Fem! Reader (Grumpy x Sunshine)

Summary: Bucky's protective instincts are on display when he can't find you. But when you return, Bucky's frustration gives way to fondness, even if he won't admit it.

Word Count: Roughly 1k

Warnings: Fluff, comical violence, teasing, banter, flirting, a little bit of Peter’s self-deprecating humor

Author’s Note: This was such a cute idea; hope you enjoy :)

Navigation

Divider by: @strangergraphics

“Where is she?”

Bucky’s voice cut through the otherwise quiet room.

The team didn’t flinch, accustomed to his daily grumbling.

Clint lazily flipped through a magazine, paying no attention to the scene unfolding.

Steve was polishing his shield, attempting his best to mediate. “Breathe, Buck.”

Natasha sipped her tea and barely looked up. “She’s fine,” she said, her voice unworried.

Sam barely stifled a laugh and leaned back in his chair. “Dude, she’s not your responsibility. She’s grown, man. You don’t have to track her every move.”

“Where. Did. She. Go?” Bucky repeated.

Tony was too busy typing on his tablet to care about Bucky’s panic. But the smirk on his face was undeniable.

He glanced up briefly. “Bucky, c'mon. You know she’s fine. She’ll be back before nightfall.”

Just as Bucky opened his mouth, he closed it once more. The door to the room swung open, and there you were, bouncing in like a ray of sunshine, Starbucks cup in hand.

“Bucky! Look what I got!” you chirped, instantly taking the edge off his simmering frustration.

His neck snapped around so fast you were sure you heard something crack. “Where did you go?” His voice was almost too calm now; you knew that wasn’t good.

You blinked, taking a sip of your iced coffee. “We ran out of my favorite coffee creamer and I went to drop off my almost overdue books at the library because I’m responsible.”

“By yourself?” he demanded, his eyes narrowing.

“Well, no,” you replied. “I had Peter with me.”

Peter, who had somehow remained unnoticed in the corner until this moment, immediately regretted his existence.

“Uh. Hey, Bucky,” he squeaked, his voice laced with panic.

Bucky’s intense death glare shifted to Peter. “You let her leave?”

Peter looked back at you in betrayal.

“I told you he’d kill me; should’ve never let you talk me into it,” he muttered under his breath.

You rolled your eyes. “It was barely an hour.”

Bucky, however, didn’t seem convinced. “And what if someone grabbed you, huh?”

You frowned slightly, raising the drink in your hand. “Then at least I’d have my coffee?” You shrugged innocently.

Bucky exhaled so forcefully you thought he might pass out from sheer frustration. “Go. Sit. Down. Now.”

With a sigh, you obediently went to the couch and flopped down.

Peter tried to sneak away unnoticed, but Bucky was already one step ahead. He grabbed the back of Peter’s hoodie with a firm grip.

Peter sighed. “This is it. I’m a goner. Say nice things at my funeral.”

You couldn’t help but laugh. “Come on, Bucky. It was just a coffee run.”

“Next time, I’m coming with you,” Bucky muttered, his voice still holding that soft edge of fondness despite his grumbling.

You grinned, too pleased with yourself. “As if you could keep up.”

“Oh, I could keep up just fine, sunshine,” he shot back, his words softer now, laced with affection.

He let go of Peter, and the boy scrambled upstairs.

Meanwhile, Sam exchanged a knowing glance with Steve.

That was never a good thing.

Still polishing his shield, Steve muttered loud enough for Bucky to hear, “You know, Buck, I didn’t think you’d be the type to get whipped like this.”

Sam snickered, his grin wide. “Yeah, man. Look at you. All tense when she’s gone for an hour. It’s almost cute.”

“Shut up, both of you,” he grumbled, clearly trying to hide his embarrassment.

Steve, barely able to suppress his own laugh, added, “You’re in deep, Bucky. You’re one stop away from buying her flowers and writing a song about it.”

“I swear to God, Rogers, I’m going to throw you off this fucking building,” Bucky threatened.

Sam leaned back in his chair, looking way too entertained by the situation. “You’re already whipped, Buck. Might as well embrace it. The song’s gonna be a ballad, right? Something with violins?”

Steve and Sam laughed, ready to keep taking shots at Bucky.

Without warning, Bucky grabbed a vase from the nearby table and hurled it toward Steve and Sam.

Sam ducked behind Steve, who instinctively raised his shield, deflecting the vase with a loud clang. The vase shattered against the shield, sending shards of ceramic skittering across the floor.

However, not a single person flinched. It was like this kind of chaos had become second nature.

You tugged on Bucky’s sleeve, your voice soft but firm. “Come on, Bucky. Sit down,” you said, pulling him gently toward the couch.

He let out a long, aggravated sigh but obeyed, dropping down beside you. “This is why I spend my free time alone,” he muttered under his breath.

“You’re right.” You leaned into Bucky’s side. “We should spend more of your free time alone.”

Bucky pretended not to shift to make you more comfortable against him. “Next time, I’m coming with you,” he muttered.

You hummed in acknowledgement, curling into his side like a content cat basking in the sun, slowly falling asleep.

With a quiet sigh, Bucky threw a blanket over you, pretending not to notice Steve and Sam stifling their laughter as he ran his fingers through your hair.

Thank you so much for reading! I hope you enjoyed!

Tags: @princess-lil-spidey @sapphirebarnes @mgchaser @sparklystarsandstrawberries @arcadia-smith @rnurse-kole @juliebluehufflepuff @sailorsenshiuranep @alexxavicry @ficcharsimp @winchestert101 @thatesqcrush @bamitzzsam @grubler @peaches1958 @helen-2003 @ickearmn @Kimmie113080 @Xgbtmdmx @buckysbunnie @Shower-me-with-roses @pigeonmama @civilbucky @piinksdoll @desimarie12 @sleepysongbirdsings @barnesb420 @Suffereroflife

If you'd like to be added to my taglist or just ask me, and I'll update it!

Much love x

- Maeve

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ptergwen · 3 months ago

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Hi there, I'm SO HAPPY YOUR BACK! I was wondering if you could maybe write a Tom Holland Peter Parker x fem Stark reader based on this prompt?: You’re unconscious after a mission gone wrong, and Peter’s voice shakes as he desperately calls your name, when Tony comes. If you don't want to do it, its ok

stay

ask box | taglist | blurb masterlist | main masterlist

w/c: 2,005

warnings: mentions of blood, angst (happy ending!)

a/n: hi lovely thank you sm! you guys know i love my angst so i felt very in my element with this one hehe, thanks for the patience while i get used to writing again! feel free to keep sending in your reqs and chatting, i love hearing from y'all and will answer asap ♡

"y/n? it's over, i got him. i’ll come find you, okay?"

you don't answer.

"y/n/n? can you hear me?"

there's only silence on peter's end of the headset. peter isn't worried, not at first. he figures maybe you just got disconnected.

"y/n?"

nothing.

now that peter hasn't heard from you on the third try, he is starting to worry. the two of you had gotten separated during your mission. the plan was for you to distract your opponent and peter to web him up, but you lost him somewhere along the way. it was hard to stick together in the dark, twisty tunnels. he'd thought it would be best to take care of your opponent himself and find you after.

tony is going to kill him if he let anything happen to you. it's okay, though. he can just use his suit to track your location.

"friday?"

"yes, peter?"

"take me to y/n."

peter swings through the tunnels to get to you faster. friday guides him, which he's grateful for because he doesn't have a great sense of navigation as is. it's even more difficult underground. peter lands where friday tells him to, but he doesn't see you.

"are you sure this is where she is? i think she might've lost connection... maybe her location didn't update."

"y/n's watch is online, peter."

peter notices something on the ground, its blinking light catching his attention. he picks it up. sure enough, it's your stark tech watch, but where are you?

"would you like me to check again?"

peter makes out a figure a few feet away. it isn't moving. he takes a few steps toward the figure, reaching for his mask.

"that's okay. thanks, friday."

he removes his mask to see better, brows knitting together. something doesn't feel right. peter's senses confirm it, the hairs on his arms standing up and eyes focusing harder in the darkness. in peter's head, he already knows it's you. in his heart, he hopes it isn't.

peter crouches down and puts a hand on the figure's shoulder, rolling them over to face him.

it's you.

your spandex suit has some rips in it, and dirt is coating your back. your mask is pulled up part of the way. peter takes it off, revealing blood dripping down your forehead, your eyes just barely open. tears roll down your cheeks. peter cups your face tenderly in his hands, eyes desperately searching for yours.

"oh my god, baby, what happened?"

"that guy."

your voice comes out weak. despite the blood and tears staining his gloved fingers and the tightening in his throat, peter does his best to stay calm.

"what guy? the one we were fighting?"

"yeah."

"he did this to you?"

you hum in response. peter props an arm behind your head for support.

"it's okay. everything's gonna be okay."

"but... it hurts."

"i know, baby. but you're gonna be okay. we're gonna get you home and..."

your eyes flutter closed.

"hey, hey, hey. look at me."

peter strokes your cheek, willing you to stay awake. you grunt.

"tell me where it hurts so i can take a look. can you do that for me, y/n? where does it hurt?"

"my head. on top."

peter carefully parts your hair, searching for the source of your bleeding. there's a damp patch of hair near the top of your head. he moves it aside and finds a gash. it's small, but fairly deep. he doesn't think he can handle this on his own; he needs to tell tony.

"i’m gonna call your dad, okay?"

you don't respond. your eyes are closed when peter looks for them.

"y/n? you have to stay awake."

you don't say or do anything to indicate that you hear him. tears prick peter's eyes, threatening to spill over. he doesn't know much about head injuries, but he knows this isn't good.

