#pietro mcu | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

figaroswilson · 4 months ago

Text

𝙡𝙞𝙜𝙝𝙩𝙨𝙥𝙚𝙚𝙙 ⇒ 𝘱𝘪𝘦𝘵𝘳𝘰 𝘮𝘢𝘹𝘪𝘮𝘰𝘧𝘧 𝘹 𝘦𝘹𝘸𝘪𝘯𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘴𝘰𝘭𝘥𝘪𝘦𝘳!𝘰𝘧𝘤

Chapter 4

masterlist

story summary: Kira Barnes, the younger adopted sister of Bucky Barnes, is forced out of the dark underworld of espionage and into the light of the new world of superheroes when her brother abandons her with the Avengers to go on the run. She is set in her ways and determined to find her brother until she meets Pietro Maximoff, someone who challenges her black-and-white view of the world.

story warnings: violence, swearing, blood, descriptions of abuse

chapter word count: 2276

< previous chapter // next chapter >

read on wattpad

~ ✺ ~

The Quinjet was awfully quiet.

There wasn't much to say after what had happened in South Africa. Both the fight at the salvage yard and what the Hulk had done to the nearby city was more than enough to shutdown any conversation. After takeoff, everyone had kept to themselves and now they were all scattered around the aircraft, most either asleep or pretending to be. Only Kira and Clint were up, sitting in the cockpit. Clint because he was piloting and Kira for the view.

She was looking out of her side window. Once, during one of his more lucid moments, Jamie had told her that whenever he couldn't sleep he would go to the Navy Yard and watch how the water glimmered in the moonlight as it lapped up against the dock. The way he described it was like it was one of the most beautiful things he had ever seen. And he was right. The Atlantic was beautiful at night.

Clint had noticed a while ago that Kira wasn't meeting anyone's eye. For someone who would stare into your soul when she talked, it was clear that something was wrong. He decided he should be the one to figure out what and break the silence. Glancing over at her, he asked, quietly so as not to disturb the others, "You alright?"

Kira continued to watch the ocean as she answered him. "I'm not the one who had my head messed with," she replied, just as quietly as he did, avoiding the question.

He realised what she was doing immediately, but decided to play along. "Doesn't matter. I still care about you, Kid."

"Not a kid," Kira joked in return. She really wasn't very good at heart-to-hearts, and definitely was not prepared for one right now. Like usual, she tried to find a way out of it.

"You're like 20 years old," he said. "That's practically a baby."

"I was born in 1935. That's old enough to be your grandma."

"Still a baby."

Kira laughed, shaking her head and tried to change the subject. "Where are we going anyways?"

"You know I know you didn't answer my question. Right, Ki?"

"And you're not answering mine! We're seriously going back to the States? Is that a good idea?"

Clint sighed, dropping the issue for now. "Don't worry. I know a place."

~ ✺ ~

The 'place', it turned out, was a safehouse out in rural Iowa.

A safehouse that was also a farm. Clint's farm. Clint was a farmer.

Kira laughed as Tony's jaw dropped at the revelation. "Not funny, Ki," he mumbled, his eyebrows furrowing in concern, before turning back to Clint. "You've been hiding that you're a farmer from us? How could you?"

"Because you're the most overdramatic person I know, Tony." Clint clapped him on the shoulder. "I thought we already established this," he said, trying, and failing, to hide his smile.

Tony frowned. "Evil man," he mumbled.

The house, though large enough for each of the team to have their own separate rooms, looked like a spec in the middle of the sprawling fields that surrounded it. An old pickup truck and a small pile of firewood lay near a large wooden shed. The place was empty and the nearest neighbours must've been miles away. The entire scene was beautifully still in the morning light, and entirely quiet.

As soon as they got inside, Nat broke off the rest of the group and went straight up the stairs, like she already knew her way around the place. With how close she and Clint were, it made sense; if he was going to tell anyone about a secret house, it would be Nat. He tried his very best to show the rest of the team around the farmhouse, though their awkwardness made it very clear that none of them had ever stepped foot inside one and that no one knew how to be normal about it either.

Kira's thoughts wandered. All she could seem to focus on was how little was currently in her control. The search for Jamie was entirely derailed, she had no way of getting in contact Sam, and the mission she was currently on just seemed to be getting more and more complicated. All she wanted to do was go back to before that damn party, where everything had gone wrong. At the very least, she wanted to let Sam know she was okay.

Logically, she knew none of these thoughts were helpful right now. It was a lot easier said than done, though. She tried her best to put it all out of her head. Tried to pay attention as Thor looked with concern into the nearly empty refrigerator.

Clint looked wildly uncomfortable explaining how difficult it was to get groceries when the closest store was nearly 50 miles away and how much harder it was to keep them fresh when you hardly spent any time at home. Kira tried to help by diverting their attention. "Who's this?" she asked, pointing out an old framed picture of two boys on the window sill in front of the kitchen sink.

"Oh." Clint quickly placed it face down. "No one. Just me, when I was a kid, and— you know. Just a childhood photo," he rushed out.

Odd. She gave him a look. He quickly moved on to showing them their rooms.

~ ✺ ~

Kira mostly avoided the others for the rest of the day.

It wasn't terribly hard. They mostly kept to themselves anyways. Thor had left early on in the day, saying he needed to look for 'answers' with not much else as an explanation. Nat stayed up in her room. Bruce sat quietly in the kitchen, helping Clint out when he needed it, as he tried to put a meal together, and he needed it. Steve and Tony made themselves useful around the house, helping with some of the harder chores, like chopping up firewood.

She had tried to be around the others. At first. Her swarming thoughts quickly stopped that though. It didn't help that she couldn't talk to anyone about it either. Steve was around Tony, Nat was busy isolating herself and Sam was unreachable. Her only other option was to take Nat's approach and isolate herself too, but that wasn't turning out to be a good idea either. The longer the day went on, the longer she had to think herself into a spiral. Slowly, everything started to get too loud and too bright and, eventually, she realised she couldn't quite breathe right. She had to get out of the house.

Kira walked too quickly down the stairs, opened the front door too harshly and took a deep breath. Paused. Let it out. Started walking. Slower than before. She walked till she reached the edge of the property, then walked along the treeline that enclosed it. She walked until she didn't want to anymore. Sat in the shade of a large tree, facing away from the house. Took in the world around her. She tried to do that thing her therapist told her about: clearing her mind. She watched the clouds coming and going. How they always passed. Imagined they were her thoughts. It will pass.

And then, for a long time, she just watched. Birds flittering in the trees. Leaves dancing in the wind. Recently shorn grass, too small to be disturbed. Blue sky becoming tinged with purples and pinks, yellows and oranges. A gentle breeze brushing against her face. Footsteps on hard ground.

"You're not sneaky, Clint," she called out as he approached.

"Not trying to be." He sat down next to her. It was quiet between them for a while, as they watched the sunset.

"It's beautiful out here," Kira whispered, as if the scene in front of her was so delicate that a misspoken word could break it.

"That's why I bought it. You can just... be. Pretend nothing else exists. Clear your head."

She hummed in agreement.

"Of anything, you know," he said in an odd tone. "Like a weird encounter with two annoying 20 year olds—"

"Clint," Kira groaned in annoyance.

"Oh, come on. You can't avoid it forever."

"It's not that important."

"Ki..."

"It's really not! I promise, it's just—"

He gave her a look.

Fine. "It's just that the whole thing was odd. I don't understand why Maximoff didn't try and mess with my head," Kira explained. "I was right there. An easy target. All I had was a gun— same as Nat. And my abilities aren't any more dangerous than Steve's. She even started walking towards me but, then, nothing. They both got this look in their eyes and zoomed off. I mean, can you make any sense of that?"

Clint considered for a second. "Maybe she was too drained."

A look of confusion crossed her face. "Drained?"

He opened his mouth to speak, then stopped himself. Closed it. Considered his words. "You know my taser arrows?" he asked, tentatively.

"You shot her with that?" Kira exclaimed.

"Not exactly."

"Clint..." she said with a warning tone in her voice.

"I may or may not have attached it directly to her head," he rushed out.

"Clint!"

"She wasn't hurt! Promise. Just slightly inconvenienced."

Kira shook her head in disapproval. Then sighed, "It can't have been that anyways, she still messed with Bruce's head after. She was clearly fine. Plus that look, it was less exhaustion, more... fear."

"Huh. Maybe it was your murder face."

"Murder face?" She looked at him incredulously. "You're fucking with me, right?"

"I'm being serious! When you get pissed off at someone, you look like you're plotting their murder. A slow and painful murder. Your murder face!"

Kira laughed at that, though her smile didn't quite reach her eyes.

"It's not just about the twins, is it?"

"Okay, I am not sharing that much. This was more than enough—"

"You don't have to! Promise," Clint interrupted. "We all have to have some secrets."

"Like your picture in the kitchen?"

He nodded.

"And the reason Nat's the only one who knew about this place?"

"I won't ask if you won't. Just... try not to let it get to you too much. Alright? Sometimes the way to do that is to talk about it. Other times it's not. Especially if you're not comfortable. And that's okay too." Then, after a pause, he added, "We should probably get back inside now; it's getting dark. Plus, I have a surprise for you."

~ ✺ ~

"Took you long enough," Fury chastised from the head of the table as they sat down.

The rest of the team was already scattered around the dining room – some seated at the table, others standing. Kira smiled at him as she sat in the chair to his left. She didn't mind a little telling off from the grumpy ex-SHIELD director who had saved her from HYDRA. "Fancy seeing you here," she joked.

"Well, I thought you guys might need a metaphorical kick up the ass."

"Might need an actual one too," Clint mumbled, mostly to himself.

Fury sighed, his brow furrowing. "Ultron really did a number on you folks."

"Gee, thanks," Nat muttered.

"As much as he hates you though," he continued, "he did it to buy himself time. My contacts all say he's building something. The amount of Vibranium he made off with, I don't think it's just one thing."

"What about Ultron himself?" Steve asked from the doorway.

"He's easy to track, he's everywhere," he answered. "The guy's multiplying faster than a Catholic rabbit. Still doesn't help us get an angle on any of his plans though."

"Still going after launch codes?" Tony confirmed.

"Yes, he is, but he's not making any headway."

"I cracked the Pentagon's firewall in high school on a dare."

Fury shook his head, in that tired-of-everyone's-bullshit way of his, at Tony's admission of a federal crime. "Yeah, well, I contacted our friends at the NEXUS about that." At the confused looks that appeared around the table, he explained, "The world internet hub in Oslo. Every byte of data flows through there. Fastest access on earth."

"What'd they say?" Clint asked.

"He's fixated on the missiles, but the codes are constantly being changed."

This piqued Kira's interest. "By who?"

"Parties unknown."

"We have an ally?" she asked.

"Ultron's got an enemy, that's not the same thing," Fury corrected. "Still, I'd pay folding money to know who it is."

"I might need to visit Oslo," Tony said, more thinking out loud than speaking to anyone directly. "Find our 'unknown'."

"Well, this is good times, Boss," Nat interrupted. "But I was kind of hoping when we saw you, you'd have more than that."

"I do, I have you," Fury said. The team looked around at each other, slight looks of disbelief on their faces. They weren't nearly as confident about their chances as they had been before South Africa. Still, he continued. "Back in the day, I had eyes everywhere, ears everywhere else. Now, here we all are, back on earth, with nothing but our wit, and our will to save the world. So stand. Outwit the platinum bastard. He looked at each of them, then asked “What do we know? What does he want?"

"To become better," Steve spoke up, more confident now. "Better than us. He keeps building bodies."

"Person bodies," Tony added. "The human form is inefficient, biologically speaking, we're outmoded. But he keeps coming back to it."

"When you two programmed him to protect the human race, you amazingly failed," Nat sighed, glancing between Tony and Bruce.

"They don't need to be protected." Everyone turned to face the end of the table. It was Bruce, speaking up for the first time since Fury had arrived. Despite addressing everyone in the room, he seemed lost in his thoughts. After a second, he shook himself out of whatever had captured his attention and, in response to the silence that answered him, explained, "Ultron's going to evolve."

"How?" Fury asked.

"Has anyone been in contact with Helen Cho?"

~ ✺ ~

11 notes · View notes

hurtspideyparker · 8 months ago

Text

If Civil War didn't end in divorce and everyone lived together Part 2

Read Part 1 and Part 3

Tony: Why is Underoos mopping the ceiling?

Sam: Told him since he's sticky that's his chore

Bucky: It's only fair he helps out around the house

Tony: Hm. Makes sense

Vision cooked dinner:

Peter: *pushing around food to make it look eaten*

Natasha: *surreptitiously spitting into napkin*

Steve: *taking small bites with tons of water*

Bucky: *just stares at full plate*

Tony: Well this is disgusting, I'm ordering pizza

Sam: C'mon man stop moping around, you gotta get yourself a girl

Bucky: Ok.

Sam: Ok? Okayyyyy! I know-

Bucky: Give me your phone

Sam: Oh you got a number in mind already hotshot? *hands phone over*

Bucky: *ring* Hi Sarah ;)

Sam: BOY-

Peter: Ned thought you would seperate your colours from your lights but he also thought you'd be homophobic so I don't pay him much mind cuz clearly I'm more of a superhero expert than him but he does have a 2% better average than me in history so like maybe you do hand wash your clothes and that's why I asked what underwear you wear because-

Steve: *listening intently with apprehension and alarm*

Natasha: I can't believe you found the one person on Earth who talks more nonsense than you

Tony: I know right, it's incredibly unnerving. I'm planning on adopting him

Peter: Mr. Stark I have to tell you something. I think Vision is a... *whispers* pervert

Tony: Um, why?

Peter: He keeps floating through my room without knocking! He saw me changing, he saw my nipples !

Tony: Well if anyone's a predator here it would be you. I mean showing your nipples to a 2 year old? Deplorable.

Peter:

Peter: Oh god, I'm the pervert...

Bucky: Y'know animosity isn't good between teammates. I think we should spend more time together

Sam: Am I being punked right now? Where's the camera

Bucky: I'm serious. I think it would be healthy for us to bond

Sam: Okay fine I'll bite... what did you have in mind

Bucky: Wanna go for a run?

Sam: *slams door in Bucky's face*

*staring at Bucky's sparkly clean metal arm*

Bucky: Dishwasher?

Peter: Dishwasher :)

(later that day)

Bucky: I've decided to let the child live

Peter: YoU wHaT?!

Thwip

Tony: Who took my coffee cup, It was right here

Thwip

Bruce: Um, has someone seen my book? I just had it

Thwip

Steve: I could've sworn I was holding a pen a moment ago

*giggling from the ceiling*

Tony: Young man I will take those webshooters away if you use them for shenanigans and rascality

Peter, muffled: Mr. Hawkeye told me to!

Clint: Oh so you're just gonna rat me out like that?

Peter: Sor- OOF

*falls out of ceiling vent*

Sam: You're in my spot

Bucky: There are no spots, it's a common area

Sam: Well that's my spot

Bucky: Did you buy the chair??

Sam: No, but everyone knows that's where I sit. Right Steve?

Steve: Oops I forgot something in my car, be right back *leaves*

Sam: Still my spot

Bucky: Still not

Sam: *sits on him*

Bucky: WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU ALL THE COUCHES ARE FREE-

Sam: IT'S MY SPOT YOU CAN'T TAKE A MAN'S FAVOURITE CHAIR-

BUCKY: YOU HAVE ISSUES GET OFF ME-

(one hour later)

Steve: Hey so turns out I don't have a car! Isn't that funn...

Sam & Bucky: *Squeezed awkwardly on the chair together*

Steve: I think I left something in my car

Steve: Leave the bedroom door open when you have Vision in there

Wanda: UGH you're so protective

Tony: Teenagers, am I right? Caught Pete reassembling my particle accelerator at midnight because he needed to neutralize a miniature nuclear bomb he nabbed off some guy he neglected to tell me was trying to kill him

Steve:

Steve: Wanda y'know what do whatever you want

Wanda: Really?

Steve: Yes just keep being normal. At least I can read about our issues in a parenting book

Thor: Ah, new warriors I see! Good to make all your acquaintance. But why are you so grumpy my friend?

Bucky: *glaring*

Peter: He's always like that. It's um, P- P- PMS? Wait -

Natasha: Yes it's PMS

Wanda: He's got it bad

Steve: *genuinely concerned* Bucky you didn't tell me something was wrong. What can I do to help?

Bucky:

Bucky: I like chocolate

Wanda: Welcome to the first annual girls night! This place reeks of men, so I thought we needed some women time

Pepper: Why is Vision here?

Wanda: I get sad when he's gone

Natasha: Why is Pietro here?

Pietro: Slay queens

Wanda: Moral support I think

Maria: Why is Peter here?

Wanda: He looked really upset when I said he wasn't included and I felt bad

Wanda: Anyways... yay girls! Who wants me to paint their nails?

Peter: ME ME ME

Steve: Pancakes or waffles?

Natasha: Pancakes

Steve: Good because I don't have a waffle maker

Natasha: Then why would you ask-

Steve: It's important for your voice to be heard, as team leader I value your opinion

*2 minutes later*

Steve: Good morning Clint, pancakes or waffles?

Clint: Waffles

Steve: Oh no.

Some of these were based on requests (ex. more Sam & Bucky, dad Steve w/ Wanda) so if you have certain dynamics you enjoy let me know !

5K notes · View notes

darealsaltysam · 5 months ago

Text

hey tumblr. you should read my xmen fic. the second chapter just came out. this image tells you all you need to know about the plot. thanks <3

2K notes · View notes

urdreamydoodles · 11 days ago

Note

Hi hi!! Hope your day’s going well!!

I adore the krakoa headcanons you have for the x-men, how willing would you be to do something similar for mcu characters?? Idk if there’s an equivalent though, if not it’s no problem ❤️

MCU CHARACTERS X FEM!READER

A year after your death, you are resurrected and reunited with your lover

Characters: Tony Stark, Steve Rogers, Natasha Romanoff, Bruce Banner, Clint Barton, Bucky Barnes, Sam Wilson, Peter Parker (Tom H.), Stephen Strange, Thor Odinson, Loki Laufeyson, T'Challa, Marc Spector, Steven Grant, Jake Lockley, Scott Lang, Wade Wilson, Logan Howlett, Matt Murdock, Frank Castle, Benjamin "Dex" Poindexter, Wanda Maximoff, Pietro Maximoff & Erik Lehnsherr

Requests are reopened since I'm going to have surgery for my scoliosis...yes, it's bad news, it's a major operation, so I need your requests to feel better. PLEASE SEND ME REQUEST. I don't have surgery for another four months so I have plenty of time since I'm at home! I can't wait to see all your ideas, I LOVE YOU <3

Tony Stark

- Tony Stark, the man who could build a new world with his hands but could not stop them from shaking when they lost you. He spent a year in ruins, laughing too loudly at parties that could not fill the silence you left behind, drowning in half-finished projects where your ghost lingered in the curve of every wire. He never stopped talking about you—not to his friends, not to himself, not to the night. You were the equation he could not solve, the loss he could not engineer his way out of.

- When he sees you again, standing in the flickering light of his workshop, the wrench in his hand slips, clattering to the floor. He doesn’t move, doesn’t breathe. His mind, sharp as ever, gives him ten different explanations, each more impossible than the last, but his heart—his battered, grieving heart—gives him only one. “Tell me I’m dreaming,” he says, voice hoarse, because the alternative is something he cannot afford to believe.

- And then you speak, and the walls he built to keep himself from shattering crumble in an instant. He is across the room before he knows it, hands gripping your arms, your face, tracing the proof of you. The ache in his chest is unbearable, but not from pain—it is the sheer weight of having you again. “They told me I was crazy,” he murmurs against your lips, against your skin. “Guess they were right.”

- You are back, but time has moved without you, carving deeper lines into Tony’s face, dulling the arrogance that once carried him like armor. He watches you like you might disappear again, fingers always brushing your wrist, your hip, the pulse at your throat. He doesn’t sleep much—he never did—but now, when you wake in the night, he is already awake, watching the rise and fall of your breath as if it is the only thing tethering him to reality.

- He brings you everywhere, makes no excuses for it. “My ghost, my rules,” he says when someone questions it. He builds new suits and doesn’t let you out of his sight, not when danger is near, not when a single misstep could take you away again. He has never been a man who believed in second chances, but for you, he will believe in anything.

- The world thinks he is Iron Man, but you know the truth: Tony Stark is just a man who loved and lost and refused to let death win. He holds you like a miracle, like proof that he was right to fight for the impossible. And for the first time in a long time, he is not afraid.

Steve Rogers

- Steve Rogers has always known loss—has carried it like a second skin, worn it like a name he could never leave behind. But losing you was different. It was not the cold silence of the ice, nor the distant ache of time slipping through his fingers. It was immediate, brutal. It was your blood on his hands, your last breath against his cheek. A year passed, and he carried on because that was what he did, because that was what you would have wanted. But he stopped looking at sunsets. Stopped drinking coffee the way you used to make it. Stopped believing that the world could ever feel warm again.

- When he sees you again, standing in the doorway of the safe house, the shield strapped to his back feels heavier than ever. His breath catches, his heart stumbles, and for a moment, he wonders if this is some cruel trick played by an enemy who knows exactly where to cut him open. But then your lips part, and you say his name, and the sound of it is like the first breath after drowning.

- He moves toward you slowly, hesitantly, as if one wrong step will shatter the illusion. His hands hover over your face, your shoulders, trembling with the unbearable need to touch, to feel, to know. And when you don’t disappear, when you are warm and real beneath his fingers, something inside him breaks. His arms crush you to him, his breath shaking as he buries his face in your hair. He is crying, but he doesn’t care. “I held you,” he whispers. “I held you.”

- After that, he does not let you go. The world calls him Captain America, but to you, he is just Steve—the man who wakes up in the middle of the night just to press his forehead against yours, the man whose grip tightens every time you reach for his hand, as if to reassure himself that you are not a dream. He does not know how to make peace with this miracle, so he does not try. He simply loves you harder, holds you closer, refuses to waste a second of the time he was so cruelly robbed of.

- He is more protective now, but it is not the suffocating kind. It is the quiet, steadfast kind, the way he always positions himself between you and an open door, the way he memorizes the sound of your breathing while you sleep. He does not speak of the past year unless you ask, but when you do, the grief in his eyes is something ancient, something that will never fully fade.

- Steve Rogers has always carried the weight of the world, but with you beside him, it is lighter. You are proof that even after all the battles, all the sacrifices, the universe still has kindness left to give. And he will spend the rest of his life earning it.

Natasha Romanoff

- Natasha Romanoff has survived on borrowed time for as long as she can remember. She has lost, she has bled, she has walked away from battlefields without looking back. But losing you was different. It was the one wound that did not heal, the one loss she could not turn into fuel. She did not cry. Did not speak of you. She simply moved forward, faster, harder, with reckless abandon—because if she slowed down, even for a second, she would have to feel the hollow space you left behind.

- When she sees you again, standing in the shadows of a dimly lit alley, her knife is in her hand before she even registers what she is seeing. Her body reacts the way it was trained to, but her heart—her traitorous, fragile heart—stutters in her chest. “No,” she breathes, shaking her head as if denying it will make it any less real. “No, I buried you.”

- And then you step closer, into the light, and she sees the familiar curve of your smile, the warmth in your eyes. She drops the knife. It clatters against the pavement, forgotten, as she crosses the space between you in two strides, her hands fisting in the fabric of your jacket. Her lips crash against yours, desperate, searching, as if she can taste the truth in the way you breathe against her mouth.

- After that, she is different. Softer, in ways only you will ever see. She touches you constantly—not in fear, but in reverence. A hand at the small of your back, fingers trailing over your wrist, knuckles brushing against yours as if reminding herself that you are here. The world may question, but Natasha has never cared for the world's judgment. You are hers, and she is yours, and that is all that matters.

- She does not let you fight alone anymore. Not because she doubts your strength, but because she refuses to feel that kind of loss again. She watches you when you sleep, when you move through a room, when you laugh. She memorizes the details she once took for granted—the exact color of your eyes in the morning light, the rhythm of your voice when you call her name.

- Natasha Romanoff has spent a lifetime making peace with ghosts, but you are not one. You are flesh and blood, a heartbeat beneath her palm, a warmth she never thought she would feel again. And this time, she will not let you go.

Bruce Banner

- Grief is not an emotion Bruce Banner can afford. He has spent a lifetime suppressing, locking away the parts of himself that feel too deeply, because feeling too much is dangerous, and losing you nearly ended the world. The Hulk roared in agony that day, the earth itself trembling beneath his wrath, but even in his most furious state, even as he destroyed everything in his path, you were gone. And no amount of strength, no amount of science, could bring you back.

- He stopped fighting after that. Retreated. Isolated himself in a place where no one could see the way his hands trembled when they weren’t balled into fists, where no one could hear him whisper your name like a prayer, a question, a plea. He stopped shifting into the Hulk—not because he was afraid, but because the monster within him had nothing left to fight for. There was only silence, only the ghost of your touch, only the unbearable weight of having lived when you did not.

- So when you return, standing before him in the quiet of his lab, he does not react at first. His mind, trained to doubt, to question, to disassemble and understand, tells him it cannot be real. That the chemicals in his brain are firing incorrectly, that his grief has finally shattered him in a way no transformation ever could. But then you say his name, and it is not just sound—it is gravity, it is a force pulling him from the abyss.

- He crosses the room in a single breath, hands hovering over your face, your shoulders, your waist, unable to trust his own touch. He is afraid to break you, afraid to break himself. And then your fingers slip into his, grounding him, reminding him that this is not a hallucination, not a cruel trick of his subconscious. You are warm, real, here. And just like that, the weight he has carried for a year crumbles to dust.

- After that, he does not leave your side. He watches you sleep, not because he doubts, but because he cannot waste another second of the time he was so certain he had lost. He builds new defenses, new protections, because if death could not keep you, then neither will any enemy foolish enough to try. He teaches himself to trust happiness again, to allow himself to feel, because with you beside him, it is no longer a danger—it is a gift.

- Bruce Banner has always been afraid of his own power, but with you, he is not afraid. He is a man, not just a monster, and for the first time in a long time, he believes in the possibility of a future. A future where he is not alone. A future where he is not running. A future where you, against all odds, are still his.

Clint Barton

- Clint Barton has never been one to dwell. The life he leads does not allow for it—grief is a luxury, mourning a weakness, and the only way to survive is to keep moving. But when he held you in his arms, felt the last shudder of breath against his skin, something inside him shattered. And he did not put the pieces back together. He let them fall, let them burn, let the silence swallow him whole.

- The others saw him continue—heard his sharp wit, watched him loose arrows with deadly precision, saw the same easy smirk that had always been there. But they did not see the empty spaces where you used to be. Did not see the way he avoided the places you had loved, the way he drank in solitude, the way his hands curled into fists whenever someone mentioned your name.

- So when you return—when you step into the dim light of his hideout, when your voice cuts through the silence he has lived in for a year—he does not believe it. He grips the bow at his side, tension in every muscle, because this is a trick, a trap, an illusion designed to destroy him completely. But then you move closer, and the way you look at him—the way only you ever have—makes the doubt in his mind fracture.

- And then he is there, hands gripping your waist, your arms, his forehead pressed to yours as he exhales a breath he did not know he had been holding. He does not ask how, does not ask why. He only pulls you closer, lets himself collapse into the only thing that has ever truly felt like home. His fingers are tight against your skin, unwilling to let go, unwilling to lose you a second time.

- After that, he is different. Lighter, in ways only you will notice. He is still Clint—still sharp, still reckless, still throwing himself into danger without hesitation—but there is a warmth now, a flicker of something that had long been extinguished. He touches you constantly—not in fear, but in reassurance. His hand on the small of your back, his fingers brushing against yours, a quiet, wordless promise that he will not take a second of this for granted.

- Clint Barton has always been a survivor, but he did not truly live until you returned. And now, with you beside him, he has no intention of losing that again. He is yours, wholly and completely, and this time, no force in the universe will take you from him.

Bucky Barnes

- Bucky Barnes knows the taste of loss better than most. He has drowned in it, clawed his way through decades of it, watched everyone he has ever loved slip through his fingers like sand. But losing you was different. Losing you was not the slow, creeping erosion of time. It was a blade to the gut, a wound that never closed, an ache that settled deep in his bones and refused to let go.

- He did not grieve the way others did. He did not cry, did not rage, did not seek solace in memories. He simply stopped. Stopped talking, stopped trying, stopped allowing himself to feel anything at all. Because feeling meant acknowledging the gaping wound your absence had left behind, and that was not something he could survive.

- So when he sees you again, standing in the doorway of his apartment, he does not move. Does not breathe. His mind—trained to expect deception, to anticipate betrayal—tells him this is a trick. But then you step forward, and the way your eyes soften when they meet his, the way your lips part in a quiet whisper of his name, makes the world tilt beneath his feet.

- And then he is there, crossing the space between you with the kind of desperation that only comes from losing something you thought was gone forever. His hands tremble as they frame your face, his breath shuddering as he drinks in the impossible reality of you. He does not trust words, does not trust his voice to hold steady, so he simply presses his forehead to yours, breathing you in, grounding himself in the proof of your existence.

- After that, he does not let you go. He does not speak of the past year, does not tell you how empty it was, how he spent every night staring at the ceiling, waiting for sleep that never came. He only shows you in the way he touches you, in the way he holds you closer at night, in the way his fingers linger on yours as if afraid you might vanish again.

- Bucky Barnes has spent a lifetime being taken, being controlled, being used. But you are the one thing that was his, the one thing that was real, and now that you are here, he will fight for you with everything he has. You are his salvation, his anchor, his second chance at something he never thought he deserved. And this time, he is never letting go.

Sam Wilson

- Grief is a weight Sam Wilson carries well, but carrying it does not mean it is light. It sits in his chest, heavy and unmoving, an ache that never quite fades. Losing you was not a clean wound—it was jagged, raw, a battlefield farewell written in blood and breathless whispers. He held you, watched the life slip from your eyes, and still, somehow, he had to stand up. He had to keep fighting. Because that’s what you would have done. That’s what you would want.

- But wanting and doing are not the same thing. He laughed in public, told stories that made others grin, carried himself with the same easy confidence. But alone? Alone, it was different. He spoke to you sometimes when the night was too quiet, when the wind sounded too much like your voice. He ran until his lungs burned, trying to chase the memory of you, knowing he never really could.

- So when you stand before him, alive, breathing, real, the world does not feel like the one he left behind. His first instinct is denial—a trick, an illusion, a cruel joke played by something with too much power and not enough mercy. But you look at him, and there’s something there, something he recognizes too well. Love. History. You. And suddenly, the weight in his chest is gone.

- He moves before he can think. One step, then two, then his arms are around you, his head buried in your shoulder, a shuddering breath breaking from his lips. His grip is tight—too tight, maybe—but he doesn’t care. He needs to feel you, needs to know this isn’t a dream he’ll wake from. He says your name like it’s the only word he remembers, his voice thick with everything he couldn’t say when you were gone.

- After that, Sam is different. Lighter, freer. He still fights, still leads, still carries the burdens of the world on his back—but he does it with you at his side, and that changes everything. He touches you constantly, a hand on your back, fingers brushing against yours, small, quiet reassurances that you are here, that he did not imagine this.