"please wake up, y/n/n."

peter grabs both your shoulders and shakes, hard enough that it should wake you. nothing. you seem to have slipped into some sort of an unconscious state.

your watch starts to beep with an incoming call from your dad. peter accepts it with a shaking hand.

"friday tells me your vitals are suspiciously low, little lady. what's going on?"

peter fights to keep his tears at bay. he cradles your head with one hand, placing his other on your heart. he needs to feel your heartbeat to remind himself you're still here.

"it's me, tony."

"kid? where's y/n?"

a quiet sob escapes him, tears finally falling. tony doesn't need to hear anything else.

"i’m on my way."

it doesn't take long for tony to get to you and peter. he comes whirring through the tunnels, retracting his iron man suit when he lands. you lie on the ground, your head in peter's lap. you'd woken up shortly after peter spoke to your dad, but you aren't really responsive. peter is cradling your head gently in both hands and whispering words of reassurance.

he's so focused on you that he doesn't even notice tony is there until he feels a hand on his shoulder.

"what happened, kid?"

tony kneels down next to peter.

"i... i don't know. the guy we were fighting... i didn't see, i think she hit her head."

"okay, okay. let me see the damage."

tony uses his watch to illuminate the dark area. there's dry blood all around the crown of your head, in your hair. it's worse than he expected. he doesn't let it show, though. he doesn't want to alarm you any more than you already are, or peter for that matter; he's a mess.

"i found this."

peter moves your hair to show your dad the wound on your head. tony shines the light on you to get a better look. concern flashes in his eyes briefly, but long enough for peter to see it.

"friday, call the med bay. tell them it's my daughter."

"yes, boss. it appears y/n may have a concussion. i've detected a large contusion."

you bring a hand up to your head, trying to feel the wound. peter coaxes your hand away with a don't touch, baby. you try to say something, but you can't. you're in too much pain. your dad and peter share a knowing look.

"we'll be there soon, fri. make sure they're ready for us. and call happy, tell him to pick us up asap."

"i’ll let them know right away, boss."

a bright light shines directly in your eyes, making you stir a bit in peter's lap. you whine and squeeze your eyes shut. fresh tears fall down your cheeks.

"it's okay, it's okay. it's just your old man."

you squint your eyes open.

"dad?"

"hey, y/n/n."

"what... what're you doing?"

"just gotta take a look at something. look up?"

you try to open your eyes again, but your eyelids feel heavy. tony holds one of your eyes open himself, then the other. he clicks his tongue.

"what's wrong? is she okay?" peter asks your dad.

"pupils are bigger than they should be. still reacting to light, though. that's good."

"what does it mean if her pupils are too big?"

"friday's right. she could have a mild concussion."

the light turns off, your body finally relaxing. peter's body stiffens.

"that's serious, isn't it?"

peter looks from tony to you, stroking your hair and cupping your cheek, then back up at tony. tony can see the fear in his eyes.

"it shouldn't be, the bleeding just gave us a scare. we'll know more when we get her home."

you grab at peter's knee. he places his hand over yours, thumb smoothing along the back of your hand. you look around the tunnel with blurry vision.

peter doesn't like the uncertainty of this. they don't even know the extent of your injuries, just that they might be serious. he knows you're going to be okay, that tony and the med bay team know what to do and you'll bounce back from this because you're you, but he's scared. you've never been hurt this badly before.

"happy's got our location. he'll be here as soon as he can," tony tells you, voice uncharacteristically soft. you blink your eyes in response. "how long is that gonna be?" peter asks.

"i’m not sure, kid."

hot, frustrated tears fill peter's eyes.

"we can't just wait around anymore. she's been like this for a while."

"trust me, pete. i don't like waiting either."

"then let's just bring her back ourselves."

tony gives peter a stern look.

"let's not."

"why not? it's faster if one of us takes her. i’ll swing her there right now."

peter is already scooping you into his arms, preparing to pick you up. you groan at the sudden movement. tony removes you from peter's arms and takes you into his own protectively.

"i said no. we're not flying her home, and we're definitely not swinging her. it isn't safe."

peter stays quiet, blinking back tears.

"you've gotta remember, y/n isn't like you. she doesn't have powers. for the stark's, it's just us out there."

he knows tony is right, of course he is. he forgets how vulnerable you actually are because you're always so strong. riding home with happy may take longer than peter wants it to, but it's safer for you. he needs to think about your best interest. putting other things first caused all of this in the first place.

if peter had found you earlier instead of finishing the fight, maybe he would have been able to get you help sooner. maybe you wouldn't be in this bad of a condition.

"i’m sorry, tony. i’m really, really sorry."

"no biggie, i get it. you're just looking out for her."

"no, that's the problem. i wasn't."

"what're you talking about?"

peter can't hold back his tears any longer.

"i wasn't there when y/n got hurt. it must've happened when we separated. when i found her, she... she was already like this."

"hey, kid. don't do that, don't blame yourself. you didn't know."

"i could've known if i paid more attention. i could've heard, or... or maybe she said something."

peter avoids tony's gaze, too ashamed to look at him, and too guilty to look at you.

"everyone gets caught up, pete. hell, you know i do. but you know what? you're here for y/n now, and we're taking care of her. that's what matters."

"you mean, you're not mad at me?"

tony surprises him by outstretching an arm and pulling him into a side hug. peter manages a small smile, wiping at his watery eyes.

"do i seem mad?"

"guess not. thanks."

tony pats him on the shoulder.

"time to go. happy'll be here any minute."

"okay, i’ll go ahead of you guys so you can see where you're going."

peter starts to collect your things while your dad helps you up. you're disoriented, head pounding, and you stumble a bit because you don't quite have your balance. tony is quick to catch you.

"easy, y/n/n. you're alright, yeah?"

"i want peter."

"he's right here, just leading the way. i’m gonna help you."

"no, i want peter."

peter's heart clenches. he looks to your dad for permission.

"alright, parker. i'll trade you. but be careful, she's precious cargo."

tony lets go of you, but he stays close just in case. he takes your things from peter. you fling yourself into peter's arms, hiding your face in the space between his neck and shoulder. peter hugs you to his chest. tony smiles at peter and nods in approval, making peter smile back.

"i got you," peter coos. "are you gonna need help walking, or you got it?"

"i dunno, i'm dizzy. carry me?"

"sure, baby."

peter picks you up bridal style, one arm secured under you and the other supporting your head. you loosely wrap your arms around his neck.

"can you stay with me when we get there?"

peter kisses the side of your head lightly.

"i’m not going anywhere."

tags (join my new taglist!)

@spidermans-gf @sacharinee @thollandsgirl2013 @pettypeety

#peter parker angst #peter parker fluff #peter parker fic #peter parker fanfiction #peter parker imagine #peter parker writing #peter parker x reader #peter parker x stark!reader #tom holland angst #tom holland fluff #tom holland x reader #tom holland x you #tom holland writing #tom holland fic #tom holland fanfiction #peter parker x you

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romanscoming · 1 year ago

Note

Love your stranger things work!! 🤤😍

PLEASE MAKE A MARVEL OR SPIDERMAN TWT LINKS PLZ 🙏🏻🙏🏻🙏🏻

MERRY CHRISTMAS 2 YOU ALL <3 !

MARVEL - PORN LINKS !

VOL. 1 - [ MALE ~ !PART1 ]

NEW TAGLIST | REQUEST | WATTPAD

SEND REQUESTS &MAKE SURE TO DO THE TAGLIST !!

INCLUDES: Thor Odinson, Peter Parker { TOM & ANDREW }, Steve Rogers `Captain America, Tony Stark `Iron Man, Dr. Stephen Strange, Loki Laufeyson, Eddie Brock/Vemon, Bucky Barnes, Bruce Banner/Hulk (MORE IF REQUESTED)

WARNING: these are links that contain porn, sexual activities.. so be aware.

——

↣ THOR ODINSON

THOR feels like heaven when u ride him .

THOR loves it when you worship him to beyonce <3 !

THOR pounds inside of u in the closet next to the meeting room .

THOR like some wild shii, and ur just here for it .

↣ PETER PARKER

PETER always wanted to eat you out, and you finally let him .

PETER1 & PETER2 both came too help u release some stress .

PETER doesn't like u teasing him at school, so he fucks u at home.. long and hard

PETER failed his mission, and needs you .

↣ STEVE ROGERS

STEVE loves it when you use him as your person dildo .

STEVE loves ur special halloween costume he even fucks u in it .

STEVE is madly in love with your tight little pussy, he wants to cum inside u and fill u all the way up all the time .

STEVE can fuck you all night long, he doesn't care.. he js needs you wants u and has to feel ur insides, he wants your legs shaking and everything inside of u.

↣ TONY STARK

TONY will fuck you anywhere in the avengers hq, he doesn't give a fuck .

TONY will never let u bath in peace, u have to be full of his cock .

TONY special bday present, he's been dying for this .

TONY breeds you full, not letting a single one of his kids fall out of ur prefect pussy hole .

↣ DR. STEPHEN STRANGE

DR. STRANGE find u in the kitchen and place u on to his dick .

DR. STRANGE loves the feeling of their cum spill inside of u .

DR. STRANGE wants u to jerk him off and keep eye contact .

DR. STRANGE can't keep his hands off of u when ur riding him sooo good .

↣ EDDIE BROCK / VEMON

EDDIE is a real softy when your on top of him .

EDDIE randomly pops in at your apartment and fucks u brainless standing up .

EDDIE & VEMON always take care of u, ur their little baby and fuck toy .

EDDIE/VEMON has u bouncing babbling and more on his dick .

↣ LOKI LAUFEYSON

LOKI has been mad all day, & what's better than release all his anger out on u ?

LOKI always wants it raw, as soon as u wait up, as soon as your home.. anywhere.

LOKI thinks he should start punishing you more after this .

LOKI has to fill u up with his cum before leaving on a mission .

↣ BUCKY BARNES

BUCKY has attachment issue.. he has to show u that he loves u and he has to be close by u, he has to b deep inside u .

BUCKY does not play with it comes to creampies and backshots .

BUCKY doesn't think u can handle him, so u show him u can .

BUCKY will never stop breeding u, ur gonna b his little momma someday .

↣ BRUCE BANNER / HULK

BRUCE always lets u take control, because your is prefect girl ^^ .

HULKS dick straight in ur cunt, over and over and over .

BRUCE wants u bouncing on his dick while natasha watches and help .

BRUCE gets a promotion and wants u to make u happy .

| SORRY FOR NOT POSTING, I'VE BEEN REALLY BUSY BUT IM HERE NOW, AND ILL B FEEDIN U PUMPKINS <3.

~ BE PREPARED FOR A LOT OF P LINKS BECAUASE I HAVE A COMPLE OF REQUESTS FOR THEM, AND FEEL FREE TO REQUEST ONE OF ANY FANDOM !!

` ILL START THE TAGLIST SOON IT JS MAKES ME NERVOUS FOR SOME REASON !

IF ANY MISTAKES OR ERRORS PLEASE LET ME KNOW !

©️ trustynjaay

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hurtspideyparker · 7 months ago

Text

I have so many oneshots that I would love to finish up for you all but I'm back in school so I've been SO busy. I have a job, a practicum, and uni classes. I have no free time man, I write one sentence of dialogue then fall asleep lol.

If anyone wants to chat in my asks, reblogs... wherever, then I can probs reply and do some shorter drabbles! or you can just yell at me on anon (politely >:l ) to get to work lol

Just know I'm trying and I miss writing 😭

#personal #marvel mcu #irondad and spiderson #avengers #i have so many wips that are so closeeee but I just dont have the time for the final scenes #a really cool morgan stark and peter one #a tony centric domestic avengers where everyone takes care of tony #my non divorce civil war timeline part 3 ppl are asking for that's almost done #tony stark #peter parker

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irondadmadlads · 2 months ago

Text

Irondad Prompt #271:

Tony, taking care of sick!Peter: Water, tea, soup, meds, blankets, tv… do you need anything else?

Peter, half awake: A billion dollars!

Tony: Okay-

Peter: WAIT MR. STARK NO!

#iron man #irondad #peter parker #tony stark #irondad and spiderson #spiderson #irondad prompts #spider man #irondad and spiderson prompts #spiderson prompts

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motherofdogs1010 · 4 months ago

Text

Guys Not My Age I (Peter Parker x Reader)

Summary: They say sometimes older men are better when it comes to relationships, but Y/N finds that isn't always the case when she wakes up in bed with a certain younger man after breaking up with a certain Winter Soldier

Warning: 18+ only, age gap relationship, older woman/younger man!, everyone is over 18!, fratboy!Peter Parker, cheater!Bucky, computergenius!reader, hacker!reader, toxicex!Bucky, consensual sex, semi public sex, heavy smut, drinking, swearing, unprotected sex, eventual pregnancy

A/N: Re-write of 'Need to Know'

Series Masterlist

Banner @vase-of-lilies Dividers @firefly-graphics

Her head throbbed and pulsated as she begun to wake up.

The overall shittyness of a hangover taking over her body as the loud, blarming phone alarm rung hard in her ears as she groaned. She buried her face into the pillow as she felt movement coming from next to her, immediate confusion filling her mind as she heard, "Shit, sorry. Forgot that I had the stupid alarm on."

She recognized that voice even with it being laced with grogginess and sleep as she snapped open her eyes, wincing from the daylight that peeked over the curtains.

She was met with an unfamiliar room that looked like the standard college dorm: books and notes in an slight mess on the desk with a laptop hanging by it, posters on the walls and the distinct sound of boys laughing and footsteps coming down the halls.

Turning her head, her eyes widened as the memories of the previous night filled her as she resisted to gulp as she was met with the shirtless image of Peter fiddling with his phone.

The memories of the night before felt like a tidal wave washing over her as she remembered having gone out to drinks with the Avengers team to celebrate their latest takedown of yet another Hydra compound (she handled hacking into the tightly encrypted computers) and she knew Tony had partly also wanted to take her out to get her back out onto the dating scene.

She watched as Peter scratched his head for a moment, seemingly beginning to wake back up as she came to the realization of her naked body under the blanket and the realization of her memories being confirmed as she saw a glimpse of the scratches on Peter's back.

Sitting up as she tugged up the blanket, she wondered how the hell she was suppose to do a walk of shame out of her as Peter said, "anyway, want to get breakfast?"

"What?"

Peter tilted his head a little, "want to get breakfast? I thought since we were getting along so well..."

The ache between her legs from last night a reminder of how well they got along.

It wasn't like she didn't enjoy it or anything, but it was the realization that she had slept with someone nearly ten years younger than her.

"Peter, I'm-"

"I know. You're 30 and I'm 21, I don't care." Peter shrugged and she couldn't help but get distracted by his strong physique. "I told you I don't want a girl my age, I've wanted you."

It made her heart clench at statement.

"All I'm asking for is you take a chance", Peter pleaded, bringing their lips into a soft kiss.

It made her melt.

"Fine. One chance."

Peter grinned.

"But I refuse to be seen by a bunch of frat boys so you better make sure they clear out of here. I'm too old to be dealing with that."

"You're barely 30, no even that old."

Y/N downed the shot of tequila that Tony had passed her, laughing as she felt the burn in her throat and hearing Tony cheering. Say what you want about Tony, but he knew how to party as he had taken them to some nightclub that he bought for shits and giggles.

"Enjoying the burn", Tony teased, Y/N laughed.

"It's the tequila sweats that I hate", she said back.

Standing up from the little VIP booth Tony had rented for them all, Y/N scoped out her surroundings. She saw Nat dragging a bashful Steve to the dance floor, Steve was awkwardly moving around before he finally got the hang of it and began dancing with Nat. Y/N laughed as she watched Steve get down on the dance floor, she spotted Vision (who had his human form on) with Wanda near the bar as Wanda was getting another drink.

"Are you having fun?"

Y/N looked in the direction to see Peter standing there with a grin, Y/N smiled back at him.

"I wondered where you were", Y/N responded, "I always forget your 21."

"My baby face makes it that way", Peter joked.

Y/N had to admit, Peter Parker was a very attractive man, especially right now with his hair gelled back, a white button down that had the sleeves rolled up and dark slacks. Tony said Peter had changed a lot since high school, having managed to join a fraternity in his first year of college; she had only met Peter in the last year so hearing that he was anything but confident before was a little shocking since he walked around like a little mini Tony sometimes.

Peter moved a little closer to her as Tony announced that he was going to join Wanda at the bar.

Sam and Clint were missing, both men having taken some time off to go visit their families, especially for Sam since he wanted to be there for one of his nephew's birthdays.

Although, the person that everyone seemed to ignore that wasn't there was a certain Winter Soldier, but it seemed everyone was on the rocks with the man at the moment. But cheating and immediately bringing around the girl you cheated with will do that, won't it?

Of course that was the second main reason behind Tony bringing nearly all of them out to the club was because of her confiding in Tony about being ready to get back out there. She felt no issue confiding in Tony considering how close of friends they were, she was coming out in his upcoming wedding to Pepper in just a few months time.

"It's a cute baby face", Y/N teased, Peter chuckled.

"I'm glad you're having fun", Peter said, "you deserve it."

Y/N smiled as she tugged up the neckline of her red mini dress, the fabric clinging to her large breasts and hips. It was an off the shoulder dress that she chose just for the occasion with long sleeves and paired with some red bottoms that Nat was letting her borrow.

Y/N watched as Peter looked a bit indecisive as if he was second guessing himself before he blurted out, "Would you like to dance?"

"Don't you think you should be dancing with someone your own age?" she teased before Peter snaked a toned arm around her waist.

"Age is just a number, right?" Peter answered with a wink. "When it comes to two consenting adults, of course."

She wouldn't be an idiot to say she hadn't noticed the younger man's eyes roaming her figure. But she never thought much of it considering she had been in a relationship with Bucky, but that bridge was burned a lot time ago.

She was here to have fun, dance a little, drink... there was no harm in just a dance, right?

"Alright, Spiderboy", Y/N said, "show me what you got."

Wanna know what it's like (like) Baby, show me what it's like (like) I don't really got no type (type) I just wanna fuck all night

The sound of Doja Cat singing could be heard even in the women's restroom, the door locked in a rush as Peter pressed her harder into said door. Their tongues dancing across one another as she could taste the alcohol on his tongue, Y/N moaned as Peter slotted his knee between her legs, pressing against her wet cunt and beginning to rock her hips against him.

But Peter pulled his knee away and she whimpered, breaking the kiss for a moment before she felt one of his hands trail under her dress, finding her thong.

"You're soaked", Peter teased, she shuddered as Peter ran a finger down her slit. "I bet I could slid right in."

As if that was his cue, Peter slid a finger into her, Y/N let her head fall into Peter's chest as he slowly began to pump his finger in her.

"Don't tease", she moaned as she brought his face down to hers.

What's your size? (Size) Add, subtract, divide ('vide) Daddy don't throw no curves (curves) Hold up, I'm goin' wide (wide) We could just start at ten (ten) Then we can go to five (five) I don't play with my pen (pen) I mean what I write

She connected their lips again as Peter slid another finger into, fingering her harder now as he began to rub her clit in tight circles. Y/N cried out at the sensations as she rocked her hips in time with Peter's movements.

Peter began to trail kisses down her neck as her eyes rolled back into her head, her mouth falling open as pants escaped her mouth.