- Sam Wilson has lost many things. He has seen friends fall, watched the world tear itself apart. But this? This is something he never thought he’d get back. And now that he has you, he swears to himself—he’s not losing you again. Not now. Not ever.

Peter Parker (Tom Holland)

- Peter Parker does not know how to exist in a world where you do not. The pain is not sharp, not a clean wound he can stitch together with time. It is suffocating. Slow. A weight pressing down on him, stealing the air from his lungs, making every step feel heavier than the last. He was holding you, talking to you, and then you were just… gone. And nothing he did, no amount of strength, no web-slinging through the city, no late-night patrols could change that.

- He keeps going. He has to. That’s what Spider-Man does. That’s what you would have wanted. But some nights, when he is alone, when the mask is off and the world is quiet, he feels like a boy again—small, lost, powerless. He whispers apologies into the dark, tracing the memory of your touch, trying to pretend he still remembers exactly what your voice sounded like. Because he’s terrified he’s forgetting.

- And then, one day, you are there. Standing in the shadow of a flickering streetlamp, watching him with the same eyes he never thought he’d see again. At first, he doesn’t move. He can’t. His brain refuses to process it, refuses to accept this impossible, beautiful reality. And then you smile—small, hesitant, you—and he breaks.

- He crashes into you, arms wrapping around you so tightly it almost hurts. His breath stutters, hands shaking as they press against your skin, your hair, anything that proves you are real. “You—” His voice cracks. “You died.” And it’s not an accusation. It’s a question, a plea, a broken whisper of disbelief. But you are warm, solid, here, and he holds onto that with everything he has.

- After that, Peter is clingy. He doesn’t mean to be, but he is. His fingers find yours without thinking, his arm curls around your waist at every opportunity, his webbing pulls you to him when you step too far away. He is afraid—afraid this is temporary, afraid that one day he’ll wake up and you’ll be gone again. But he also smiles more, laughs louder, lives in a way he hasn’t since he lost you.

- Peter Parker has lost so much. But this? This is a miracle. And Peter—Peter is going to make sure he cherishes every single second of it. Because this time, he has you. And that? That is everything.

Stephen Strange

- Stephen Strange is no stranger to loss. He has lived through pain, through heartbreak, through the destruction of things he once believed unshakable. But losing you—that was something else entirely. That was not just loss. That was devastation. It was the kind of pain that settled into his bones, that made the world feel quieter, colder, less.

- He did not weep. Did not rage. Did not crumble beneath the weight of it. Instead, he buried himself in his work, in his magic, in the relentless pursuit of something—anything—that could fill the void you left behind. He scoured the multiverse, searching for answers, but found only silence. Death, it seemed, was absolute. Even for you.

- So when you stand before him, alive, whole, untouched by the grave, he does not react at first. His hands twitch at his sides, eyes sharp, mind racing through a thousand possibilities, a thousand explanations. This must be a trick, a deception, some cruel game played by forces beyond his understanding. But then you speak his name, and the way you say it—the way only you say it—breaks him.

- He crosses the room in three steps, hands cupping your face, searching for any sign of illusion. But there is none. There is only warmth, only life, only you. His breath stutters, his fingers tighten, and for the first time in a long, long time, Stephen Strange allows himself to feel. His lips crash against yours, desperate, searching, as if trying to convince himself that this moment is not slipping through his fingers.

- After that, he is possessive. Not in a way that is suffocating, but in a way that is unmistakable. His cloak wraps around you when you are cold, his hands find yours beneath temple robes, his magic lingers in the air around you like a silent guardian. He does not say it—not outright, not often—but you know. You have always known. He cannot lose you again. He will not.

- Stephen Strange has faced the impossible, has bent time and reality to his will. But this? This is the greatest miracle of all. And he, a man who once scoffed at faith, finds himself believing in something again. Because if the universe had any mercy, any kindness at all, it would let him keep you. And this time, he will fight for that with everything he has.

Thor Odinson

- Grief and gods have never mixed well. Mortals mourn with time, with rituals, with whispered prayers to the sky. But Thor? Thor does not know how to grieve in a way that does not tear the world apart. He held you as you died, cradled you against his chest, his hands helpless against the tide of fate. The sky wept with him that day—thunder cracking, the heavens splitting open in rage, the storm inside him unfurling with no battle left to fight.

- He left Earth after that. It was too loud, too full of life, too painfully real in your absence. He searched for answers in the stars, in old myths and forgotten magic, in the whispered promises of gods who had lost more than he had. But the truth was simple: not even the might of Thor, not even the power of Asgard, could bring back the one thing he truly wanted. So he drank, and he fought, and he laughed too loudly to hide the fact that he was breaking.

- And then, one day, he turns, and you are there. Standing in the golden light of the Bifrost, impossibly, beautifully alive. His breath catches in his throat, Mjolnir slipping from his fingers, his entire body frozen between disbelief and desperate hope. “This is a trick,” he says, but his voice is hoarse, unsteady, as if saying the words out loud might make them false. But then you smile, and he is undone.

- He crosses the space between you in an instant, crushing you against him with a force that nearly knocks the breath from your lungs. His hands tangle in your hair, his forehead pressing against yours, and his chest heaves with something between laughter and a sob. “You have returned to me,” he whispers, reverence in every syllable. And then he is kissing you, fierce and unrelenting, as if proving to himself that this is not some cruel jest of fate.

- After that, Thor does not let you go. Not truly. His arm is always around your waist, his hand always at the small of your back, his eyes watching you as if you might disappear the moment he looks away. He tells you, constantly, in grand declarations and quiet murmurs, how much he loves you, how he will never lose you again. You are his greatest treasure, more precious than any throne, any kingdom, any power the cosmos could offer.

- The God of Thunder has lost much—his home, his family, pieces of himself that may never fully return. But you—you are here, in his arms, alive once more. And Thor, a warrior who has fought countless battles, swears that he will fight against gods and monsters alike to keep you at his side.

Loki Laufeyson

- Loki knows loss better than he knows himself. He has lost love, trust, family. But losing you—that was different. That was a wound he could not charm away with silver-tongued words, a pain he could not outwit or outmaneuver. You died in his arms, your fingers curling weakly around his wrist as the light in your eyes faded. And for the first time in his life, Loki Laufeyson was powerless.

- He did not rage. He did not scream. Instead, he withdrew, wrapping himself in silence and solitude, retreating into the shadows where grief could not be seen. The world continued without you, and he played his part well—smirking, deceiving, spinning tales as if he were not hollow inside. But in the quiet moments, when no one was looking, he traced the ghost of your touch on his skin and whispered your name like a prayer.

- So when he sees you again, standing before him in the flickering candlelight of some forgotten sanctuary, he does not react—not at first. His body stills, his breath catches, and his mind races through every possibility, every cruel illusion that could explain this. But then you speak his name, soft and familiar, and something in him shatters.

- He reaches for you hesitantly, his fingers brushing over your cheek as if expecting you to dissolve beneath his touch. And when you do not—when you are warm, and real, and here—a sharp breath leaves his lips, and he pulls you against him with all the desperation of a man drowning. His grip is tight, unyielding, as if trying to convince himself that you will not be stolen from him again.

- After that, Loki is different. Not softer, not weaker—if anything, he is more dangerous, more cunning, more willing to do anything to ensure you remain by his side. He keeps you close, always within reach, his sharp wit reserved for those who dare to threaten what is his. There is no force in the universe he fears, no power he will not challenge, if it means keeping you safe.

- Loki Laufeyson has never believed in fate, in mercy, in second chances. But you? You are proof that even the most broken of men can find something worth living for. And this time, he will not lose you. Not to death. Not to gods. Not to anything.

T’Challa

- T’Challa was a king before he was a man, a warrior before he was a lover. But you—you—were the one thing that belonged solely to him. With you, he was not a ruler, not the Black Panther, not the protector of a nation. He was simply a man in love. And then, in a single moment, in the chaos of war, you were gone. And he—T’Challa, the unshakable, the wise, the just—fell to his knees, holding you as the life slipped from your body.

- He did not mourn in ways the world could see. There were no public displays of grief, no speeches of loss. He carried the weight of your death in silence, bearing it with the same quiet dignity that he bore every burden. But in the stillness of his chambers, when no one was watching, he let the sorrow take him. He traced the last place he had held you, whispered your name to the night, and wondered if he would ever learn to breathe without you.

- So when he sees you again, standing beneath the glow of Wakanda’s golden lights, his heart stops. His breath catches. And for a moment, he is afraid to move—to hope. But you step forward, your eyes locking onto his, and everything else ceases to matter. The world falls away, and there is only you.

- He crosses the distance between you in a single step, his hands cupping your face with reverence, with disbelief, with a depth of emotion he has never let himself show before. He does not ask how or why. He only whispers, “My love,” as if speaking the words aloud will make them real. And then he kisses you—slow, deep, a promise, a prayer, a thousand unspoken words pressed into your skin.

- After that, T’Challa is your shadow, your shield, your unwavering protector. He does not smother you—he respects you too much for that—but he watches, always. His fingers linger against yours in quiet moments, his gaze softens whenever you speak, and when he holds you at night, it is with the quiet, unyielding certainty that he will never let go again.

- T’Challa has lost many things—his father, his home, pieces of himself in battles fought for the greater good. But this? This is something sacred. And a king who has been given back his heart will protect it with everything he has.

Marc Spector

- Marc Spector has never been good at losing people. He has lost too much, buried too many, carried ghosts in the hollows of his ribs and the shadows of his mind. But losing you—watching you die in his arms, feeling your body grow cold as his own blood soaked into the ground—was something else entirely. It didn’t break him. It obliterated him.

- He stopped pretending after that. Stopped holding himself together, stopped fighting for anything beyond survival. He threw himself into missions with reckless abandon, took every fight as if he was begging for someone to land a fatal hit. He couldn’t sleep in your bed, couldn’t bear to hear your name spoken aloud. He tried—Khonshu knows, he tried—to find a way to bring you back. Bargained with gods, hunted down forbidden magic, but nothing, nothing, worked. So he gave up. He accepted that this was his punishment, his curse, to keep losing the things he loved until there was nothing left of him.

- And then—then—you were there. Standing in the doorway, alive, whole, looking at him like you weren’t a phantom haunting his grief. He didn’t move at first, didn’t breathe, convinced you were another trick of his fractured mind. But then you spoke—soft, hesitant, like you weren’t sure if he would even want you back. And the moment your voice reached him, Marc snapped.

- He was on you in an instant, his hands on your face, your shoulders, your arms—anywhere he could touch, anywhere he could convince himself you were real. “Tell me I’m not dreaming,” he whispered, voice shaking, breath unsteady. And when you smiled, when you nodded, he kissed you—desperate, bruising, like a man drowning who had finally found air.

- After that, Marc is different. Not softer, not gentler—he has never been those things—but determined. He refuses to let you out of his sight for too long, refuses to take a single moment for granted. The nightmares don’t go away—sometimes he wakes up reaching for you, convinced he’s lost you all over again—but you are always there, grounding him, reminding him that miracles exist.

- He still fights, still follows the path Khonshu carved for him, but now, there’s something else driving him. Not vengeance. Not guilt. You. You, alive and breathing, laughing in the golden light of morning, rolling your eyes when he gets in one of his moods. And if he has to fight every god, every monster, every force in the universe to keep you by his side? So be it.

Steven Grant

- Grief is a lonely thing. And for Steven, it was lonelier than most. He didn’t have Marc’s rage or Jake’s cold detachment—he just had absence, an empty space beside him where you used to be. You had been his bright thing, his sunbeam, the warmth in his life he never thought he deserved. And then, in a moment of violence and blood, you were gone.

- The flat was too quiet after that. He still made tea for two, still caught himself turning to tell you something, still found little reminders of you everywhere. Your books on the shelf. Your perfume lingering in the air. A sweater you’d stolen from him, draped over the back of a chair. He couldn’t let go, couldn’t move—just existed, stumbling through the days with a polite smile and eyes that held too much grief.

- And then, one evening, as he shuffled into the flat with the exhaustion of another day spent pretending he was okay, he saw you. Standing there, real as anything, watching him with that soft, hesitant look you always had when you weren’t sure how he’d react. He didn’t even think. Didn’t question. Just dropped whatever was in his hands and ran to you.

- “Oh, love,” he breathed, his voice cracking as he cupped your face, pressing his forehead to yours. He was crying—of course he was crying—but he didn’t care, didn’t even try to stop. “I—I thought—oh God, I thought I lost you.” His hands trembled as he touched you, as if afraid you might disappear if he wasn’t careful. But you didn’t disappear. You were here. And when you kissed him—gentle, reassuring—he let out a broken, disbelieving laugh.

- After that, Steven becomes more himself again. The light comes back into his eyes, the warmth into his voice. He tells you every day how much he loves you, how grateful he is that you came back. He holds you for hours sometimes, murmuring little things against your skin, afraid that if he lets go, the universe will take you away again.

- You are his miracle, his impossible, wonderful second chance. And Steven, the man who never thought he was enough, now knows one thing with absolute certainty—he will never take you for granted again.

Jake Lockley

- Jake doesn’t grieve the way others do. He doesn’t sit in sorrow, doesn’t cry himself to sleep. He compartmentalizes, shoves it all into a locked box in the back of his mind and throws away the key. When you died, he didn’t break down. He didn’t scream. He just acted. Found the ones responsible. Made them pay. Made everyone pay.

- He convinced himself that was enough. That revenge was all he had left to give you. But when the dust settled, when the blood was washed from his hands, there was nothing. Just an emptiness so vast it threatened to swallow him whole. He became a ghost, slipping through the world unnoticed, unseen. He only spoke when necessary, only acted when called upon. If Marc and Steven noticed how much darker he’d become, they didn’t say anything.

- And then—then—you were there. Sitting in the backseat of his car like you belonged there, like you hadn’t died in his arms a year ago. He slammed on the brakes so hard the tires screeched, his pulse roaring in his ears. He didn’t turn around at first. Couldn’t. His hands gripped the steering wheel like a vice, his knuckles white with tension. “Not funny,” he rasped, his voice low, dangerous. “Not a game I wanna play.”

- “It’s not a trick, Jake,” you whispered. And that was all it took. He turned, his breath catching as he finally let himself look. Let himself believe. And the moment he did, something inside him snapped. He surged toward you, pulling you into his arms with a desperation he rarely let himself show. His face buried in your neck, his breath shaky and uneven, his body trembling as if the entire world had just shifted beneath his feet.

- After that, Jake is ruthless about keeping you safe. He doesn’t care how you came back—only that you did, and that nothing will take you from him again. He’s always watching, always waiting, always a step ahead of any potential threat. He doesn’t say it out loud, but it’s in the way he tucks you close against him in crowds, in the way his fingers ghost over your pulse like he’s memorizing it.

- Jake Lockley is not a good man. He never claimed to be. But you—you are the one thing that makes him want to be. And if death couldn’t keep you from him, nothing else will either.

Scott Lang

- Scott never truly believed in happy endings, but he believed in you. He believed in the way your laughter could turn an ordinary day into something extraordinary, the way your hand in his made him feel like maybe—just maybe—he was enough. Losing you shattered him in ways he didn’t even know were possible. You died in his arms, your blood on his hands, and in that moment, he stopped believing in miracles.

- He tried to hold it together for Cassie. He smiled, told jokes, did his best to pretend he was okay. But he wasn’t. His apartment felt too big without you, the bed too cold. He found himself talking to the empty air, half-expecting you to answer. The worst part was the moments right before he woke up, when his brain still tricked him into thinking you were next to him, breathing softly in sleep. And then he’d open his eyes and reality would sink in like a knife to the gut.

- When he sees you again, it’s like the universe plays a cruel trick on him. He blinks, rubs his eyes, thinks he’s hallucinating. But then you smile, that soft, knowing smile he dreamed about, and everything collapses. He doesn’t think—just moves, just grabs you, just feels. “Oh my God,” he breathes, his voice shaking, his arms wrapping around you so tightly he might never let go. “Tell me this is real. Please tell me this is real.” And when you nod, when you whisper his name, he lets out a half-laugh, half-sob against your shoulder.

- Scott becomes clingy after that—not in an overbearing way, but in a you-can’t-leave-me-again way. He constantly reaches for you, constantly checks if you’re still there. He makes up for lost time—cooking you breakfast (badly), taking you on spontaneous road trips, making you laugh until you can’t breathe. Every moment is precious now, every second a gift. He refuses to waste a single one.

- He tells you everything he couldn’t before. How much he missed you, how much it hurt, how many times he caught himself looking for you in a crowded room. He never wants to take you for granted again. Every night, he holds you like you might disappear in the morning, presses kisses to your skin as if he’s trying to memorize you all over again.

- Scott Lang doesn’t know why the universe gave you back to him, but he doesn’t care. All he knows is that this time, no force in the world—no villain, no bad luck, no cosmic cruelty—is going to take you away from him again.

Wade Wilson (Fox)

- Wade doesn’t mourn like other people. He doesn’t wear black, doesn’t cry softly in the night. No, Wade’s grief is ugly, loud, chaotic. After you died, he became worse—more violent, more reckless, more unhinged. He threw himself into fights he knew he couldn’t win, hoping—praying—someone would finally land the killing blow. But they never did. His healing factor cursed him to keep living, to keep hurting.

- He talked to you like you were still there. Made jokes to the empty side of the bed. Left your favorite snacks untouched in the cabinet. The others tried to check on him—Weasel, Domino—but he just shoved them away with a laugh, a joke, a bloody fight he walked away from without a scratch. “I’m fine,” he’d say, voice hollow behind the mask. “Totally normal levels of depression. Probably a seven out of ten. Maybe an eight. Who’s to say?”

- And then, one day, you walked through his door. Just like that. No fanfare, no dramatic music—just you, standing there, looking at him with that same familiar amusement in your eyes. He froze. Blinked. Looked down at the bottle of vodka in his hand. “Oh,” he muttered. “Guess I finally drank myself into hallucinations. Took long enough.” But then you said his name, your voice real, and everything inside him broke.

- He tackled you before you could even take a step closer. Knocked you onto the couch, onto the floor, onto him, his arms squeezing so tight it was a miracle you could still breathe. “If this is a dream, I swear to Ryan Reynolds’ beautiful abs, I will murder my subconscious,” he babbled, his voice cracking. He touched your face, your arms, every inch of you, just to be sure. And when you laughed—when you really laughed—he just lost it. Full-on ugly sobs, face buried in your neck, refusing to ever let go.

- After that, Wade is worse—but in a different way. He never shuts up about how lucky he is. Clings to you, wraps himself around you like a human (questionably clean) blanket, dramatically declares that if you ever die on him again, he’ll personally go to hell and drag you back himself. He texts you every five minutes when you’re not around. If you so much as sneeze, he’s already googling life-threatening illnesses.

- But beneath all the jokes, the over-the-top antics, there’s something soft there. Something raw. Wade Wilson doesn’t believe in happy endings. But he believes in you. And if the universe was kind enough to give you back to him, then maybe—just maybe—he’ll finally start believing in second chances too.

Logan Howlett (Fox)

- Logan is no stranger to grief. He has lost more people than he can count, buried more loved ones than he dares to remember. But losing you—you—was different. It wasn’t just another loss, another name on the long list of people the world had taken from him. It was the loss. The one that finally made him want to lay down and never get up again.

- He disappeared after that. Vanished into the wilderness, into the places where no one could find him. He drank himself into oblivion, picked fights with men twice his size just for the chance to feel something. The nightmares were worse—your face, your voice, the way you reached for him as you died in his arms. He could still feel your blood on his hands, still hear your last breath. There was no escaping it. No running fast enough.

- When he sees you again, it’s not dramatic. It’s not loud. It’s silent. He turns, expecting an enemy, a threat—only to see you. Standing there. Alive. His breath catches in his throat, his heart hammering against his ribs like it’s trying to break free. For a long moment, he just stares, his jaw clenched so tight it aches. “No,” he finally rasps. “No, that ain’t possible.” But you just step closer, your hands trembling, your eyes pleading. “Logan,” you whisper. And something inside him snaps.

- He moves before he can think, his arms wrapping around you with the force of a man drowning who has finally found solid ground. He buries his face in your hair, breathes you in, his whole body shaking. “If this is some kinda sick joke,” he growls against your skin, “I swear to God—” But you just hold him tighter, and he finally—finally—lets himself believe it.

- After that, Logan is fiercely protective. More than before. You are his second chance, his proof that maybe—just maybe—the world hasn’t taken everything from him. He keeps you close, always within reach. He doesn’t talk about the time you were gone, doesn’t say how lost he was without you—but you see it in the way he touches you, like he’s making sure you’re still real.

- Logan has lived a long life, filled with too much pain, too much loss. But now, with you back in his arms, he thinks—just for a moment—that maybe, maybe, he finally has something worth fighting for again.

Matt Murdock

- Grief became a quiet shadow in Matt’s life, a presence that never left. He carried it with him in the way he adjusted his tie, in the way he spoke to Foggy and Karen like he was fine when he wasn’t. He still went out at night, still fought in the streets, but the fire inside him had dimmed. He no longer fought to save the city—he fought because it was the only thing that numbed the ache of losing you.

- He whispered your name in his prayers, his voice breaking over the syllables. In his apartment, your absence was louder than anything else. He reached for you in his sleep, his hands closing around nothing, waking up with an emptiness so heavy it stole his breath. He let the guilt drown him—because you died in his arms, and no matter how many bones he broke or how much blood he spilled, he couldn’t change that.

- When you return, he knows it’s you before you even speak. The world is full of sound, full of heartbeats, full of voices—but yours? Yours has always been different. His entire body stills, his breath hitching in his throat. He listens, waiting for the trick, the deception, because he knows what death feels like. But then you say his name, and the world tilts sideways.

- He moves without thinking, reaching for you, his hands trembling as they trace over your face, your hair, your lips. “You’re real,” he breathes, almost afraid to say it. “You’re real.” And when he finally lets himself believe it, when he pulls you into his arms and holds you so tightly it aches, he lets out a broken sound—somewhere between a sob and a prayer.

- After that, Matt is different. He refuses to let you go alone anywhere, his protectiveness manifesting in quiet touches, in the way his fingers always seek yours. He’s softer now, more open with his emotions, because he’s lost you once and he won’t make the mistake of taking any second for granted.

- At night, when the city is quiet and his scars ache, he traces over your skin as if memorizing every inch of you all over again. “I don’t know how I deserve this,” he whispers against your hair, his voice raw with devotion. “But I’m never letting you go again.”

Frank Castle

- Frank has always been good at loss. Not because he accepts it, but because he survives it. Losing you, though? It was a different kind of wound, one that never stopped bleeding. He didn’t cry. He didn’t scream. He just became colder. The world lost all color, all meaning. He didn’t live after you were gone—he just existed, a weapon with no purpose but destruction.

- He stopped talking. Stopped caring. The men he hunted became nothing more than names on a list, their deaths nothing more than numbers. He never said your name, never spoke of you, because acknowledging you were gone would break something inside him that even he couldn’t put back together.

- And then, one night, you stand in front of him, breathing, alive, looking at him like he’s still the man you loved. He doesn’t believe it at first. His grip tightens around his gun, his entire body coiled and ready for a fight because this? This is cruel. And yet—your eyes. Your heartbeat. The way you whisper, “Frank?” like it’s his name that brings you back to life.

- His hands shake as he reaches for you. He touches your face like it’s something fragile, something that might disappear if he presses too hard. And when you don’t, when you lean into his touch with a softness he thought he’d never feel again, something inside him shatters. He pulls you against him, his grip almost desperate, his breath ragged. “I lost you,” he rasps against your hair. “I lost you, and I didn’t—I didn’t know how to keep going.”

- Frank becomes your shadow after that. He’s gentler with you than he’s ever been with anyone, but that protectiveness? That fire? It’s stronger than ever. If anyone so much as looks at you wrong, they won’t live to make the mistake twice. But with you? With you, he is something softer, something almost human again.

- He doesn’t pray, doesn’t believe in fate. But at night, when you sleep beside him, warm and real, he presses a silent kiss to your forehead and whispers, Thank you. He doesn’t know who he’s thanking. Maybe the universe. Maybe you. All he knows is that this time, he won’t waste a single second.

Benjamin "Dex" Poindexter

- Losing you broke Dex. And when Dex breaks, he destroys. He tried to keep it together—tried to pretend he could move on, that he could keep living without you—but the anger, the madness, the unbearable emptiness inside him only grew. The world felt wrong without you. He felt wrong. He stopped sleeping, stopped feeling anything but the burning need to punish whatever took you away from him.

- He lost control after that. Killed without hesitation, without remorse. Let his mind spiral, let his demons win, because what was the point of fighting them without you? You were his anchor, the one person who made him believe he could be more than the monster inside him. Without you, he had no reason to pretend anymore.

- When he sees you again, he doesn’t react the way most people would. No tears, no disbelief. He stalks toward you, his entire body trembling, his breath uneven. His fingers twitch like they’re reaching for a weapon—like he can’t decide if you’re a dream, a trick, or something worse. “You’re dead,” he says, voice flat, empty. “I held you while you died.” And then, quieter, almost desperate—“Tell me this is real.”

- The second you touch him, the second your fingers brush over his, he breaks. He surges forward, his arms crushing around you, his breathing ragged against your skin. “Don’t leave me again,” he whispers, his voice shaking. “Please. I can’t—I can’t do this without you.” And for the first time in a year, his mind is quiet. The rage, the spiraling thoughts, the unbearable emptiness—it all stops the moment you’re back in his arms.

- After that, Dex is obsessive. He always had that trait in him, but now? Now it’s even worse. You are his, and he refuses to let anything take you away from him again. He follows you like a shadow, sleeps with his arms locked around you, memorizes every detail of your body just in case the universe dares to rip you away from him again.

- There’s a darkness inside him, one that never truly fades. But with you alive, with you real, that darkness is tempered by something softer. Something dangerous. He’s not just a killer anymore. He’s yours. And if anyone tries to take you from him again? He’ll burn the whole world to the ground.

Wanda Maximoff

- Grief clung to Wanda like an old, tattered shawl, woven with the ghosts of everyone she had ever lost. She had thought she had reached her limit—that the universe could take no more from her than it already had. But then it took you. And that, she realized, was the cruelest cut of all. She had survived wars, watched cities crumble, lost her family, her brother, her home. But losing you? That was the first time she felt herself break.

- She became something else after you died. A ghost walking through her own life, untethered from the world. The wind carried whispers of you—the echo of your laughter in a marketplace, the ghost of your breath against her skin in the moments before she woke up alone. And the anger—God, the anger. She lashed out when she fought, red energy sparking at her fingertips with a ferocity she couldn’t contain. She wanted to hurt the universe the way it had hurt her.

- And then, like an answer to a prayer she had never dared to whisper, you stood before her again. At first, she thought it was another cruel trick, another illusion meant to unravel what little remained of her sanity. But then—then she felt you. Your heartbeat, your warmth, the undeniable reality of you. And the moment that truth settled into her bones, she collapsed into you, shaking, weeping, hands clutching desperately at your arms, your shoulders, your face.

- “You were gone,” she sobbed, burying herself in you like she could merge her soul with yours. “I—I felt you leave me.” And for the first time in a year, her magic did not rage. It did not spark and burn with untamed grief. It simply was. It curled around the two of you like a shield, like a silent promise that she would never let you be taken from her again.

- After that, Wanda became something softer, but not weaker. She still held the storm inside her, but now, it had purpose. Now, it had you. She held you like she was afraid the wind might steal you away again, always touching—fingers brushing over yours, arms wrapping around you in sleep, a protective hand against the small of your back in public. She had lost everything before. She would not lose you again.

- At night, when the world was still and your breath rose and fell against her chest, she whispered things she could never say in the daylight. Apologies, promises, prayers in a language she had almost forgotten. And when you stirred, murmuring her name, she simply kissed you—deep and slow, like she could pour her very soul into you, like she could make you stay this time.

Pietro Maximoff

- The world never felt fast enough after you were gone. Time slowed into something unbearable, something suffocating. Pietro had always outrun grief before, always left it in the dust, but your death? That was a weight even he couldn’t shake. He stopped joking. Stopped running for fun. The world lost its color, its spark, its meaning. What was the point of moving quickly when you weren’t at the finish line anymore?

- He tried—he really tried—to pretend. To act like he was okay, to throw on that smirk and tell people, “Eh, I’m fine.” But Wanda knew. She saw it in the way he sat still for too long, the way his hands trembled when he thought no one was looking, the way he lingered in places that reminded him of you. His speed was once his escape, his freedom. Now, every step forward only took him further away from the last time he held you.

- And then—then he sees you. And for the first time in his life, he can’t move. He just stares, his heart a violent drumbeat against his ribs, his breath caught somewhere between a sob and a laugh. “No,” he whispers, blinking rapidly, because this has to be some sick joke. “This isn’t real.” But you are. And the moment you take a step toward him, he snaps.

- He moves too fast, too desperate, grabbing you like you might vanish if he lets go. His hands cup your face, his lips press against every part of you he can reach—forehead, cheeks, hands, lips. “You’re real,” he gasps between kisses, between shaky laughter and choked sobs. “You’re—you’re real.” And suddenly, the world isn’t slow anymore. You are his new gravity, the only thing keeping him from spinning out of control.

- After that, Pietro is obsessed with feeling you close. He picks you up just to hear you laugh, carries you even when you insist you can walk. He talks more, filling every silence with his voice because silence is what haunted him for a year. And he touches—not just because he wants to, but because he needs to. Holding your hand, leaning against you, brushing his fingers over your cheek just to remind himself you’re here.

- And at night, when he curls around you in bed, his heartbeat thrumming like a song against your skin, he whispers things he’s never said before. “I thought I lost you forever.” “I never stopped looking for you.” “If you ever leave me again, I swear I’ll outrun death itself to bring you back.” And when you tell him you’re here, that you’re not going anywhere, he presses a lingering kiss to your shoulder and finally—finally—lets himself breathe again.

Erik Lehnsherr (Fox)

- Erik was already a man carved from loss, molded by grief, his soul tempered in the fires of tragedy. Losing you was not just another wound—it was the moment he snapped completely. He did not rage. He did not weep. He simply became something else. Harder. Colder. More dangerous. Without you, there was no reason to hold back. No reason to believe in anything but vengeance.

- The world paid for your absence. He became relentless, his war against those he deemed responsible for suffering escalating beyond reason. He did not believe in mercy anymore—because if the world had shown you none, why should he? But in the rare, silent moments when he was alone, when his hands were still for once, he would stare at the space beside him and feel something that terrified him. Emptiness.

- When you return, he does not react as a man should when seeing his lost love brought back to life. He does not run to you. He does not whisper your name like a prayer. He simply stares, cold and unreadable, his mind calculating every possibility—illusion, manipulation, deception. And then—then you reach for him, and the moment your hand touches his, his composure shatters.

- His hands shake as they frame your face. His breathing is shallow, his eyes burning with something unreadable. When he speaks, his voice is low, trembling with something dangerous. “Who did this?” he demands. Because someone had to bring you back. And Erik Lehnsherr does not believe in miracles. But when you smile—when you whisper, “I’m here, Erik”—his fury dissolves into something broken, something human. He kisses you like a dying man gasping for air, his hands gripping you as if afraid the wind might steal you away.