"Fuck you're beautiful", Peter said as he quickened his fingers. "Come on, Y/N, cum on me."

Y/N felt like she was in the Twilight Zone right now, but fuck it, she was enjoying it with the way Peter was fingering her. She could feel that tight knot building in her as Peter's fingers reached an area in her that made her nearly tear up in pleasure, his fingers practically massaging it as she began to tug on his hair as her toes began to curl.

"P-Peter", she panted, "gonna...cum..."

She saw Peter grin in satisfaction as her orgasm hit her like a freight train. She felt breathless and fuzzy as Peter fingered her through it before she whimpered at the overstimulation, which Peter pulled his fingers out.

"Still think I should find someone my own age?" Peter teased, she narrowed her eyes as she panted.

Peter slid his fingers into his mouth and sucked on them.

"I always knew you'd taste sweet", Peter said as she reached for his belt buckle.

Peter brought a hand up, squishing her cheeks together and forcing her lips into a pout; he pressed a sloppy kiss to her lips as she successfully managed to get unzip Peter's slacks, slipping her hand inside to begin to tease the younger man in front of her.

"Now, you wanna be a tease?" Peter groaned as he began to move her to one of the many sinks in the bathroom.

I just can't help but be sexual (whoa) Tell me your schedule (yeah) I got a lotta new tricks for you, baby Just sayin' I'm flexible (I will) I do what I can to get you off (I will)

Peter had gotten her on the sink, legs spread and her thong stuffed in one of his pockets as he began to rock into her. Her eyes rolling into the back of her head as she felt Peter hike up her leg on him higher, sending him into deeper territory and brushing up against her G-spot as he began to rub her clit in time with his rocking.

"P-Peter", she slurred, eyes beginning to water from pleasure.

"Fuck, you're squeezing me so good", Peter whined as he gripped the sink below her.

His thrusts becoming rougher as he buried his face in the crook of her neck.

Might just fuck him with my makeup on (I will) Eat it like I need an apron on (yeah, ay) Eat it 'til I need to change my thong (yeah, ay) We could do it to your favorite song (yeah, ay)

Her makeup was ruined, she was sure of it from the amount of kissing, sweat and tears. Y/N shivered as Peter bite down on a part of her neck, making her clench around her even tighter and causing him to let out more groans of pleasure, his hips slapping into her even rougher.

The sound of skin slapping skin rung in bathroom, echoing off the walls as she brought Peter's face back to her own, smashing their lips together as she squealed when her second orgasm hit her, her legs shaking and back arching.

You're exciting, boy, come find me Your eyes told me, "Girl, come ride me" Fuck that feeling both us fighting Could he try me? (Yeah) mmm, most likely

She had pushed Peter onto one of the toilets in the bathroom, his dick red and leaking when she had straddled him before sinking down onto him. Y/N shivered as she felt Peter stretching her out again and she knew she was going to be feeling him the next day as she moaned and threw her head back at the delicious stretch his cock gave her cunt again.

Peter gripped her hips before grabbing her ass and smacking it, she pulled her face towards his, connecting their lips as she begun to rock her hips.

Oh, wait, you a fan of the magic? Poof, pussy like an Alakazam (yeah) I heard from a friend of a friend That that dick was a ten out of ten

She could someone knocking on the door, but she could care less right with Peter buried so deep inside her as his hands that gripped her hips so tightly began to help rock her.

Baby, I need to know, mmm

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~🕷️🕸️💻~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Sometimes Y/N wondered what Peter had been like before he went to Empire State and joined his fraternity, and in this moment as they sat across from one another at one of the on-campus cafes, she figured maybe this might have been it with how he fidgeted a little.

"Nervous?" she mused, "this was your idea."

"I can't be nervous on a date with a pretty girl?" Peter remarked and she chuckled.

"Not after last night." Peter grinned and ran a hand through his fluffy, chocolate brown hair. "Besides, this isn't a date. This is you trying to convince me why I should go on a date with you."

"Sorry, it's just... I've liked you for awhile, but I didn't say anything because-"

"Because of Bucky?"

Peter looked down sheepishly and Y/N reached over to grasp his hand.

"And then when you two broke up, I didn't think it would be right to tell you because of how everything went down."

"You're doing a lot better than he did", Y/N said. "I appreciate that you waited, Peter. That's really sweet of you."

Peter grinned a boyish grin that Y/N couldn't help, but replicate back at him.

She had agreed to a date with Peter.

In the back of her mind, she couldn't help but think of the thoughts that others might have with her being seen with Peter. She examined her face in the mirror, trying to see if she had any wrinkles, age-related blemishes and sighed.

"You look stressed." Slightly startled, Y/N turned around to find Nat standing the doorway of her room with a curious look on her face.

"Just a little."

"Where are you off to? Hot date tonight?" Nat asked with a grin.

"About that", Y/N trailed off, looking at her outfit.

A white, blue-floral printed dress that cinched at the waist and was off the shoulder adorned her body with her keeping her makeup clean and simple, and her face loose and away from her face.

"Who's the lucky person?"

"Peter."

Nat was silent for a moment as Y/N felt the pit of anxiety in her stomach at the thought of her friend's judgement before Nat said, "well damn, didn't think the kid had the balls to make a move."

"What?" Y/N asked as she went to grab a pair of platform sandals.

"Anyone would working sense could tell the kid was eyeing your ass all the time", Nat nonchalantly said with a shrug. "Don't tell you didn't notice?"

"I noticed", Y/N defended, slipping her feet into the shoes. "I just thought it was because he was young."

"I also take it that you were with him when you disappeared from the club?"

Y/N's eyes widened as she looked away before Nat let out a laugh.

"Damn, you have to tell me all the details when you get back", Nat teased. "But I'm glad you're getting back out there again."

"You don't think it's weird? With me being older than Peter?"

"If men in their sixties can date women young enough to be their daughters, why can't you go on a date with a younger guy?" Nat shrugged.

Y/N gave Nat a smile and sucked in a breath.

"So, how do I look?" Y/N asked, posing for a moment.

"Like Parker will most likely fuck the shit out of you."

"Perfect."

Peter texted her not too long after that he had arrived and in an air of her favorite perfume, she met him out in the living room of the compound.

A sense of satisfaction fell over her as she noticed Peter's eyes raking over her body as she took in his appearance. His hair slightly gelled away from his face, a white button down shirt and black slacks framed his body.

They were alone in the living room, a rare event since the space always had at least one person present but apparently not today.

"You look amazing", Peter complimented, stretching out his hand and grasping hers.

He gently pulled her towards him as his eyes hungrily stared into hers.

"Thank you", she said with a small smirk. "I thought you'd enjoy this. Never worn it before."

Lost in their own world, they never noticed a certain figure hanging around the corner, seething as he watched Peter met her lips in a soft kiss.

His metal hand clenching into a fist as he turned away, fuming at the sight before him.

TAGLIST

@theoraekenslover

#reader insert #x reader #chubby reader #spiderman #mcu!peter parker x reader #peter parker series #peter parker x you #peter parker x reader #peter parker smut #peter parker #tom holland #tom holland x reader #tom holland x you #tom holland imagine

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skygemspeaks · 1 month ago

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marvel universe dashboard simulator: spideytorch ship war edition

🤟 spideyparktorchtruther Follow

🕷️ spideyslut22468

god i'm so fucking tired of hearing about johnny fucking storm's love life. it's always spideytorch this, stormparker that, and now i have to deal with this new monstrosity of a ship? have we considered maybe leaving them alone? these are real ass people, why are you even shipping them anyways? go find some anime twinks to thirst over

4,235 notes

🧟 avgnwyrkr Follow

so anyways i still haven't stopped thinking about that one tiktok where the person saw spider-man chilling eating a hot dog one day and went up to him to ask him what he thought about peter parker and it was so obvious the person was trying to start some drama or whatever but instead spidey just apparently went on for like ten minutes about how awesome peter parker is and how good he is at photography and how smart he is and how they've been friends for like ten years

guys, what if we've been wrong all along? what if spidey really isn't in love with johnny? what if he's in love with peter instead?

😏 shutterbugsupremacy Follow

that's what i've been saying!! i mean guys? peter parker is LITERALLY the only photographer that spidey ever allows to get proper photos of him? he's been taking photos of spidey since he was in high school! he literally put out a photobook that was entirely pictures of spider-man.

🕷️ spideyslut22468

y'all are reaching so hard i'm surprised you haven't pulled a muscle. if parker was really in love with spidey would he have sold his pictures to a newspaper that does nothing but slander spider-man's good name? from what i've heard, jjj pays parker pretty well for his spider-man photos. he's not taking pictures of spidey out of love or anything, it's all just for money. same with the book. he's a sellout.

😏 shutterbugsupremacy Follow

hey man, we all gotta eat somehow, and spidey has said in the past that he doesn't care about parker working for the bugle. also, see above about the video where spidey talks about how awesome parker is. maybe you need to cool your jets, yeah?

🕷️ spideyslut22468

spider-man has been friends with johnny storm literally since the fantastic four came onto the superhero scene, obviously he's gonna play nice when asked about his best friend's long-term boyfriend regardless of how he actually feels about parker. y'all are just looking for signs where there aren't any.

345 notes

🥰 stormparkerownsmysoul

look, i know that we've all had our differences in the past, but let us not think about what sets us apart, but rather what brings us all together.

16,345 notes

❎ superheroshipbrackets

310 notes

❤️‍🔥 spideytorchendgame Follow

me talking to anyone that will listen about my theory that peter parker is just a beard for johnny storm to help keep his actual relationship with spider-man a secret

❤️‍🔥 spideytorchendgame Follow

like guys just hear me out okay? spider-man obviously wouldn't want his real identity to be well known to the public, and publicly dating johnny would put him at constant risk of being found out. so that's why they have johnny fake date peter parker! he's the perfect candidate! i mean, we all know he has ties to, like, a ridiculous number of superheroes. he's worked for both reed richards and tony stark, and people have snapped pics of him hanging out with captain america and deadpool. he's even been spotted with daredevil and daredevil hates everyone! so him dating johnny wouldn't really put him at any more danger of being targeted by villains than he was already in. and what's in it for peter? i mean, he gets to live in the baxter building (he probably has his own secret apartment and doesn't actually live with johnny) and probably gets a bunch of expensive gifts and stuff to compensate for all the shit he has to put up with for being johnny's partner.

2,463 notes

#guys can you tell i had way too much fun with this #spideytorch #spider-man #peter parker #johnny storm #human torch #unreality #fake dashboard #dash simulator #marvel #long post

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spideyson-stuff · 2 months ago

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I'm not the biggest fan of this topic but, Peter being SASSY!

*Flash and Peter during a study session*

Flash: You and Ned are far too close Parker, that's gay

Petet: Funny hear that from the guy who looks that would PURPOSELY drop the soap in prison

Flash: 😨

*Ned looking at Peter after Peter was stabbed during patrol*

Ned: OMG Peter, you're bleeding!

Peter: Oh, you just realize that?

*Tony giving Peter a moral lesson lecture*

Tony: Peter, being a hero is dangerous, you need to be extremely careful

Peter: Big talk for someone that revealed his address in live on national television

Tony:

Tony: I can't even argue with that...

*Peter completely silent on the way to the tower with Happy*

Happy: Okay this is getting unbearable, say something!

Peter:

Happy: Was something I did!?

Peter:

Happy: PLEASE ANSWER ME!

Peter, taking off the headphones he had on from the beginning: You said something?

Happy:

Happy: Well-, uh, I-

Peter: Just kidding, I heard it all

Happy: YOU-

Peter: HAHAHA! SUFFER!!! 😈

#peter parker #sassy #tony stark #ned leeds #flash thompson #happy hogan #peter parker headcanon #headcannons #incorrect marvel quotes #incorrect quotes #meme #marvel mcu #mcu

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urdreamydoodles · 22 days ago

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MARVEL COMICS CHARACTERS X FEM!READER

You are extremely physically affectionate towards your lover

Peter Parker (Spider-Man)

- Peter Parker was not used to this. The easy touches, the warmth of your hand against his, the way you leaned into him as if gravity itself was pulling you closer. He had spent so much of his life keeping a careful distance, making sure the people he loved never got too close—because close meant vulnerable, and vulnerable meant loss. But you? You never seemed to care about the dangers or the excuses. You curled into his side when he sat on the couch, laced your fingers through his when you walked together, kissed him just because you felt like it. And Peter—awkward, hesitant Peter—was utterly helpless against you.

- At first, he didn’t know what to do with it. The first time you pressed your face into the crook of his neck while he worked on his web-shooters, he short-circuited so hard he nearly ruined the entire mechanism. "Uh—babe? Not that I’m complaining, but—is this a thing? Are we doing this now? Oh, we are doing this now. Okay. Cool. No problem. Just—uh, gimme a sec to process." But you never waited for permission. You just kept touching him—soft, constant, reassuring—until eventually, he stopped questioning it and started needing it.

- The first time he realized just how much he needed it was after a particularly brutal night. A fight that left his body aching and his mind even worse. He barely made it through the window before you were there, wrapping yourself around him like you knew. And suddenly, everything that had been clawing at him—the guilt, the exhaustion, the loneliness—dissolved. He didn’t say a word. He just held you tighter, buried his face in your hair, and breathed.

- Now, Peter craves it like oxygen. He reaches for you before he even realizes it—pulling you against him in his sleep, hooking an arm around your waist as he scrolls through his phone, nudging his nose against yours just because he can. The world is cruel, unpredictable, dangerous—but your touch? Your warmth? That is something Peter Parker will never take for granted.

Tony Stark (Iron Man)

- Tony Stark was a man who built walls. Not the kind that crumbled easily under the weight of kind words and patient gestures—no, his were reinforced, designed to keep people out. He had spent years perfecting the art of distance, of making sure no one got too close. But you? You were different. You didn’t knock on the door, waiting for permission—you climbed right over the walls, landed in his space, and stayed. With your hands, your lips, your unwavering need to touch him, to hold him, to remind him that he was not alone.

- At first, it was… jarring. Tony was used to attention, yes, but not this kind. Not the kind that wasn’t expecting something in return. The first time you hugged him—just because—you felt the way his body went rigid, the way his hands hovered awkwardly before settling on your back. "Wow. This is… new. Okay. Hugs. We’re hugging. Cool, cool, cool. No existential crisis here." But you never relented. You pressed into his side when he worked late, kissed the back of his neck when he got lost in his own head, traced absentminded patterns into his palm during meetings. And Tony? He found himself melting into it before he even realized what was happening.

- The real turning point came one night when he woke up gasping, his chest tight, his mind drowning in memories that refused to stay buried. He didn’t even have to reach for you—you were already there, pulling him close, pressing soft kisses against his shoulder, grounding him with your touch. "I’m here," you murmured against his skin, and Tony Stark—genius, billionaire, survivor—broke. He clung to you like a lifeline, burying himself in your warmth, letting himself be held in a way he had never allowed before.

- Now, he seeks it out. He’ll act like he doesn’t, make some snarky remark about "needy girlfriends", but the second you stop touching him? He’s pulling you back in, draping himself over you like the most dramatic man alive. "Hey, where do you think you’re going? My affection quota isn’t filled yet." And if anyone so much as thinks about commenting on it? He just smirks, pulls you even closer, and says, "Jealous? You should be."

Steve Rogers (Captain America)

- Steve Rogers was a man out of time, a soldier who had spent most of his life with his fists clenched, his mind trained to endure. He was not accustomed to softness, to indulgence, to the kind of affection that did not come with conditions. And yet—here you were. Always reaching for him, always pressing close, always reminding him that he was yours. You kissed the inside of his wrist like it was sacred, ran your fingers through his hair when he let himself relax, curled against his chest like you belonged there. And the truth was? You did.

- At first, he didn’t know what to do with it. The first time you wrapped your arms around him from behind, he went stiff, his body tensing as if bracing for an attack. But when you simply hummed, resting your head against his back, something in him unraveled. He exhaled—slow, steady—before covering your hands with his. And that was the moment he realized—this was not something to fear. This was something to cherish.

- The first time he sought it out was after a particularly difficult mission. The kind that left blood on his hands and ghosts in his mind. He came home, exhausted, battered, but the moment you reached for him—he melted. He let himself sink into your arms, let himself need you in a way he rarely allowed himself to. And when you whispered, "I’ve got you," he closed his eyes and believed it.

- Now, it’s second nature. He reaches for you without thinking—pulling you into his lap when you’re both reading, brushing his knuckles against your cheek as he passes by, resting his hand on the small of your back whenever you’re near. Affection is not something he was raised to expect, but with you? With you, it is something he will never stop craving.

Thor

- Thor Odinson is a man of grand gestures, of roaring laughter and earth-shaking love. But when it comes to you—his affection is not just thunderous, but constant. He adores the way you reach for him without hesitation, the way your hands find his in quiet moments, the way your touch lingers as if you cannot bear to be apart for too long. And oh, how he thrives under it.

- The first time you showered him in affection, he grinned—wide, bright, eager. "Ah! My love, you are truly as radiant as the stars!" He embraced you effortlessly, lifting you into the air, delighting in the way you laughed against his chest. He was never one for restraint—if you wanted to touch him, to hold him, to kiss him senseless—he would let you. Encourage you. Because there was nothing Thor loved more than being loved.

- But it was the quiet moments that truly undid him. When you curled against him after a battle, your fingers tracing over his scars. When you pressed sleepy kisses to his shoulder before drifting off. When you simply held his face in your hands, looking at him like he was more than just a god, more than just a warrior. Like he was yours. And in those moments, Thor Odinson—Prince of Asgard, champion of realms—felt human.

- Now, he craves it like a force of nature. He pulls you into his lap without warning, presses lingering kisses to your forehead, wraps his arms around you so tightly you can feel the strength in them. If anyone dares to comment, he simply laughs, throwing an arm around you with a smirk. "Jealous, are we? Ah, but who could blame you? My beloved is irresistible!" Because to Thor, your love is not just something he accepts—it is something he reveres.

Loki

- Loki was not accustomed to tenderness. Affection, in his experience, had always been fleeting—given only in exchange for something, laced with expectation, or worse, manipulation. But you? You gave without asking. You touched without hesitation. Your fingers traced the sharp lines of his face as if he were something to be studied, not feared. You kissed his knuckles absentmindedly, tangled your fingers in his hair, rested your head against his shoulder as if it were the most natural thing in the world. And Loki—cunning, guarded, untouchable—let you.

- At first, he did not know what to do with it. The first time you cupped his face in your hands, he had gone utterly still, his breath caught between his ribs, waiting for the inevitable trick, the hidden knife. But all you did was smile, tracing the delicate skin beneath his eyes as if he were precious. As if he were yours. And something in him—something ancient, something wounded—cracked apart.

- He is not a man who gives easily, but when he does, he gives completely. Now, Loki seeks your touch like a starving thing—leaning into your warmth as you press against his side, pulling you into his lap without a word, letting your hands wander over him as if to prove he is real. He teases, of course—"Darling, do you find me so irresistible that you cannot keep your hands to yourself?"—but his voice is softer than it should be, his hands tightening against yours as if begging you never to stop.

- And if anyone so much as questions it? If they dare to call him weak for the way he melts beneath your hands? He merely smirks, his arm curling around your waist as he whispers, "Ah, but love, what better trick is there than to make the gods themselves fall to their knees?"