- After that, Erik is ruthless in his protectiveness. He keeps you close, watches you with the sharp gaze of a predator waiting for the world to try and take you again. But in private, in the spaces where no one else can see, he is something else. His hands are reverent as they hold you, his voice is soft when he speaks to you, and his nightmares—the ones filled with loss—fade when you press a kiss to his temple.

- He does not believe in peace. He does not believe in forgiveness. But he believes in you. And that? That is the only thing in this world he will not let go of again.

841 notes · View notes

pinktwingirl · 8 months ago

Text

The MCU really be like

#marvel #mcu #mcu criticism #romani characters #doctor doom #victor von doom #scarlet witch #wanda maximoff #pietro maximoff #quicksilver

2K notes · View notes

the-poor-miranha-quotes · 8 months ago

Text

Tony: So today I learned that peter has me in his cellphone as "Mr Irondad "

Clint: *shrugs* Could be worse. Wanda and Pietro have each other down as "spare parts"

#spiderman #marvel #ironman #mcu #hawkeye #quicksilver #scarlett witch #incorrect spiderman quotes #incorrect marvel quotes #mcu quotes #irondad quotes #incorrect ironman quotes #peter parker #tony stark #clint barton #wanda maxmoff #pietro maximoff #peter maximoff #irondad & spiderson

1K notes · View notes

fandomnerd9602 · 9 months ago

Text

Pietro: you need a girlfriend. I dare you to kiss the next woman you see

Y/N: (huffs) fine

Wanda walks in…

Y/N:

Pietro: no! Don’t you dare

Y/N: I won’t. Wanda’s not a woman…she’s a goddess.

Wanda smirks and summons Y/N to her instead…

#marvel #marvel imagine #marvel fluff #mcu #mcu imagine #mcu fandom #marvel incorrect quotes #incorrect marvel quotes #wanda maximoff #wanda maximoff x reader #pietro maximoff

929 notes · View notes

harrie-fic-center · 7 months ago

Text

avengers

bucky barnes [2]

clint barton

druig

hobie brown

loki laufeyson [2]

marc spector

matt murdock

miguel o'hara

miles morales

peter parker

pietro maximoff

sam wilson

stephen strange

steve rogers

thor odinson

tony stark

803 notes · View notes

florida3exclamationpoints · 6 months ago

Text

My Husband Ralph™

#agatha harkness #wandavision #agnes wandavision #agatha all along #pietro maximoff #ralph bohner #kathryn hahn #evan peters #marvel #marvel edit #marvel entertainment #marvel television #marvel tv #marvel mcu #mcu #mcu edit #text post meme #agatha text posts #disney+

368 notes · View notes

local-crying-boy · 6 months ago

Note

Since you asked for Pietro requests (love him too 😍) and I have a cold that’s really kicking my ass 🤧, how about something where Pietro takes care of the reader when she’s sick? It can be a fic or headcanons, whichever you think works. Take care. 👋

🄿🄸🄴🅃🅁🄾 🄼🄰🅇🄸🄼🄾🄵🄵 🅇 🄵🄴🄼!🅁🄴🄰🄳🄴🅁

𝕊𝕠𝕦𝕡 𝕗𝕠𝕣 𝕒 𝕔𝕠𝕝𝕕?

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ── ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ── ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

𝙿𝚊𝚒𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐: 𝙿𝚒𝚎𝚝𝚛𝚘 𝙼𝚊𝚡𝚒𝚖𝚘𝚏𝚏 𝚇 𝙵𝚎𝚖𝚊𝚕𝚎!𝚁𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚎𝚛

𝙶𝚎𝚗𝚛𝚎: 𝙾𝚗𝚎-𝚜𝚑𝚘𝚝, 𝚏𝚕𝚞𝚏𝚏

𝚆𝚊𝚛𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚜: 𝚗𝚘𝚗𝚎

𝚂𝚞𝚖𝚖𝚊𝚛𝚢: 𝙳𝚞𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊 𝚕𝚘𝚗𝚐, 𝚎𝚡𝚑𝚊𝚞𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚌𝚘𝚕𝚍, 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚋𝚘𝚢𝚏𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚗𝚍, 𝙿𝚒𝚎𝚝𝚛𝚘 𝙼𝚊𝚡𝚒𝚖𝚘𝚏𝚏, 𝚜𝚑𝚘𝚠𝚜 𝚞𝚙 𝚒𝚗 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚛𝚘𝚘𝚖 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚊 𝚋𝚘𝚠𝚕 𝚘𝚏 𝚜𝚘𝚞𝚙 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎 𝚖𝚞𝚌𝚑 𝚗𝚎𝚎𝚍𝚎𝚍 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚝.

𝚆𝚘𝚛𝚍 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚝: 635

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ── ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ── ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

You were an, insanely, good agent. You were one of the top ranking agents in S.H.I.E.L.D. and you had been the best during your training. However, what turned out to be your one weakness?

A cold.

A simply thing such as a cold was enough to take you out of commission: no training, no missions. Instead, you were confined to your bed with a blocked nose and stinging eyes.

Your body was aching in places that you didn’t even know you used, sickness often overcame you when you moved too, eyes burning when you opened them. It felt like you were dying, or something.

“Dragâ…?” You heard from the other side of your bedroom door, a gentle knock against the wood of the door. “Can I come in?”

You let out a faint groan, it wasn’t necessarily a ‘yes’ or a ‘no’, just a simple sign to show that you were awake. Shortly after, you heard the faint click of the door as it opened, footsteps nearing your bed You would turn around, but you didn’t want to hurt all over again, so you remain in your spot.

“I brought you some soup.” Pietro said with a small smile, though you couldn’t see it, you could’ve sworn you heard it in his voice.

In a groggy, hoarse voice, you replied, “isn’t that stereotypical?”

The speedster let out a laugh, shaking his head as you heard the bowl being set onto your bedside table, then as you felt the mattress grow heavier on the side when Pietro sat down. “It does help.”

You let out a little scoff, shaking your head. “It’s a myth.”

“Dragâ, it’s really not.” He chuckled out, rolling his eyes at you. “My mother used to do it for me and Wanda when we were small.”

You huffed quietly, rolling around to face Pietro with a groan. “Fine, fine.”

Now that you were face to face with Pietro, he could see how bad you actually did look. Despite the lights being turned off and your curtains being drawn, with the little light coming from the hallway, he could see how pale your face looked and the deep bags under your eyes.

His colder hand cupped the side of your face for a moment, thumb brushing against your cheek. "Haven't been sleeping well?"

You shook your head, sighing quietly. "I keep having to get up to get tissues, then every time I get comfortable, I can't get tired because I can't breathe properly."

"Haven't you been taking tablets though?" He questioned, his face contorting into a confused one. "Aren't they meant to help reduce the symptoms."

"I need to be sedated." You grumbled under your breath, huffing afterwards.

Your statement only caused Pietro to let out a laugh, rolling his eyes at your as he shook his head. "Well, I can't give you that, but you can make the soup that I've lovingly made for you."

He helped you sit up, a hand on your back. Though, you would’ve easily been able to sit up, Pietro just didn’t acknowledge it. He reached for the bowl of soup once you were sat up against the headboard, placing it on your lap so you could hold it.

“Do you need me to grab some more cold and flu tablets?” He asked, noticing that you didn’t have any on your bedside table. “Or paracetamol?”

You shook your head before taking a sip of the soup, it tasted nice and you were kind of grateful he made it for you. “Can you just stay for a bit?”

"Of course." He said without a moment's hesitation, as if he didn't even care about the possibility of getting sick, he just wanted to make sure you were okay.

He climbed into bed with you, sitting up with his back against the headboard, ready to wrap his arms around you when you finished your soup so that he could cuddle you.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ── ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ── ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

Masterlist

56 notes · View notes

figaroswilson · 5 months ago

Text

𝙡𝙞𝙜𝙝𝙩𝙨𝙥𝙚𝙚𝙙 ⇒ 𝘱𝘪𝘦𝘵𝘳𝘰 𝘮𝘢𝘹𝘪𝘮𝘰𝘧𝘧 𝘹 𝘦𝘹𝘸𝘪𝘯𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘴𝘰𝘭𝘥𝘪𝘦𝘳!𝘰𝘧𝘤

Chapter 2

masterlist

story warnings: violence, swearing, blood, descriptions of abuse

chapter word count: 2247

< previous chapter // next chapter >

read on wattpad

~ ✺ ~

If it was anyone else, she wouldn't have listened.

Most people tended to have opinions on what Kira should and shouldn't do. Very loud and very wrong opinions. She guessed it was just what happened when you were the living product of some strange Jekyll-and-Hyde-esque experiment. People tended to see you less as a person and more as a test subject. Something to throw ideas at, rather than someone to help. She had learnt to ignore those opinions.

Steve's opinion, though, she respected. He was one of the only people who understood, at least part of, what Kira had experienced. Being thrust into an entirely new world with completely different norms was a frequent topic of discussion between them. She knew he meant well. He just wanted a normal life for her, after everything with Department X and HYDRA. Well, as normal a life as an Avenger could have.

Which is why Kira had been sitting alone, at the bar, for the last couple of hours. His only requirement had been that she attend. He said nothing about moping into a margarita. One of many. She silently cursed whoever took away her ability to get drunk with the Super Soldier Serum. Not even Thor's alien whiskey could get her tipsy. If it did, maybe then she could stop thinking about everything on her mind. Especially those missing twins.

Nat had insisted on bartending at the party, so she'd been making the margaritas for her, handing them over with an odd look. Kira assumed she was just worried about the drinks spilling on the clothes she'd borrowed from her last minute: a pretty green dress, that definitely fit Nat better than it did Kira, and matching heels. She made a mental note to agree to the next time she wanted to drag her along to get "real human clothes" (Nat's words, not hers).

From her seat at the furthest end of the bar, she watched as Sam won another game of pool, beating Steve once again. She smiled to herself. Kira had left Sam's side a while ago. She had initially stuck to him because he was the more extroverted of the two. After a while, she started to worry about coming off as a bit too clingy and quickly extracted herself when she noticed her mood starting to sour, not wanting to ruin his night. At least one of them was enjoying themselves.

Nat's eyes started to burn a hole in the side of her head. "What?" Kira sighed, still watching the room.

"Oh, nothing. It's totally normal for you to down 10 drinks in as many minutes whilst forlornly watching others enjoy themselves," she replied.

"Like you're any better." Kira turned to face her. "I know why you're at the bar too. Trying to convince everyone you're just showing off," she hit back. It was true Nat was weirdly competent at bartending, though. She had learnt decades ago to blend in at a club for a hit on some obscure politician, back in Department X. It was one of the only times all three of them had gone on a mission together. It was also the first and last time all three of them had tried to escape on a mission together. "You hate this shit just as much as I do."

Nat was unfazed at being read like that by Kira. With anyone else, she would've been taken aback, but Kira had always had a scary good ability to read people, so she was used to it. She'd regained the ability almost as soon as she'd regained her memories. "At least I'm discreet about it. You perpetually look like you're hiding something," Nat said. "Could you try to pretend you're having fun?"

"I can't," Kira almost whispered, her brow furrowing. "You know I didn't want to come. My danger sense has screaming at me since Tony brought up he was throwing this stupid party. I'm so sure something's going to go wrong."

~ ✺ ~

Maybe all those margaritas did do something, maybe she was taking Nat's advice or, more likely, Kira was more comfortable now all the strangers had finally filtered out of the room, at some early hour of the morning.

Only Maria, Dr Cho, and her teammates were left. Her danger sense - a sixth sense she'd discovered she had when testing the difference between her and Steve's serums once with Bruce - had also quietened down, and she could start to relax. They had all ended up, slightly tipsy and very tired, around one of the tables in the seating area; some standing, some sitting on the couches and others sprawled on the floor. The room was a mess. On their table alone there were a dozen empty glasses and beer bottles. And Thor's hammer. Of course, Clint had decided to take its mere existence as a challenge. That was how they found themselves in a hammer-lifting competition.

Clint, Tony, Rhodey and Bruce had all had a go, to no avail. When Steve tried, Kira could've sworn it budged slightly, but he gave up too. Nevermind.

"Sam?" he offered as he sat back down.

"Absolutely not, do I look crazy to you?" Sam turned away and hid his face in Kira's shoulder as she tried not to burst out laughing. "Save me from him, Ki. He's gonna embarrass me in front of a God," he complained.

"Nat?"

"That's not a question I need answered."

"Oh, come on! Ki?"

"Think I already know the answer to that question, Steve," Kira answered from the floor.

"Listen," Tony interjected, turning back to Thor. "All deference to the Man Who Wouldn't Be King, but it's rigged."

"You bet your ass," Clint mumbled miserably into his beer, still sore about not being able to lift the hammer.

"The handle's imprinted, right? Like a security code. 'Whosoever is carrying Thor's fingerprints' is, I think, the literal translation?" Tony continued.

"Yes, well that's a very, very interesting theory. I have a simpler one." Thor stood and grabbed the hammer with ease, flipping it. "You're all not worthy," he declared, smugly.

Everyone groaned. "Oh, come on," someone protested to the right of her. Kira was pretty sure she heard someone booing to her left. Steve just laughed from his seat on the couch. Pretentious little shit, she thought fondly. Thor's dramatics always managed to brighten her mood. Not enough to get rid of the silent alarm bells that were currently still going off in her head, but enough to ignore them.

Suddenly, they were interrupted by a loud screeching noise. Everyone's hands instinctively went to cover their ears but it faded just as quickly as it started. It had sounded like microphone feedback, so Kira assumed there was something wrong with the sound system. Her danger sense flared back up, though, as Tony pulled out one of his devices to see what was wrong. So much for being relaxed.

There was a clanging sound, like something made of metal trudging towards them. Kira and Steve locked eyes before everyone else heard it. "Worthy..." it whispered and she realised it was standing right in front of them. They all stood, slowly. Warily. Everyone was immediately on alert. Kira realised it was one of Tony's Legionnaire robots. It definitely wasn't supposed to be doing this. "No. How could you be worthy? You're all killers." How could it understand what we'd been saying?

"Stark," Steve warned.

Kira's eyes never left the bot. Something is badly wrong. She discretely lowered her hand, hovering over the gun she always kept on her, in her thigh holster.

"JARVIS," Tony tried, frantically. It wasn't like him to be so panicked. What has he done?

"I'm sorry, I was asleep. Or... I was a-dream," it rambled on, not making any sense.

"Reboot Legionnaire OS. We got a buggy suit," Tony continued, speaking over it.

She saw out of the corner of her eye, Sam slowly leaning over to get a hand on Steve's shield, which had been resting behind one of the couches.

"There was a terrible noise. And I was tangled in... strings. I had to kill the other guy. He was a good guy."

That stopped them in their tracks.

"You killed someone?" Steve asked.

"Wouldn't have been my first call," it replied in an oddly human way. "But, down in the real world, we're faced with ugly choices."

"Who sent you?" Thor was clearly getting tired of beating around the bush.

It played a recording instead of answering him. "I see a suit of armor around the world." It was Tony's voice. Wait, what?

"Ultron!" Bruce exclaimed, surprised.

Kira's head spun. What had these two been doing behind their backs? Maybe this is what I get for hiding my search for Jamie, the voice in her head rudely supplied.

Maria quietly took off the safety of her gun.

"In the flesh," Ultron replied. "Or, no, not yet. Not this... chrysalis. But I'm ready. I'm on a mission."

Thor gripped his hammer tighter.

"What mission?" Nat asked.

"Peace in our time."

Kira already had her gun drawn when the bots smashed through the walls.

~ ✺ ~

Her head hurt, badly.