Clint Barton (Hawkeye)

- Clint Barton had spent a lifetime watching his back, expecting the worst. He was not used to gentle hands, to soft embraces that did not come with conditions or an ulterior motive. He had lived his life running—always moving, always fighting, never letting anyone get too close. And then you happened. You, with your touch that lingered like a second heartbeat. You, with your hands that grounded him when the world spun too fast. You, who reached for him not because you needed something, but simply because you wanted him.

- At first, he brushed it off with humor. The first time you reached for him—grabbing his hand absentmindedly, brushing your lips against his temple—he raised a brow, smirking. "Wow, you just can’t help yourself, huh?" But then he noticed the way he relaxed under your touch. The way the tension in his shoulders eased when you pressed a hand against his back. The way his pulse slowed when your fingers traced lazy circles against his skin. And suddenly, it wasn’t funny anymore—it was necessary.

- He never asks for it outright—he’s too stubborn for that—but you start noticing the way he lingers. The way he moves closer without realizing it. The way his fingers brush against yours just a little too long before he actually grabs your hand. And when you finally call him on it—"Clint, you like this."—he just huffs, rolling his eyes. "Yeah, yeah, don’t get a big head about it." But his grip on you tightens. Because for all his bravado, he’s never letting this go.

- Now, he doesn’t even try to fight it. He pulls you against him when you’re standing still too long, rests his chin on your shoulder, tugs you into his lap with a grin. If anyone makes a comment, he just shrugs. "What? She’s warm." And if you ever stop touching him? If you deny him affection? He’ll groan dramatically, throwing himself onto the nearest surface. "Babe, please. I’m literally dying. Have some mercy."

Natasha Romanoff (Black Widow)

- Natasha Romanoff was not built for softness. She was trained to endure, to resist, to survive—but not to need. Affection had always been a tool, a weapon to be wielded when necessary, but never something meant for her. So when you came along—when you touched her so easily, so freely—she did not know what to do with it. The first time you hugged her, without hesitation, without purpose, she had simply frozen.

- It wasn’t that she didn’t want it—God, she ached for it—but want was dangerous. Want could be exploited. So she told herself it was nothing, that it didn’t matter. But then it kept happening. You would take her hand absentmindedly, lean into her warmth without hesitation, press a kiss to her shoulder just because you could. And she—cold, untouchable Natasha—let you.

- The first time she reached for you, it was barely noticeable—a hand on your waist, a finger brushing against yours. But once she let herself have it, she couldn’t stop. Now, she seeks it. She won’t ask, won’t say a word, but if you sit beside her without touching her, she will fix it. A hand on your knee. A foot nudging against yours. A quiet, steady reminder that she is here. That you are hers.

- And if anyone so much as mentions it? She raises a brow, her expression unreadable. "What? You think I don’t deserve nice things?" Because Natasha Romanoff may not have been made for love, but with you? With you, she is relearning what it means to have it.

Bucky Barnes (Winter Soldier)

- Bucky Barnes was a man starved of warmth. For so long, his body had belonged to everyone but him. He had been touched in violence, in control, in suffering—but never in love. Never in a way that asked for nothing. And then there was you. You, with your gentle hands and your stubborn refusal to let go. You, who traced the lines of his palm as if mapping a constellation, who pressed kisses against the cold metal of his arm as if it were worthy of tenderness. You, who reached for him as if he were not something broken.

- At first, he flinched. Not because he didn’t want it, but because he didn’t know how to take it. The first time you pressed your forehead against his, he nearly pulled away. But then you sighed—soft, content—as if this was normal, as if he was normal. And he… let it happen. Just this once.

- But once was never enough. He started to crave it, to need it. Now, he is the one reaching for you—pulling you closer in the middle of the night, pressing his nose into your hair, grounding himself in you. If you so much as walk by, he is grabbing your wrist, tugging you into his lap, resting his chin against your shoulder. He doesn’t ask for it—he just takes it. Because after years of being denied choice, of being denied himself, this is something he chooses.

- And if anyone dares to comment on how much he clings to you? He just gives them a slow, dangerous smile. "You got a problem with the way I love my girl?" Because Bucky Barnes has lost too much already—he will not lose this. He will not lose you.

Matthew Murdock (Daredevil)

- Matthew Murdock feels you before you even touch him. Your presence wraps around him like a second skin, the scent of you lingers in the air, the warmth of your body radiates inches away. He hears the tiny shifts in your heartbeat before your fingers even graze his skin, the way it quickens ever so slightly before you reach for him. And he loves it—craves it. He is a man made of contradictions, torn between faith and sin, violence and tenderness. But you? You are the one indulgence he does not seek penance for.

- He drinks in every touch like a dying man. Your fingers threading through his hair, the press of your lips against his jaw, the way you trace patterns over his scars as if rewriting his past with something softer. He does not flinch, does not pull away—no, he leans into it, into you. Because for all the things he has lost, all the things he has chosen to lose, this—you—he will hold onto with both hands.

- He lets you guide him in ways he never allows anyone else. You tilt his chin up before pressing a kiss to his lips, brush your nose against his as if memorizing him in your own way. He revels in it, in the way you seek him, the way your affection comes without hesitation. He doesn’t have to ask, doesn’t have to reach—because you are always there, grounding him, holding him together when the weight of his double life threatens to break him apart.

- And if anyone ever dares to call it weakness? If they think for one second that loving you makes him soft? He only smirks, tilting his head. “You think I don’t know exactly how lucky I am?” His fingers tighten around yours, thumb brushing against your wrist where your pulse beats steady beneath his touch. “I’d rather be a fool in love than a man without her.”

Frank Castle (Punisher)

- Frank Castle is not a man built for softness. His hands are meant for war, his body carved from violence, his heart a thing long since buried beneath grief and blood. But then there’s you. You, who touch him with something gentle, something that does not demand or take or wound. Your fingers ghost over his scars as if rewriting history, your hands linger on his shoulders as if reminding him that he is still here. Still alive. Still worthy of being touched.

- He does not know what to do with it at first. The first time you reached for him—cupped his face, pressed your lips to his temple—he went rigid. Not out of fear, but out of something worse. Because he had forgotten what it felt like. Forgotten the weight of tenderness, the way affection could seep into a man’s bones and soften him. And Frank Castle does not do soft.

- But then you kept doing it. You never hesitated, never recoiled from him, never asked before reaching for him as if you knew he needed it before he even did. And soon, he began to crave it. Now, his hands find yours before you even offer them. His arm wraps around your waist instinctively, tugging you close, keeping you there. And when he buries his face in your neck after a long night, when his hands grip your hips like a man desperate to hold on, he does not speak—but you know. You know.

- If anyone ever dares to question why the Punisher—a man feared, a man unstoppable—allows himself to melt beneath your hands? He only levels them with a look that could kill. "You think love makes a man weak? Love is the only thing that ever made me fight harder." And then, without hesitation, he pulls you into his arms, presses a kiss to your forehead, and lets the world watch.

Bullseye (Lester)

- Bullseye is a man who takes. He is selfish, greedy, unapologetic in his desires. He is a man who was never given love, who was never taught tenderness. So when you give it to him—freely, without hesitation—it both amuses and terrifies him. You, with your hands always reaching for him. You, with your lips that press against his skin like a promise. You, who touch him not with fear, not with reverence, but with something even more dangerous—affection.

- He lets you do it, of course. Hell, he wants you to do it. He soaks up every touch like an addict chasing his next hit. Your fingers in his hair, your nails scraping down his back, your lips trailing over his scars like a silent claim. He thrives on it, thrives on the way you never shy away, never flinch, never hesitate. It’s a game to him at first—seeing how far he can push you, how much you’re willing to give. But then? Then it becomes something else. Something real.

- He doesn’t like to admit it, but he gets jealous. Not in the way most men do—no, his jealousy is something sharper, something deadly. If someone so much as looks at you too long, if they think they can take what is his, he makes it known that you belong to him. Not with words—words are useless—but with a smirk, a hand curling around your throat just to feel your pulse race beneath his fingers, a kiss so possessive that it leaves bruises.

- And if anyone questions why he allows himself to be loved? Why he lets himself have this? He only grins, something sharp and cruel. “Why wouldn’t I? You ever seen what happens when I want something?” His grip on you tightens, his lips brushing against your ear as he adds, “And trust me, baby—I want you.”

Marc Spector (Moon Knight)

- Marc Spector does not believe in good things lasting. He has lived too many lives, worn too many faces, bled for too many gods to believe in permanence. He is a man who knows how to fight, how to kill, how to survive—but not how to be loved. And yet, here you are. Always touching him, always pulling him closer, always reminding him that he is yours.

- He doesn’t know how to handle it at first. The first time you brushed your fingers across his jaw, he flinched. Not because he didn’t want it—but because he did. And wanting was dangerous. Wanting meant losing. But you were patient. You never pushed, never demanded—just gave. And little by little, he let you in.

- Now? Now he is desperate for it. If he wakes up in the middle of the night, his hands seek you out before his mind even catches up. If he is spiraling, if the weight of his past is too much, he finds solace in your arms, in the press of your lips against his knuckles, in the way you hold him without needing a reason. You ground him. You keep him whole.

- And if anyone ever thinks that loving you makes him weaker? That your touch somehow softens him? He only chuckles, dark and low. “You think love makes a man weak?” His arm tightens around your waist, his grip steady, unyielding. “No, love makes a man dangerous. Because now? Now I have something worth fighting for.”

Taskmaster (Tony Masters)

- Taskmaster is a man of reflexes, of calculation, of knowing before it happens. He has memorized a thousand different ways to break a man apart, has studied movement until it is nothing more than muscle memory. And yet, when it comes to you, all of his instincts—his sharp, honed precision—fail him. Because how does one prepare for you? For the way you reach for him without hesitation, for the way your fingers trace the edge of his mask before pushing it away so you can kiss the scarred skin beneath?