Kira had gotten a fairly large cut on her forehead after being thrown into a glass table by one of the Legionnaire bots. Sam had helped her to tape it closed, though, so it wasn't bothering her as much anymore. No, Ultron was the main issue. His speech kept echoing in her mind. "You want to protect the world, but you don't want it to change," he had said. "How is humanity saved if it's not allowed to evolve? There's only one path to peace: The Avengers' extinction."

As it turned out, as well as attacking them, making the speech, and then escaping through the internet, Ultron had dipped into all the data they held, deleted their work, destroyed JARVIS, taken Loki's sceptre, and might be trying to access nukes. It was just too much information to receive at 3 am. That was all on top of Thor nearly strangling Tony. Kira was surprised her head only hurt and hadn't exploded yet.

Unlike Thor, she wasn't upset though. Shocked, sure, but not upset. Frankly, she didn't think she had a leg to stand on. She was hiding something from the rest of the team too, except her secret would only benefit a small handful of people, not the whole world like Tony genuinely believed his would, so she had been easier on him and hadn't said much. Actually, she hadn't said much at all since the attack, much to Sam's confusion. She wasn't much of a talker usually, but she wasn't the silent type either. She told him it was because she hadn't been more insistent about her danger sense going off. He said it wasn't her fault. She still felt like shit.

They had all dispersed after that, quickly scrambling to find Ultron before he completed whatever 'mission' he was on. Tony had advised Dr Cho to go straight home to South Korea and stay safe. She gladly took it. It was morning when the news of Strucker's suspicious death reached them. Suspicious because of the clear gunshot wounds littering his body and the word 'PEACE' written on the wall in his blood. It was also then they discovered the Strucker-sized hole in their data, which hadn't been there yesterday.

As they were relegated to going through all their physical files, one by one, Maria updated them on Ultron's other movements. He had been raiding numerous labs with the help of the Maximoffs, the enhanced twins Steve had met on the Avengers' last mission. Guess I don't have to worry about where they are anymore. Turns out 'enhanced' meant Wanda Django Maximoff, the sister, could mess with people's heads and Pietro Django Maximoff, the brother, could move so fast he couldn't be seen. Of course, this wasn't going to be easy, Kira thought.

"Where do we even start? These people are literally the scum of the Earth," Kira sighed, mostly to herself, staring at the mountain of files on Strucker and his associates. She picked up and started to skim the first one in front of her.

"Wait. I know that guy, from back in the day. He operates off the African coast, black market arms," Tony said, peeking at the picture of the man in her file.

Kira and Steve both gave him the same disappointed look. "Really?" Steve asked.

"Ugh, it's like you've doubled, old man," Tony groaned, glancing between the two of them. "There are conventions, alright? You meet people, I didn't sell him anything." Kira passed him the file. "Yeah, Ulysses Klaue. He was talking about finding something new, a game changer."

"What's this?" Thor asked, from Tony's other side, pointing to a scar in one of the photos. "Is that a... brand? Banner?"

"Uh... yeah. It's a word in an African dialect meaning 'thief'," he explained after identifying it on his computer. "Just in a much less friendly way."

"What dialect?" Sam asked.

"Wakandan."

Tony's face dropped. "If this guy got out of Wakanda with some of their trade goods..." he trailed off, turning to Steve.

"I thought your father said he got the last of it?"

"The last of what? What comes out of Wakanda?" Nat interrupted, impatiently.

Tony was quiet for a second. "The strongest metal on earth," he sighed. "If this is Ultron's mission, if he's planning on building himself a body out of Vibranium, we're fucked." He sounded defeated.

"No." Steve looked Tony in the eye. "No, we're not. We still have time. Where is this guy now?"

"Should be somewhere near South Africa."

~ ✺ ~

12 notes · View notes

hurtspideyparker · 6 months ago

Text

Part 3 of if Civil War didn't end in divorce and everyone lived together

Part 1 Part 2

Mission debrief:

Thor: Don't feel bad Banner, I mean is there anyone at this table who hasn't killed somebody?

Peter: *slowly raises hand*

Natasha: Don't worry you're still young

Peter: 😟

Steve: Has anyone seen my shield?

Clint: *points outside*

*Peter, Thor, and Bucky playing frisbee with it*

Steve: I guess I'm not saving those orphans today :/

Clint: Tony I said seedless watermelon, are you trying to kill me?

Tony: You're a big boy, you aren't gonna choke

Clint: No but it might... grow

Tony: Oh please don't tell me you still think watermelon seeds grow inside your stomach if you swallow them

Clint:

Pietro: Bro got a licence to kill but still has a Jack and the Beanstock level of education

2:34 am

Tony: *leaving Steve's bedroom*

Sam: *leaving Bucky's bedroom*

Tony:

Sam:

Tony: Let's never speak of this?

Sam: Yep.

Steve: Tony, you're the smartest person I know. You understand anything you set out to study, your passion is remarkable, innovation beyond anyone on the planet, and an incredible memory

Tony: Thank you thank you

Steve: So why do you STILL NOT CLOSE THE KITCHEN CABINETS

Tony: Uh

Steve: SOME OF US ARE TALL TONY. SOME OF US HAVE BRUISES ON THEIR FOREHEADS BECAUSE OF THIS NEGLIGENCE

Tony: Goodnight kid *tucks Peter into bed and kisses his forehead*

*Clint, Vision, Thor, and Dum-E waiting outside the room*

Tony: Oh come on. All of you?

*nodding*

Tony: Vision you don't even sleep. Dum-E I am not kissing you again you gave me chemical burns last time

Dum-E: *lowers head and whirs sadly*

Bucky: Don't sit so close to me

Sam: Why, cause I'm black 🤨

Bucky: No because you smell like ass sweat

Sam:

Sam: Why, cause I'm bl-

During training:

Natasha: *flips Steve and slams him onto his back*

Peter: Woah! I wanna know how to do that

Natasha: *flips Peter and slams him onto his back*

Natasha: Seems like you already know how

Tony: Okay Merida, you and me, darts for a hundred bucks. My suit vs. your freak self

Clint: I'll take that bet

*7 minutes later*

Tony: I have advanced AI targetting technology. SUPER. SUIT. How did I lose?!

Clint: It can do a lot of things Tony but at the end of the day it can't super suck this di-

Bucky: Sam's in medical so I'll do the mission debrief with you

Natasha: That was fast, I thought you'd still be coddling your boyfriend the rest of the day

Bucky: What. How do you know about us.

Natasha: I don't, it was a joke...

Bucky:

Natasha:

Bucky: Damn you really are good at interrogation

Bruce: I've taken up puzzles as a hobby. It's actually really relaxing

*Box is missing the last piece*

Bruce: *sighs, erases the 61 under the 'Days Without Hulk Incident' sign*

Natasha: Kings

Bucky: Go fish. Sevens?

Natasha: Nada. Fives?

Bucky: Shit. Here

Sam: I thought y'all were playing poker, are you for real playing Go Fish?

Natasha: Our pockets got cleaned out so we quit. The poker game is over by Steve

Peter: HAHA SUCK IT OLD MAN, AMERICA JUST WENT BANKRUPT *pulls giant pile of animal crackers to himself*

Steve: Do you want to play catch?

Wanda: What?

Steve: Um. Do you want to watch Hannah Montana?

Wanda: I don't even know what you're talking about

Steve: Maybe I could show you how to brush your teeth?

Wanda: Steve you're really scaring me

Steve: The article said to do it together! *shows phone*

Wanda: Are you getting parenting advice from wikihow? Did you even read it or were you just skimming the pictures

Steve: ...Well why'd they put toothbrushing in the photo if it wasn't a good bonding activity?

Sam: Why are your titties so bouncy man. Is it to deflect bullets?

Steve: What did you just say about my chest...

Sam: Hey I call em as I see em, and they're staring right at me.

Peter: Yo Mr. Stark wanna see a backflip?

Peter: Oh Cap come see my front handsprings

Peter: Natasha watch this aerial cartwheel!

Tony: Why did you tell him you were in the circus. Now that the idea's in his head all he does is jump around and cause noise complaints from downstairs

Clint: C'mon it's cute! He's talented

Bucky: I'm gonna tell him it doesn't count because he has superpowers and that he's a cheat

Tony: But that'll ruin his confidence

Bucky: God I hope so

3K notes · View notes

cece693 · 14 days ago

Text

So I had this silly idea of a character being super duper shy around you and who better else to write about than Pietro Maximoff. Not many fanfics are on Tumblr about him (which isn't all that suprising considering he dies by the end of his first movie) but in my heart he's very much alive. Hope you enjoy!

Tongue Tied

pairing: pietro maximoff x gender neutral reader tags: Pietro is a mess, wanda is a good sister, reader is amused but likes Pietro, the speedster is adorable

Pietro had a routine: wake up, shower, eat breakfast in a hurry (sometimes literally), and then spend the day reminding the Avengers just how fast he was. Confidence was basically his middle name. That is, until you came along. All it took was your shy smile—once—and boom. Suddenly, Pietro was about as smooth as a pothole-filled road.

Accident #1:

Your first week at the Avengers compound was a whirlwind. And when you asked Pietro for a tour, he practically teleported to your side. Wanda, arms folded, watched with a mischievous grin from the corner, ready to document his inevitable blunders.

Pietro cleared his throat. “So, um, this is the training room,” he said, gesturing to a door. “And that’s—” Only, the door he pointed to was actually a storage closet. Wanda snickered.

“Oh,” you said, peeking inside at a broom and mop. “State-of-the-art training gear, huh?”

Pietro’s eyes widened, cheeks burning. “Ha! Yes, definitely not the training room. That’s…um…storage. This—this is the training room.” He zipped across the hall to the correct door so fast, he nearly tripped over his own feet.

An awkward silence filled the space between you while Wanda silently mimed a facepalm. Pietro didn’t look remotely cool as he tried to recover, but you just smiled, amused. “I like the personal touch,” you teased. “Broom-fighting is a lost art.” Pietro managed a shaky laugh. Maybe you found it endearing—he could only hope.

Accident #2:

The Avengers often hosted casual cookouts on the compound’s spacious lawn, complete with steaks, veggie burgers, and unfortunate attempts at comedic karaoke from Tony. You and Pietro ended up manning the grill together—a recipe for comedic disaster. “I got this,” Pietro insisted confidently. He flipped burgers at record speed, so quickly that half of them landed in questionable angles on the grill.

You tried not to laugh as one burger sailed off into the grass. “Huh, I think that one tried to make a break for it.”

“Yeah, well…” Pietro pressed his lips into a thin line, trying to hide his embarrassment. “I’ll just pick it up.” He was back in a flash, depositing the rogue burger in the trash can while giving you a sheepish grin.

Wanda breezed by, eyeing Pietro’s stumbling attempts. Leaning in close so only he could hear, she teased, “Your face is as red as hot sauce.”

He rolled his eyes. “Go away, Wanda.”

But you overheard, chuckling. “I think it’s cute,” you said lightly, hoping to ease his nerves. Immediately, Pietro dropped his spatula. It clanged onto the grill with a loud metallic thunk. He stared at it, wide-eyed, while Wanda practically had to bury her face in her hands to stifle her laughter.

Accident #3:

Pietro loved nicknames. He threw them around like confetti—“Hawky” for Clint, “Tin Man” for Tony, “Red” for Wanda. But he hadn’t come up with one for you yet. Not for lack of trying…he just kept choking on his words each time he tried.

One afternoon, you were in the common lounge, reading a book, when Pietro zoomed in, nearly knocking over a lamp in the process. He waved it off casually, muttering something about “lousy furniture placement.”

“Hey,” you greeted. “What’s up?”

“Um. Nothing. You, er, do you want to—” He exhaled in frustration. “Grab a bite to eat? Maybe see a movie?”

Your eyes lit up. “Oh! That sounds great.”

Pietro’s relieved smile nearly split his face. “Cool! That’s—great. Awesome. Perfect.” He then tried to do his usual flirty finger-gun move, but ended up accidentally pointing at Wanda behind you. Which made him look more than a little unhinged.

Wanda arched an eyebrow from the kitchen. “You see, this is painful for me. Personally, I never thought I’d watch my brother turn into…this.”

You couldn’t help but burst out laughing at Wanda’s dramatic pity act, placing your book down. “Don’t be too hard on him,” you said, sending Pietro a fond smile.

The speedster, desperately trying to salvage his cool, opened his mouth to retort—but all that came out was a strangled cough. He quickly cleared his throat, mentally cursing himself for failing to say something suave like, I’m just dazzled by you, obviously.

Wanda decided she’d seen enough: her brother might never confess how he felt unless he got some help. She cornered you in the gym, where you were finishing up a routine. “You know my brother’s head-over-heels for you, right?” she said matter-of-factly.

You blinked in surprise, setting down a dumbbell. “I had a feeling. I…uh, like him too.” Your smile was bashful but unguarded. “He’s sweet, in his own weird, speedy way.”

Wanda smirked. “Well, I’m tired of watching him embarrass himself. Let’s do something about that.”

She proposed a plan: she’d lure Pietro to the observation deck, a quiet place perfect for stargazing, conveniently around the same time you’d be there. An accidental rendezvous, if you will. That evening, you stood on the open-air platform, staring up at the twinkling sky. The gentle wind ruffled your hair as you waited. Right on cue, Pietro arrived—though not at his usual breakneck speed. He sauntered in, probably coached by Wanda to “act normal,” though you could see the pulse in his neck beating fast.

“So,” you said, turning to face him. “Wanda said you wanted to talk?”

Pietro swallowed, his confidence visibly slipping. “I—yes, I did. But I—I didn’t know she’d, you know, ambush me like this. Not that I mind talking to you!” He paused to take a breath, clearly annoyed at himself for rambling. “Look,” he began again, more softly, “I like you. A lot.”

Your face heated at his directness. “Well, that’s good, because I feel the same way.”

The relief that flooded Pietro’s features was priceless, like he was finally able to breathe. “Seriously? Because sometimes I worry I’m, uh, coming off as a total dork—”

“Dork’s a strong word,” you teased, stepping a bit closer. “I’d say adorable.”

Pietro blinked. “Adorable? Me? That’s new.”

You laughed, the sound echoing sweetly under the stars. Without thinking, Pietro reached for your hand. Not to whisk you away at supersonic speed, but to gently lace his fingers through yours. “Maybe,” he ventured, “we could do something not orchestrated by my meddling sister? Like an actual date?”

Your nod was immediate. “I’d love that.”

When the two of you finally returned inside, hand in hand, it was as if the entire compound had been lying in wait. Clint almost dropped a bowl of popcorn in shock, while Tony paused mid-sip of his coffee, eyebrows shooting up. “Well, well,” Tony said, smirking. “Looks like Speedy finally found his voice.”

Pietro rolled his eyes but couldn’t hide the grin. “Yeah, yeah, laugh it up, Tin Man." From across the room, Wanda gave a thumbs-up, wiggling her eyebrows. You mouthed a “thank you,” and she winked.

179 notes · View notes

urdreamydoodles · 3 days ago

Note

MCU characters and how they meet their soulmate ?

MCU CHARACTERS X FEM!READER

How they meet their soulmates

Characters: Tony Stark, Steve Rogers, Natasha Romanoff, Bruce Banner, Clint Barton, Bucky Barnes, Sam Wilson, Peter Parker (Tom H.), Stephen Strange, Thor Odinson, Loki Laufeyson, T'Challa, Marc Spector, Steven Grant, Jake Lockley, Scott Lang, Matt Murdock, Frank Castle, Benjamin "Dex" Poindexter, Wanda Maximoff, Pietro Maximoff, Wade Wilson & Logan Howlett

Tony Stark

- You do not meet Tony Stark the way people meet in books or movies. There is no slow unraveling, no lingering glances across a crowded room. No, Tony Stark arrives in your life like an explosion—sudden, blinding, impossible to ignore. He is a force of nature, all sharp wit and arrogance, a storm wrapped in designer suits and expensive cologne. And yet, beneath the flash, beneath the charm, there is something else. A tiredness. A weight he carries behind his smirk.