- He doesn’t flinch, but he stiffens—not out of rejection, but out of unfamiliarity. He is a man who has lived in the shadows, who has worn a thousand faces but never his own. But you? You do not want his skills, his talents, his ability to mimic the perfect kill. No, you want him, the man beneath the mask, the one no one else has ever bothered to know. And that is something he cannot prepare for.

- At first, he makes it a game—testing you, pushing you, waiting for you to hesitate. But you never do. Your hands are steady, your touch unwavering. You press kisses to his scars as if rewriting the story of how they got there. You run your fingers through his hair like it is something precious, something yours. And slowly, without realizing it, he starts to crave it. Now, if you pull away first, if your touch is missing for even a second too long, he misses it.

- And if anyone so much as questions why Taskmaster—a man feared, a man whose skill is his everything—allows you to touch him so freely? He only smirks beneath his mask, tilting his head. "Because she's the only thing in this world I don’t want to copy—I just want her to be mine.”

Johnny Storm (Human Torch)

- Johnny Storm is made of fire, of heat, of something too wild to be tamed. He burns bright, so bright, and yet—when you touch him—it does not hurt. He does not let it. You press your fingers to his cheek, and the flames simmer beneath your touch. Your lips graze his jaw, and he melts into you, his hands pulling you close, always close, as if the space between you is unbearable.

- He thrives on your affection. It fuels him like oxygen to a fire, makes him burn hotter, makes him alive. If you so much as brush against him in passing, his arm is already wrapping around your waist, tugging you back into him. If you lean against him while watching TV, he is grinning, burying his face in your hair, breathing you in. He is insatiable—not because he needs it, but because he wants it. Wants you.

- And oh, he flaunts it. If someone so much as looks at him the wrong way, he is already pulling you onto his lap, already pressing his lips to your shoulder with a smirk. “Yeah, she’s mine. You jealous?” It is playful, teasing—but underneath it, there is something real, something desperate. Because Johnny Storm has always been adored, has always had fans, admirers, women who wanted the Human Torch. But you? You want Johnny, and that is something he will never take for granted.

- And if anyone thinks that love, that you, make him less? That your touch somehow dims his fire? He only laughs, shaking his head. “You kidding? Love doesn’t make me burn out. Love makes me burn brighter.” And with that, he kisses you—claims you—right there in front of the world, because there is nothing about you he will ever hide.

Reed Richards (Mister Fantastic)

- Reed Richards is a man of science, of logic, of problems waiting to be solved. He is not one for frivolous things, for unnecessary distractions. And yet—you. You, with your hands that reach for him so easily. You, with your lips that press to his temple as he works, with your fingers that thread through his hair when he has been at his desk for too long. You, who has become something he cannot simply explain, cannot analyze, because love—true, deep love—is not something that fits within the confines of logic.

- At first, he does not know what to do with it. He stiffens when you wrap your arms around him from behind, hesitates when you take his hand in yours. But he is a quick learner. Soon, his fingers find yours before you even offer them. Soon, when you rest your head against his shoulder, he leans into you rather than away. And soon, he realizes that your touch is not a distraction—it is a necessity.

- You do not take offense when he loses himself in his work—you understand him, understand that his mind is constantly moving, constantly racing. And because of that, he makes an effort for you. He sets his tools aside when you tug at his sleeve, lets you press your forehead against his, lets you pull him into your world of warmth and touch and feeling. And over time, he begins to crave it, begins to seek it out rather than wait for you to give it.

- And if anyone assumes that the great Mr. Fantastic has no time for something as simple as love? He only adjusts his glasses, his fingers lacing with yours as he responds, "On the contrary, love is the greatest equation of all.” And then, without hesitation, he kisses you—not because it is logical, but because it is right.

Ben Grimm (The Thing)

- Ben Grimm is a man made of stone, of rough edges, of a body that was never meant to be touched. He has spent years pulling away, avoiding the weight of hands that might recoil, of fingers that might fear what he has become. But you? You never hesitate. Your hands find his without hesitation, your fingers trace the lines of his knuckles, your lips press against his jaw as if he is not a man made of stone but of something softer.

- At first, he tells you not to. “You don’t gotta do that, doll.” His voice is gruff, edged with something bitter, something vulnerable. But you only smile, only brush your fingers along his arm like it is the easiest thing in the world. And suddenly, he does not feel like a thing anymore. Suddenly, he is Ben again, just Ben, a man who is still worthy of love, of touch, of you.

- Now? Now, he needs it. Needs the weight of your arms around his waist, needs your hand in his, needs your touch to remind him that he is still here, still whole. And when you kiss him, when you cradle his face in your hands as if he is precious, he swears he could crumble beneath you. Because you see him, not the rock, not the monster, just him.

- And if anyone dares to look at you with pity, to question why you love a man like him? He only chuckles, low and deep, before wrapping his arms around you with something possessive, something sure. “She ain’t with me ‘cause she has to be. She’s with me ‘cause she wants to be.” And as you press another kiss to his lips, he knows—without a doubt—that he is the luckiest man alive.

Susan Storm (Invisible Woman)

- Susan Storm is a woman of poise, of quiet strength, of hands that have shielded the ones she loves more times than she can count. She is used to being the protector, the one who stands between the world and those she cares for. But you—you do not let her bear it alone. You reach for her, fingers brushing over hers, and for the first time in too long, she lets herself be held instead of holding the weight of everything else.

- You are a woman of touch, and at first, it surprises her. Not because she does not crave it, but because she has learned to go without. To be soft is a risk, to be vulnerable is a danger—but when you press your lips to her temple, when you pull her into your arms without hesitation, she melts. She had forgotten what it was to be touched without expectation, without urgency. With you, she remembers.

- Your affection is not a distraction—it is an anchor. When she returns from battle, weary from holding up her force fields for too long, you are there, guiding her to rest with a hand at the small of her back. When she loses herself in thought, in planning, in the weight of responsibility, you remind her that she does not have to be invisible to herself. Your touch pulls her back, reminds her that she is not alone.

- And when you reach for her in public, when you lace your fingers through hers in the presence of others, she does not pull away. No, she holds on tighter. Because love is not something to be hidden—not anymore. And when someone asks her if she ever tires of your endless affection, she only smiles, pressing a kiss to your knuckles as she whispers, "Never."

Felicia Hardy (Black Cat)

- Felicia Hardy is a woman of thrill, of quick escapes, of stolen jewels and stolen hearts. She has spent her life slipping through fingers, never staying in one place for too long. Love is a game to her, a dance she has always led. And yet—when it is you reaching for her, when it is you pressing kisses to her bare shoulder, when it is you curling against her at night—she does not run.

- You are soft in a way she has never trusted, yet she trusts you with something more valuable than any diamond—her time. Your hands are never idle when you are near her, always tracing patterns along her skin, always pulling her close, always grounding her. And though she will never admit it, she is addicted to it. Addicted to you. Addicted to the way you stay when she has spent her life learning how to leave.

- She teases you for it, of course. "You just can't get enough of me, can you?" she purrs, her voice all silk and mischief. But then you press your forehead to hers, then you kiss her like she is precious, and suddenly, she is the one gasping, the one holding onto you. Love has never been something she let herself have, but with you, she realizes she does not have to steal it—it is already hers.

- And if anyone dares to question why the infamous Black Cat allows herself to be caught in your arms so easily, she only laughs, wrapping herself around you like she has never belonged anywhere else. "Oh, sweetheart," she purrs, pressing a kiss to your jaw, "I'm exactly where I want to be."

Stephen Strange (Doctor Strange)

- Stephen Strange is a man of logic, of precision, of a mind that once thought itself above something as frivolous as love. He has wielded power beyond comprehension, seen realities beyond this one, and yet you—you and your endless touches, your unwavering affection—are the greatest mystery of all.

- You do not ask for permission to touch him; you simply do. You brush a hand over his shoulders as he studies ancient texts, you trace the lines of his scars when he is lost in thought. And at first, he stiffens beneath it, unaccustomed to being handled with such care. But you do not stop. You do not pull away. And so, little by little, he begins to lean into it.

- Now, when you curl against him in the quiet moments between battles, he is the one seeking you out, the one pulling you closer, the one pressing a silent kiss to your wrist as if to mark you as his. He will never admit how much he needs it, how much he needs you, but his actions speak louder than his pride. He has faced countless enemies, battled forces beyond mortal comprehension, but losing you? That is the one fate he refuses to allow.

- And when others look at him, the great Sorcerer Supreme, and wonder how someone so untouchable could belong so wholly to you, he only smirks, wrapping his cloak around your shoulders as he murmurs, "Even magic has its weaknesses. She just happens to be mine."

Namor

- Namor is a king, a warrior, a god among men. He has ruled beneath the waves, commanded armies, and stood against the greatest forces this world has ever known. He bows to no one. And yet, when you reach for him, when your fingers trace the sharp lines of his jaw, when your lips press against his skin like he is something sacred—he does not pull away.

- You are unlike anyone he has ever known. Where others fear his power, you cradle it in your hands, unafraid, unshaken. You touch him as if he is not a king, not a god, but a man. And though he will never say it outright, it unravels him. No battle, no war, no enemy has ever undone him the way your fingertips grazing his collarbone does.

- At first, he treats it as a privilege—something you are lucky to have. But then, you stop one day, pulling away just slightly, and it is only then that he realizes—it is he who has been privileged all along. He who needs you. Now, when you touch him, when you press yourself against him, his hands are already reaching, already holding you tighter, as if daring the world to take you from him.

- And if anyone so much as questions why the mighty Namor allows himself to be so utterly devoted to your touch, his response is simple. He lifts his chin, his grip on your waist tightening as he declares, "Because she is mine. And a king does not let go of what is his."

Johnny Blaze (Ghost Rider)

- Johnny Blaze has spent a lifetime running—from the past, from the fire inside him, from the weight of every sin he has burned to ash. He does not get to have softness, does not get to have something good—or so he has always believed. But you—you and your hands that never hesitate to touch him, to hold him, to pull him back from the flames—you make him question that.

- Your fingers trace the scars along his arms, the burns that never truly fade, and instead of flinching, you press your lips to them. He is not used to being handled like this, like he is something worthy of tenderness. And yet, you do it so effortlessly, so naturally, that he forgets how to breathe every time you do.

- When the Ghost Rider takes hold, when his body is consumed by Hellfire, you do not step away—you reach through it. Your touch grounds him, pulls him from the abyss, reminds him that he is more than a cursed soul wrapped in leather and chains. And though he will never say it aloud, he knows—if there is any salvation left for him, it is you.

- And if anyone dares to question why the Spirit of Vengeance allows himself to be so weak beneath your touch, he only smirks, pulling you into his arms, his voice a low growl against your ear. "Weak? Nah, sweetheart. You’re just the only thing worth holding onto."

Eddie Brock / Venom

- Eddie Brock is a man who has spent his life being unwanted—by his father, by society, by the world that cast him aside the moment he fell. Venom is a creature that has known nothing but hunger, a parasite by design, a monster in the eyes of humanity. But you—you reach for them both like they are something to be loved, and neither of them knows how to handle it.

- Your hands never hesitate. You stroke Eddie’s jaw when he grits his teeth, your fingers slipping into his hair like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Venom, in turn, coils around you, tendrils wrapping over your shoulders, tracing your cheek. "She is ours," the symbiote purrs, delighted, possessive. And Eddie, for once in his life, does not argue.

- Eddie is gruff about it, muttering things like "You’re clingy as hell, you know that?" but his actions betray him. He leans into your touch every damn time, closes his eyes when you kiss his temple, sighs when you pull him into your embrace. Venom is far less subtle, practically preening under your affection, slithering around you, murmuring about how perfect you are, how deliciously devoted you must be to them.

- And when people stare—when they whisper about how strange it is that someone so soft belongs to someone so monstrous—Eddie only smirks, wrapping an arm around you as Venom’s voice hums inside his head. "Let ‘em talk," he says, pressing a kiss to your forehead. "They don’t get it. But we do."

T’Challa (Black Panther)

- T’Challa is a king, a warrior, a mind sharpened by strategy, a body honed for battle. He moves through life with precision, with grace, with an unwavering sense of duty. Love, affection—these are things he appreciates, but never allows to distract him. And yet you—you slip through the cracks in his armor with every touch, every embrace, every kiss pressed to the back of his hand when you think no one is watching.

- Your touch is not demanding, nor is it fleeting—it is a constant, an unspoken declaration. And though he does not say it aloud, he finds himself seeking it, needing it. A hand at his shoulder when he is lost in thought. A brush of fingers along his wrist when he is tense. A silent, grounding presence when the weight of Wakanda, of the world, threatens to press too heavily upon him.

- When you curl against him at night, when you lace your fingers through his as he works, when you press your lips to his in a moment of quiet devotion—he knows, without question, that you are not merely his lover. You are his home. And for a man who has spent his life fighting for his people, for his throne, for his legacy—you are the one thing he fights for himself.

- And when others bow in reverence to their king, when they wonder how a ruler so composed allows himself to be touched so freely, he only smiles, his fingers tracing the curve of your jaw as he murmurs, "Because even a king is a man. And a man must cherish what is his."

Elektra Natchios

- Elektra Natchios is a weapon, a blade honed to perfection, a shadow in the night that moves without hesitation. She does not need touch, does not crave affection—at least, that is what she has always told herself. But you—you with your hands that never hesitate to reach for her, your lips that press against every scar she has earned—you make her question everything.

- At first, she resists. Your touch is a distraction, a weakness she cannot afford. But then, she notices the way her body relaxes under your fingertips, the way her breath slows when you hold her, the way her mind quiets when you run your fingers through her hair. And suddenly, it is not a weakness—it is a lifeline.

- You touch her like she is not just a weapon, not just a killer, but a woman. And though she does not say it, though she still carries herself like she is untouchable, her actions betray her. She leans into you when no one is looking, she lets you hold her after a fight, she lets you love her without condition. And that—more than any battle, more than any war—is the most terrifying thing she has ever faced.

- And if anyone dares to suggest that the infamous Elektra Natchios has softened under your touch, she only smiles—a sharp, knowing thing. Because she has not softened. No, she has simply found something she is willing to kill for. And that, she thinks as she curls her fingers around yours, is far more dangerous.

Muse

- Muse does not understand softness, not in the way others do. He sees the world in smears of red, in the curve of a scream, in the way the city bleeds its stories onto concrete. He is an artist first, a killer second, and something unnameable in between. Affection is not in his vocabulary—at least, not until you start tracing patterns into his skin, your fingers ghosting over his ribs, your lips pressing against his jaw like a whisper of devotion.

- He does not react at first. He merely watches, blank eyes reflecting nothing but the shapes of your hands as they roam over him. You touch him as if he is something real, something worthy of being held, and it confuses him. But confusion does not stop him from leaning into it. He lets you press against him, lets your warmth seep into the cold spaces inside him, and though he does not speak, he feels—feels the way your touch lingers, the way it changes him.

- Your touch is a contradiction to everything he is, a stark contrast to the violence that drips from his hands. And yet, he craves it. Craves you. He does not say it, does not know how to say it, but he shows it in the way he lets you near when no one else is allowed, in the way he allows your fingers to wipe the wet paint from his face, in the way he follows your warmth like a moth drawn to flame.

- And when people whisper, when they wonder why someone like you chooses someone like him, he only tilts his head, an eerie smile curling at his lips. Because they do not understand—they do not see the art in your touch, the poetry in your fingertips, the masterpiece you paint onto the canvas of his skin. But he does. He always does.

Victor von Doom (Dr. Doom)

- Doom does not yield. Doom does not bow. Doom does not allow weakness, nor does he tolerate sentimentality. And yet, when your hands rest against his armored chest, when your lips press against the cold steel of his mask, he hesitates. Not out of reluctance—but because you dare to touch him as though he is human, as though he is something beyond the monarch, beyond the mind, beyond the mask.

- At first, he dismisses it. You are simply fascinated, drawn to power as all are. But then, your fingers curl against his bare skin when the armor is removed, when his defenses are lowered, and he feels it. It is not awe, nor is it fear—it is something else, something dangerous. Affection. Devotion. Love. And he does not know what to do with it.

- You do not shrink from him, do not recoil from the scars, from the weight of his name, from the sheer gravity of his presence. Instead, you pull him closer, your warmth pressing into his bones, your touch unraveling the careful control he has spent years perfecting. And Doom, for all his brilliance, for all his power, finds himself undone by something as simple as your hands upon his skin.

- And if anyone dares to question your place at his side, dares to suggest that Doom has been tamed, they do not live long enough to repeat the mistake. Because Doom does not bend—but for you, for your touch, for the impossible gift of your warmth—he allows himself to be held.

Peter Quill (Star-Lord)

- Peter Quill has always been a man of touch. A hand on the shoulder, an arm around the waist, a flirtatious brush of fingers—it is second nature to him. But you—you take it to another level. You reach for him constantly, threading your fingers through his hair, tugging him into embraces, pressing kisses to his cheek just because you can. And at first, he thinks, Yeah, okay, this is nice.

- But then he realizes—this isn’t just casual affection. This isn’t just something fun. It’s you—you, who touch him like he is real, like he is worthy, like he is more than just a scrappy thief with a playlist and a knack for getting into trouble. You hold him with intent, with meaning, and it wrecks him.

- There are moments, quiet ones, where he doesn’t crack a joke, doesn’t fill the silence with music or sarcasm. He just lets you touch him—lets you brush your fingers over the stubble on his jaw, lets you trace the curve of his lips with your thumb, lets you pull him into your warmth until he forgets where his body ends and yours begins.

- And when the crew teases him, when Rocket smirks and Gamora raises an eyebrow, Peter only grins, pulling you closer with a laugh. "What can I say? I’m a lucky guy." But later, when it’s just the two of you, when your hands are pressed against his chest and your heartbeat matches his, he knows—it’s not luck. It’s you. And he’s not letting go.

Nova (Richard Rider)

- Richard Rider has spent a lifetime holding the line—for the galaxy, for his people, for everyone who has ever needed a hero. He is used to the weight of duty, of responsibility, of battle. What he is not used to is someone holding him. But you? You are relentless. You pull him into hugs without warning, lace your fingers through his, press kisses to the scars he’s earned in wars too many to count.

- He resists at first—not because he doesn’t want it, but because he doesn’t know how to accept it. He’s always been the soldier, the protector, the last man standing. But you refuse to let him carry it alone. You reach for him when his shoulders are tense, press your forehead against his when the weight of the universe sits too heavy on his spine. And slowly, slowly, he learns to lean into it.

- Your touch is an anchor, a reminder that he is more than Nova Prime, more than a warrior bound to the stars. You bring him back—to the moment, to you. And when he finally, finally allows himself to wrap his arms around you in return, to pull you into his chest and just breathe, he realizes—he has been waiting for this his entire life.

- And when the stars call him away, when duty demands he leave once more, he does so with the feeling of your hands still lingering on his skin, with the memory of your warmth wrapped around his soul. And no matter how far he flies, no matter how deep into the void he goes—he knows. He will always come back. Because he is not just Richard Rider, not just Nova. He is yours.

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