- He notices you before you notice him. And that is saying something, because Tony Stark does not spend time watching people—he is the one being watched. But you are different. You are not awed by him, not tripping over yourself to impress him. You challenge him. And Tony Stark, for all his genius, cannot resist a challenge. “Do I know you?” he asks, as if he hasn’t already run through every possible scenario of how to get you to notice him.

- You meet in the middle of chaos, because that is where Tony lives. A gala, a lab, a battlefield—it doesn’t matter. He sees you, and the world shifts just slightly on its axis. But love? No, love is not something Tony allows himself to believe in anymore. Love means loss. Love means pain. But you are persistent in the way the sun rises, in the way the ocean reaches for the shore. And maybe—just maybe—Tony Stark is tired of running.

- He flirts, of course. It is his armor, his shield. But there is something different in the way he teases you, in the way he watches your reactions like a scientist studying the most fascinating discovery of his life. “You must be new,” he says, tilting his head. “Because I’m pretty sure I’d remember someone like you.” And when you roll your eyes instead of blushing, when you match him word for word, something in his chest clicks into place.

- He does not call you his soulmate. That word is too soft, too fragile. But one day, when the world is quiet, when he is half-asleep and you are curled beside him, he murmurs, “I think… if I believed in fate, it would look a lot like you.” And in the morning, when he pretends he doesn’t remember saying it, you only smile. Because Tony Stark may not believe in soulmates—but he believes in you. And that is enough.

Steve Rogers

- You meet Steve Rogers the way a ship meets the shore—gradually, naturally, like something inevitable. He does not rush toward love, does not chase it down like a man afraid of time. No, Steve Rogers has patience. And when he looks at you, it is not with the urgency of a man who fears loss, but with the quiet certainty of someone who knows exactly what he wants.

- He notices the little things. The way you tilt your head when you listen, the way your fingers drum against your thigh when you’re thinking. Steve is observant, not just because of the soldier in him, but because he cares. He does not love lightly, does not give his heart in pieces. When he loves, it is whole. And that is why he waits. Waits until he knows you see him not just as Captain America, not just as a man out of time, but as Steve.

- You do not fall into each other. There is no whirlwind, no reckless rush. Instead, there is understanding, companionship. It starts as friendship, because that is the foundation of everything Steve Rogers believes in. “You’re easy to talk to,” he admits one evening, leaning against a doorway, his arms crossed over his chest. And the way he looks at you then—soft, steady, certain—it is a look that says more than words ever could.

- When he touches you, it is with reverence. Not because he is afraid you will break, but because he wants you to know—to feel—that you are something precious. A brush of fingers against yours, the warmth of his palm against your lower back. He does not need grand gestures, does not need elaborate confessions. His love is in the way he listens, in the way he stands beside you in a crowded room, in the way his eyes soften when they find yours.

- The moment he knows, truly knows, is quiet. No fanfare, no dramatic revelation. Just a moment—simple and perfect. You are laughing at something, a sound so genuine and free that it tugs something deep in his chest. And that is when it hits him. This is home. You are home. And Steve Rogers has spent too many years without one to let this slip away.

Natasha Romanoff

- Love is not something Natasha Romanoff trusts. It is a foreign language, a place she has never dared to call home. She has seen what love does—how it weakens, how it breaks. And yet, when she meets you, something shifts. Not in a way that is loud or obvious, but in the smallest of ways. In the way her walls do not feel as necessary. In the way your presence does not feel like a threat.

- She does not flirt, not in the way most people do. Her affection is in her attention, in the way she remembers things others overlook. Your favorite drink, the way you fidget when you’re nervous, the songs you hum under your breath when you think no one is listening. Natasha watches, learns, memorizes. Because that is how she protects, how she cares.

- You do not realize she has chosen you until one day, you find yourself safe in her presence. There is something unspoken between you, something steady. You do not have to ask for her loyalty; it is simply there. And when she does touch you—fingertips grazing your wrist, the ghost of a smile as she tugs you closer—it is deliberate. Natasha Romanoff does nothing by accident.

- She lets you see pieces of her that others do not. The way she tilts her head toward the sunlight, the way her laughter is rare but real when it comes. She lets you in—not all at once, but slowly, cautiously, as if waiting for the moment you will turn away. And when you don’t, when you stay—that is when she begins to believe in the possibility of us.

- One day, in the quiet of an empty room, she speaks—not with words, but with her hands, with the way she leans into you, with the way her forehead rests against yours. And in that moment, she is not Black Widow, not an assassin, not a spy. She is just Natasha. And for the first time in a long, long time, she is not afraid.

Bruce Banner

- Bruce does not believe in soulmates, not in the traditional sense. The idea that someone could look at him—at all of him—and not be afraid? That is not something he allows himself to hope for. He has spent too many years running, hiding, keeping his distance. Because love, in his world, is dangerous.

- When he meets you, he is wary. Not because he does not like you, but because he does. And that is terrifying. You are warmth, kindness, something soft in a world that has never been soft to him. And so he keeps his distance at first, watching from afar, convincing himself that he is only curious. But curiosity turns to admiration. And admiration? That is a dangerous thing.

- You are patient with him. You do not push, do not demand. You simply exist beside him, a presence that is neither overwhelming nor suffocating. And for Bruce, that is everything. One day, he catches himself reaching for you—without thinking, without fear. His fingers barely brush yours, but the moment feels monumental. Because for the first time in years, he is not pulling away.

- He falls in love in moments, in increments. In the way you talk about things you love, in the way you tilt your head when you listen. And one day, when you look at him—really look at him—with no fear, no hesitation, he thinks: Maybe. Maybe this could be real.

- When he finally says it, it is not a grand confession. It is quiet, almost hesitant. “I think… I think I’m in love with you.” And when you smile, when you take his hand without hesitation, he exhales a breath he did not know he was holding. Because for the first time, Bruce Banner is not afraid of himself. Not when you are beside him.

Clint Barton

- You don’t meet Clint Barton in a way that feels significant at first. There’s no dramatic music, no lingering glances across a battlefield. He’s just there, like he’s always been, like he always will be. Steady. Reliable. He notices you before you notice him, blending into the background like a shadow, like a ghost. But Clint Barton doesn’t waste time on people he doesn’t think matter, and the way he watches you—curious, assessing, interested—means that, somehow, without trying, you’ve already become important to him.

- He isn’t flashy, isn’t loud. He doesn’t sweep you off your feet or try to impress you. That’s not Clint’s way. Instead, he worms his way into your life so naturally that you don’t realize it’s happening until one day, you’re reaching for your coffee, and he’s already got one waiting for you. Until you’re in the middle of a conversation, and he finishes your thought before you do. Until you catch yourself looking for him in a crowded room, and the moment you find him, his eyes are already on you.

- He makes you laugh. Not in the practiced way of a man trying to win someone over, but in the way that feels easy. Like it’s second nature. “You’re trouble,” he says one day, shaking his head as he smirks at you. “I like trouble.” And maybe you should be wary, maybe you should tread carefully, but Clint Barton is the kind of man who makes you feel safe even as he leads you straight into danger.

- It’s in the small things, the details. The way he stands between you and an exit without thinking. The way he nudges his food onto your plate when he sees you eyeing it. The way he never quite lets you out of his sight, as if he’s already memorized a hundred different ways to keep you safe without you ever realizing. Clint Barton is a protector by nature, but with you, it’s personal.

- He never says the words soulmate, never makes grand declarations. But one night, when it’s just the two of you and the world feels quiet, he murmurs, “Wherever you go, I’ll find you.” And in his voice, in his eyes, you hear the promise: Always.

Bucky Barnes

- Bucky Barnes does not believe in fate. He does not believe in soulmates. He does not believe in a world that gives people things without demanding something in return. So when he meets you, when something deep inside him stirs in a way it hasn’t in decades, he does not trust it. Does not trust you. Not because you’ve done anything wrong, but because he has learned, over and over again, that good things do not stay.

- He tries to ignore it. Tries to ignore you. But Bucky Barnes has never been good at lying to himself. Not when you laugh and something in his chest tightens, not when you look at him like he’s just a man—not a soldier, not a weapon, not a ghost. And that? That is dangerous. Because Bucky Barnes does not know what to do with kindness, not when it’s freely given.

- You are patient with him. You do not push, do not pry. You simply exist beside him, letting him come to you in his own time. And it is that patience that undoes him. Because Bucky has spent too long being feared, too long being avoided. But you? You are not afraid. You meet his silence with understanding, his hesitation with warmth. You never ask for more than he can give. And that? That is why he wants to give you everything.

- The first time he touches you, it is tentative. Fingertips brushing against yours, brief but deliberate. It is a test, a question without words. And when you do not flinch, when you do not pull away, something in him shifts. He lets himself be closer after that. Lets himself want. Because maybe, just maybe, he is not as broken as he thought.

- He does not tell you he loves you. Not with words, not at first. But one night, when he is half-asleep, when the world is quiet and his guard is down, he exhales against your skin and murmurs, “You’re my safe place.” And that? That is enough. That is everything.

Sam Wilson

- Sam Wilson is warmth. He is laughter and easy smiles, the kind of man who makes strangers feel like old friends. And when he meets you, it is no different. He is charming, quick-witted, effortlessly magnetic. But beneath all of that, beneath the teasing and the grins, there is depth. There is steadiness. Because Sam Wilson does not love halfway.

- He flirts with you before he realizes he’s doing it. “You got a smile that could end wars,” he tells you, and when you roll your eyes and call him out on it, he just grins. But what starts as playful banter shifts into something real, something deeper. Because you are interesting, and Sam Wilson is a man who chases the things that make life worth living.

- He is observant. Picks up on things before you ever say them. He knows when you’re holding back, knows when you need space, knows when to push and when to stay silent. And that? That is what makes him dangerous. Because Sam Wilson does not just see people—he understands them. And when he starts understanding you, when he starts peeling back the layers, it is impossible not to fall.

- He makes you feel light. Not in the sense that he takes away your burdens, but in the way he carries them with you. He does not ask you to change, does not try to fix you. He just stands beside you, unwavering, unshaken. And that? That is what makes him different.

- The moment he knows is quiet. No grand revelation, no dramatic confession. Just a moment—a simple, perfect moment—where you laugh at something stupid, and he thinks, Oh. There you are. And from that moment on, there is no turning back.

Peter Parker (Tom H.)

- Peter Parker falls in love like he does everything else: all at once, headfirst, completely. He does not ease into things, does not take his time. No, Peter Parker feels—deeply, intensely, without hesitation. And when he meets you, it is immediate. A spark, a pull. Like gravity has just shifted, and suddenly, you are at the center of his universe.

- He is awkward, at first. Stumbles over his words when he gets nervous. But when he talks to you about things he loves—science, Star Wars, the feeling of swinging through the city at night—his nerves disappear. Because Peter Parker may be shy, but he is passionate, and when he lets you in, when he shares the things that make his heart race, it is the most honest kind of intimacy.

- He looks at you like you are the most fascinating thing he has ever seen. Like he is memorizing every detail, storing it away for later. The way your eyes crinkle when you smile, the way your voice sounds when you say his name. And when he falls, it is not gradual. It is instant. A realization that hits him like a train: Oh. It’s you. It’s always been you.

- He gets flustered when you touch him, no matter how small the gesture. A hand on his arm, fingers brushing his. It takes everything in him not to combust on the spot. But the first time you kiss him? He forgets how to breathe. Because Peter Parker has dreamed of a lot of things, but nothing—nothing—has ever felt like this.

- When he tells you, it is rushed, breathless, spilling out of him like he can’t hold it in any longer. “I love you,” he blurts out, wide-eyed and terrified. But when you smile, when you take his hand and squeeze, he exhales a breath he didn’t realize he was holding. Because Peter Parker may not always know what he’s doing, but with you? He is sure.

Stephen Strange

- Stephen Strange does not believe in soulmates. He believes in logic, in science, in the tangible threads of reality that can be pulled and shaped at will. Love, in his mind, is chemical, nothing more. But when he meets you, something in him hesitates. A fraction of a second too long. A moment where time stretches and bends, and he is caught in it.

- He tells himself it is coincidence, this way you linger in his thoughts long after you’ve gone. That it is simple curiosity, nothing deeper. But then he begins to seek you. Subtly, at first. A glance across the Sanctum, a conversation extended a few minutes longer than necessary. And then, before he even realizes it, you have become necessary.

- He resists it. Of course he does. Stephen Strange is not a man who falls easily, and he is certainly not a man who hands over his heart without a fight. But you—you—slip through the cracks of his carefully constructed walls like light through ancient stone. And for all his knowledge, for all his power, he does not know how to stop it.

- He begins to notice things. The way your hands move when you speak, the way your lips curve before a smile fully forms. The way his name sounds softer when you say it. He hates that he notices. Hates that it matters. Because Stephen Strange is a man who has lost too much, and the idea of wanting something—someone—so deeply is terrifying.

- But one night, when the world is quiet and he is exhausted in a way that magic cannot heal, you touch his hand. A simple gesture, nothing grand. And yet, it is enough to unravel him. Because in that moment, he understands: he has already fallen. And this time, for the first time in a long, long while, he does not want to get back up.

Thor Odinson

- When Thor Odinson meets you, it is with the full force of a storm. He does not quietly fall in love. No, he crashes into it. Like thunder against the sky, like lightning through his veins. He sees you, and in that instant, you are known to him. A force as undeniable as the pull of Mjolnir in his grasp.

- He is immediate in his affection. In the way he smiles, in the way he speaks your name like a declaration. Thor does not hesitate. He does not play games. He wants, and he shows it. You are magnificent, he tells you. You are radiant. You are the sun itself, and he is not ashamed to orbit you.

- He watches you with reverence, as though you are something divine. He listens—truly listens—when you speak, as if every word you say is worthy of being carved into history. And when he laughs, it is unrestrained, full-bodied, a sound that shakes the air between you. He laughs with you more than he has in years, and it is then he realizes: he is home.

- He is protective, but never possessive. He trusts you. And that trust is sacred. He does not doubt your strength, does not seek to cage you. Instead, he stands beside you, a storm at your back, a warrior at your side. And if ever you should fall, know this: he will tear apart the heavens to catch you.

- One night, as the stars stretch endless above you, he turns to you, expression unguarded, voice low with certainty. “I have lived a thousand years,” he murmurs, “and yet I think I have only just begun. Because you—you are where my life truly starts.” And with that, the sky itself seems to hold its breath.

Loki Laufeyson

- Loki does not fall in love. That is what he tells himself. Love is a trick, a weapon wielded by the foolish, and he has long since sworn to never be such a fool. But then there is you. And suddenly, everything he has ever known begins to unravel.

- He resists you at first. Pushes, teases, taunts. If he can keep you at a distance, if he can make you believe he does not care, then perhaps it will be true. But you are not so easily deterred. You see through his sharp words, through his smirks and his laughter that never quite reaches his eyes. You see him. And that? That is dangerous.

- You match him, step for step, wit for wit. You are not afraid of him, and that is what terrifies him most. Because he has built his life around being untouchable, unreachable. And yet, here you stand, hands open, eyes steady. You do not ask for the parts of him he is unwilling to give. You simply wait, patient, unyielding.

- And then, one day, without realizing, he gives. A glance held a moment too long, a touch that lingers. A secret whispered between you, something sacred, something real. He does not say the words, not yet, perhaps not ever. But you know.

- Because Loki Laufeyson does not love lightly. His love is sharp, it is consuming, it is fierce and endless. And when he loves, it is not a fleeting thing. No, when he loves—when he loves—it is forever.

T’Challa

- T’Challa is a man who carries the weight of an entire nation on his shoulders. He is a king before he is anything else. He does not have the luxury of reckless love, of foolish infatuation. But then there is you, and suddenly, he begins to wonder if perhaps the gods have written you into his story all along.

- He notices you first in silence. The way you move, the way you are. Strength and grace intertwined. He is drawn to you, though he does not yet know why. It is not a matter of beauty—though you are, undeniably, beautiful. It is something deeper. Something that hums beneath his skin like an unspoken truth.

- He is careful, at first. Measured. T’Challa does not rush, does not leap without looking. But as the days pass, he finds himself seeking you out, lingering in conversations he once would have ended quickly. And when he speaks to you, when he listens, it is not as a king, but as a man.

- He is deliberate in his affections. Every touch, every glance, every word is given with intention. There is no hesitation, no uncertainty. He knows what he wants, and he chooses you. Not because of fate, not because of prophecy, but because he wills it so.

- One night, beneath Wakanda’s endless sky, he turns to you and says, voice rich with quiet certainty, “A king’s heart belongs to his people. But my soul, my soul—it belongs to you.” And in that moment, there is no crown, no throne—only him, only you, only the promise of forever.

Marc Spector

- Marc Spector does not believe in soulmates. He barely believes in himself. His life has been shaped by war, by violence, by loss. Love? Love is dangerous. Love is something to be taken away. And yet, when he meets you, something in him stirs. A quiet ache, a pull he does not want to name.

- He does not make it easy. He keeps his distance, walls high, gaze sharp. He is kind, in his own way—offering gruff concern, a jacket when you’re cold, a silent presence when the world grows too loud. But he does not let you in. Because he knows what happens when you love something. You lose it.

- But you do not scare easily. You do not demand softness from him, do not reach for the broken pieces and try to fix them. You simply stay. And that? That terrifies him more than anything. Because Marc has spent his whole life running, and now, for the first time, he wonders what it would mean to stop.

- The moment he realizes he loves you is quiet. Unassuming. A night like any other, the world reduced to nothing but your breathing beside him, the way your fingers brush against his own. It is not grand. It is not a revelation. It is simply true. And he does not know what to do with that truth.

- But love is not something he can fight—not this, not you. And so, in his own way, in his own time, he lets himself have you. A hesitant touch. A murmured confession. A love that is raw and aching and real. And when he finally holds you, truly holds you, he whispers against your skin, "I don’t know how to do this. But I want to." And for him, for you, that is enough.

Steven Grant

- Steven Grant believes in soulmates. How could he not? He has spent his life buried in stories, in myths, in ancient echoes of love that spanned across time. He does not think he is meant for something so grand—not him, not quiet, lonely Steven. But then, one day, he meets you, and suddenly, the world is not quite so lonely anymore.

- He falls fast. Hard. Like a man who has been waiting for a single drop of water in a desert, only to be given the ocean. He stumbles over his words around you, fidgets under your gaze. But oh, the way he looks at you. As if you are a wonder carved into history, as if he is memorizing every part of you like scripture.

- He wants to know everything. What makes you laugh, what makes you sad, what dreams live inside your head. He listens, truly listens, as if every word you speak is sacred. And when you ask about him, he hesitates, shy but eager, because no one has ever wanted to know him the way you do.

- He is gentle in his love. Soft-spoken confessions, hands hovering like he’s afraid you might disappear. But make no mistake—his love is fierce. It is unwavering. It is yours. And he would give you every star in the sky if you asked, even if he had to climb to the heavens himself to retrieve them.

- One night, he holds your hand in his, thumb tracing over your knuckles, gaze earnest. "I think, maybe, I was always meant to find you," he says, voice quiet but certain. "Like one of those myths, yeah? The ones where two souls are tied together, across lifetimes." And with that, his fate is sealed. Because Steven Grant does not love lightly. He loves forever.

Jake Lockley

- Jake Lockley does not speak of love. He does not believe in fate or destiny or the soft promises that come with them. Love, to him, is just another game. Another risk. One he is not willing to take. But then there is you. And suddenly, every rule he has ever followed begins to crack.

- He watches you before he lets himself know you. Observes. Studies. You are a puzzle he does not understand, and yet, he cannot stop looking. You move through his world like something untouchable, and yet, he aches to touch. To have. But Jake does not get to have things. And so, he fights it.

- But love, real love, is relentless. And you? You are patient. You do not push, do not demand. You see him, in a way no one ever has. And for the first time in his life, he does not feel the need to run. He does not feel the need to hide.

- When he finally gives in, it is not with words. It is in the way he stands closer than necessary, the way his fingers skim your wrist like a whisper. The way he shields you in a fight, not because he thinks you are weak, but because the thought of losing you is unbearable. His love is unspoken, but it is fierce.

- One night, after too much silence, after too many unsaid things, he finally turns to you and murmurs, "You’re mine." Not a question. Not a plea. A statement, low and rough with something he does not dare name. And when you do not pull away, when you only smile, he knows—he is yours just as much.

Scott Lang

- Scott Lang falls in love like he does everything else—with his whole heart, unguarded and eager. He is not subtle. He does not play it cool. He sees you, and suddenly, you are the best thing to ever happen to him.

- He flirts, shamelessly, but there is no arrogance in it. Just warmth, just affection. He wants to make you laugh. Wants to see you happy. Because, for him, there is no greater joy than making you smile. And when you do, when you so much as glance at him with amusement, he swears he feels lighter.

- He tells himself he is being ridiculous. That it is too soon, too much. But Scott has lost too much to waste time pretending. He wants to know you. Wants to hear about the things you love, the things you hate, the things that make you you. Because you? You are worth knowing.

- When he realizes he loves you, it is not some grand revelation. It is in the small moments. The way you roll your eyes at his bad jokes but laugh anyway. The way you remember the little things he says, even when he forgets them himself. The way you fit into his life like you have always been there.

- One night, without thinking, he blurts it out. “I love you.” Just like that. No pretense, no hesitation. And when you look at him, eyes wide, he only grins, shrugging. “What? I do.” Because Scott Lang may be many things—reckless, impulsive, a little bit of a mess—but when he loves, he loves openly, fully, honestly. And there is nothing in this world he would rather be than yours.

Matt Murdock

- Matt Murdock has always lived in the dark. It is familiar, predictable. He has built his world out of quiet suffering, out of whispered prayers and clenched fists. Love? Love is something distant. Something dangerous. And yet, when he meets you, he feels the earth shift beneath his feet.

- He does not know what to do with you. You are light, and he has spent too long in the shadows. But oh, how he wants. How he aches. He hears the steady rhythm of your heart, the way it stutters when he gets too close, the way your breath hitches when he says your name. And he knows. Knows that this, whatever it is, is real.

- But Matt is a man of guilt, of sacrifice. He convinces himself he does not deserve you. That his life is too dangerous, that you are better off without him. So he keeps his distance. Wears his charm like armor, keeps his touches fleeting, his words careful. But love? Love has never been something he could fight.

- One night, after a battle that leaves him bloody and broken, he finds himself at your door. He does not speak, does not explain. He just stands there, breathing heavy, hands shaking. And when you reach for him, when you pull him inside and whisper his name like a prayer, he realizes—he was always going to be yours.

- When he finally admits it, it is quiet. A confession murmured in the dark, between shared breaths and tangled sheets. "I tried to stay away," he tells you, voice rough with something fragile. "I couldn’t." And you do not tell him that you already knew. That you had felt it in every touch, in every stolen glance. Instead, you press your lips to his and whisper, "Then don’t." And he doesn’t. Not ever again.

Frank Castle

- Frank Castle does not believe in love. Not anymore. He once had a heart, a home, a future. He once had everything. And then, in a single moment, it was all taken from him. Now, love is nothing but a ghost—something that lingers in the spaces between grief and rage. Something he can never have again.

- And then, there’s you. And suddenly, the world is not so quiet anymore. Suddenly, there is something—someone—that makes him pause. That makes him feel something other than anger, other than loss. And it terrifies him. Because Frank knows what happens when he loves something. It dies.

- He tries to push you away. He is cruel, sometimes, in the way that broken men are. Short words, cold silences. He convinces himself it is for your own good. But you? You are relentless. Not in a loud way, not in a desperate way. Just in the way you stay. In the way you look at him like he is worth saving.

- The first time he lets himself have you, it is a surrender, not a victory. A slow, aching unraveling. He grips you too tightly, kisses you like a man who does not believe in second chances. And when he pulls away, when he looks at you like you are something holy, something his, he does not say "I love you." He does not have to.

- Frank Castle loves with his hands, with his body, with the way he shields you in a fight, the way he pulls you close at night like the world might steal you away. He does not speak of forever, because he does not believe in it. But when he looks at you, when he stays, you know—he would burn the whole world down before he ever lost you.

Benjamin "Dex" Poindexter

- Dex has always been searching for something. For someone. His whole life, he has wanted to belong. To be seen, to be chosen. And then he meets you, and for the first time, the world makes sense. Because you see him. You do not flinch. You do not run.

- He is drawn to you like a moth to flame, reckless and desperate. He wants you, needs you, in a way that is terrifying in its intensity. But Dex does not know how to love gently. He loves like an obsession, like a wound that will not heal. He wants all of you, wants you to need him just as much.

- He is good at pretending. At being charming, being normal. But with you? With you, the mask slips. And when you do not pull away, when you meet his darkness with steady hands and patient eyes, something inside him cracks. He has never been given love without conditions, without expectation. And he does not know what to do with it.

- The first time he truly breaks in front of you, it is ugly. A night filled with too much anger, too much pain. His hands shake, his breath ragged. "Tell me to leave," he whispers, voice raw. "Tell me you don’t want me." But you don’t. You never do. And that? That is what undoes him.

- Love does not fix him. It does not erase the sharp edges, the fractures in his soul. But it gives him something real. And for the first time in his life, he is chosen. Not as a weapon. Not as a tool. But as a man. And that? That is enough.

Wanda Maximoff

- Wanda Maximoff has always known loss. It is woven into her bones, into the very fabric of her being. She does not expect love. Does not dare hope for it. Because everything she loves is taken from her, and she does not think she could survive losing anything else.

- And yet, when she meets you, something inside her shifts. It is slow, hesitant. She does not trust it, does not trust herself. But you? You are patient. You do not push. Do not demand. You simply exist, warm and steady, a presence she never realized she needed.

- She loves you before she even realizes it. In the way she reaches for you first, in the way your laughter softens the sharp edges of her world. But Wanda is afraid of love. Afraid of what it could mean, of what it could cost. She tries to keep her distance, but it is already too late. You are in her veins, in her breath, in the spaces between heartbeats.

- The first time she says it, it is not in words. It is in the way she looks at you, magic flickering at her fingertips, a silent promise woven between them. It is in the way she lets herself need you, in the way she trusts you with parts of herself she has never shared before.

- Wanda Maximoff does not love in halves. She loves with her whole soul, with a devotion that is fierce and unyielding. She does not promise you forever—she has learned not to trust forever. But she promises you now. And for her, for you, that is everything.

Pietro Maximoff

- Pietro Maximoff has always lived like a storm—fast, reckless, untouchable. The world has never been able to keep up with him, and he has never minded. Until you. Until the moment he meets you, and for the first time in his life, something makes him want to slow down.

- He falls for you without realizing it. At first, it is playful—quick remarks, teasing smiles, fingers brushing yours for just a second too long. But then it is more. It is the way his body moves toward yours before his mind catches up. The way his heart races for reasons that have nothing to do with speed.

- Love terrifies him. He has lost too much, too many. His sister, his home, his past—all ghosts that whisper warnings. But you? You make him forget to be afraid. You make him believe, for just a moment, that maybe—maybe—he was never meant to run alone.

- The first time he realizes it, truly feels it, it is quiet. No jokes, no flirting. Just the way you look at him, like he is worth something. Like he is more than a blur, more than a joke made of speed and bravado. And in that moment, he knows—he is yours.

- Pietro Maximoff does not love in small ways. He loves like the wind—wild, consuming, everywhere all at once. He leaves notes in places only you will find, brings you flowers at impossible speeds, holds you like he is afraid you will disappear. And maybe, just maybe, for the first time in his life, he isn’t running away from something. He is running to you.

Peter Quill

- Peter Quill has spent his whole life with his head in the stars, chasing the next thrill, the next adventure. Love? Love is a complication, a risk. He has lost too much, and he knows better than to hope. But then there’s you. And suddenly, the galaxy does not feel so big anymore.

- He fights it at first. Makes jokes, turns everything into a game. But it’s a losing battle. Because you see through him. See the man beneath the charm, beneath the cocky smirk and quick wit. And worse? You don’t turn away.

- He doesn’t know how to handle it. He is reckless with his feelings, careless with his heart. He pushes, then pulls, then pushes again. But you stay. You match him joke for joke, but when it counts, when it matters, you are there. And that? That undoes him.

- The first time he calls you his, it is unplanned. A fight, a close call, adrenaline in his veins. "Don’t touch my girl," he growls, fists clenched, eyes burning. And when it’s over, when you’re safe, he looks at you—uncertain, hesitant. But you just smile, because you had known long before he did.

- Peter Quill does not love with caution. He loves in grand gestures and stolen songs, in whispered confessions under alien skies. He plays you mixtapes, sings to you when he thinks you aren’t listening. And when he holds you, it is with the quiet desperation of a man who has spent his whole life searching for something he did not think he could have. Until you.

Wade Wilson (Fox)

- Wade Wilson does not believe in soulmates. He does not believe in much of anything anymore. The world has taken too much, left him too broken. He is a man stitched together with bad jokes and worse decisions, and love? Love is for people with futures.

- And then there is you. And suddenly, love is not some distant thing. It is here. It is real. And Wade—God help him—does not know what to do with it. So he does what he always does. He hides behind sarcasm, behind crude jokes and exaggerated bravado. But you? You just see him.

- The first time he realizes he loves you, it is terrifying. Because it is not a loud thing. Not some big, dramatic moment. It is the way you look at him without flinching, the way you laugh at his worst jokes, the way you stay even when he gives you every reason not to.

- He tries to push you away. Tries to convince you that he is not worth it. But you are stubborn. You kiss the scars, touch the jagged edges of him without fear. And when you whisper, "I love you," he cannot breathe. Because for the first time in a long, long time, he believes it.

- Wade Wilson does not love easily, but when he does, it is all-consuming. He loves in stolen moments and whispered jokes, in fierce, desperate touches and ridiculous, over-the-top gestures. He calls you a hundred stupid nicknames, leaves you notes in the weirdest places, holds you like you are the only thing keeping him tethered to the world. Because maybe, just maybe, you are.

Logan Howlett (Fox)

- Logan has lived too long, lost too much. He does not believe in love. Not anymore. He has seen it ripped away too many times, left too many ghosts in his wake. He is a man built for war, for pain. And yet, when he meets you, something inside him shifts.

- He resists it. God, he resists it. He grunts instead of speaks, glares instead of softens. He convinces himself that you are better off without him. That he is a man made of blood and violence, and you—you—deserve something gentle. Something whole.

- But love is not something he can fight. It is in the way you touch him, like he is not a weapon, not a monster. In the way you hold his hand like it is not something meant for killing. And Logan? Logan is tired of fighting.

- The first time he says it, it is rough, almost angry. "I love you," he growls, like it is being ripped from his chest. And when you smile—when you accept it—something inside him breaks. Because he had never thought this was meant for him. Had never thought he could have this.

- Logan Howlett does not love gently. He loves in quiet, protective touches, in fierce, desperate devotion. He loves in the way he stands in front of you in a fight, the way he holds you at night like he is afraid you will vanish. He does not promise forever—he has lived too long to believe in it. But he promises you. And that? That is more than enough.

439 notes · View notes