#spector!reader

[delicatebarness]

the manuscript | chapter one

Summary: Vulnerable and Honest.

Warnings: Age Gap. (Dr Barnes: late 40s & Reader: early 20s) Smut.

Word Count: 1408

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A/N: I'm so sorry Peter. - Please feel free to leave feedback or let me know where and how you want the story to continue, this is just as much yours as it is mine. - B

Tags: @mostlymarvelgirl | @mrsnikstan

You tried to focus, to be present in the moment. The room was dimly lit, and the bass from the party outside thudded against the walls. Peter moved behind you, his breath heavy. Every touch felt mechanical and predictable. 

His hands gripped your hips, pressing himself closer. “You feel amazing,” he murmured as his breathing became ragged. You forced a moan, you wanted to match his enthusiasm, you wanted to let go. Closing your eyes, you tried to immerse yourself in the sensations but your mind wandered. 

Your thoughts drifted to upcoming assignments, the laundry that had started piling up, and whether the milk would go bad. 

Peter’s pace quickened, as he neared his climax, his grip on your hips tightened. “I’m close,” he whispered. Arching your back, you pushed yourself closer to him. It was no use, you felt it going through the motions—his movements, were erratic, and his breathing was heavy. 

With a satisfied grown, he finished, collapsing onto the bed beside you. You followed his lead, lying beside him as he sighed contently. He rolled the condom off, tossing it toward the bin beside his bed, before wrapping an arm around you. 

His chest heaved as he caught his breath. “That was great,” he smiled down at you, his voice drowsy. Forcing a smile, you nodded. 

It didn’t take long for him to drift off to sleep. But, you lay awake, staring at the bedroom ceiling. Your mind replayed your mental to-do list as the music continued into the night. 

Slipping out of bed, you made your way toward the bathroom. Closing the door behind you, you swiftly turned the lock as the sound of the party muffled. You started at your reflection in the mirror as you leaned against the sick. 

Turning the tap, you let the cool water run over your hands before splashing your face. As you thought about your assignments, your mind drifted to Dr. Barnes. His presence, and how it commanded your attention. His piercing eyes, the way they would lock onto yours during debates. 

Your hand traveled down your body, looking for the release that Peter’s touch failed to find. Vivid images of Dr. Barnes– his hands, voice, and stare continued to play on your mind. Your fantasies grew, consuming your mind as you imagined his touch. His whispered words of encouragement. 

The tension built quickly within you, eagerly your body responded to your forbidden thoughts. Biting your lip, you tried to stifle your sighs. Not that anyone could hear over the party and music. The pleasure you found in your touch was intense, immediate, and driven. 

Your breath quickened as you remembered the thrill of intellectual sparring, always leaving you craving more.

A wave of pleasure washed over you, trembling, you struggled to keep quiet. Your mind was lost in the ecstasy. The release you were desperate for earlier in the night. 

As the sensations subsided, you leaned against the sick again. A mix of guilt and satisfaction coursed through you as you tried to steady your breathing. 

Taking a deep breath, you washed your hands and splashed your face. Returning to the bedroom, careful not to make eye contact with the other’s still partying. Peter, still sound asleep, blissfully unaware of your betrayal. 

Sliding back into bed, you found your gaze back on the bedroom ceiling, your mind a tangled, complicated mess of desires. 

~

Pushing aside the tangled thoughts and desires that had consumed your night, you rose from Peter’s bed with renewed determination. He slept soundly, unaware of the struggle you had faced internally. After going about your morning routine, you made your way to Dr. Barnes’ class. The lecture hall was already buzzing with students, the energy palpable as you entered. 

“Good morning, everyone,” Dr. Barnes stood at the front of the room, his voice commanding the attention of the room. “I trust you’ve all had a chance to review the reading for today.” his gaze lingered on yours for a moment longer than the others. 

He launched into details for the new assignment, memories of the previous night caused your mind to drift. Your desires for Dr. Barnes began to overshadow your commitment to your relationship with Peter, guilt gnawed at you. You tried to force your focus, trying to push these feelings aside. 

His voice delved into the intricacies of literary theory, weaving through concepts and ideas. He was a master storyteller. All attention riveted on Dr. Barnes as the hall around you fell silent, his presence and voice filled the space. 

As Dr. Barnes continued, he began to turn slightly, his glance sweeping across the room. His gaze lingered on you as if expecting your hand to be raised. He readied himself for another heated debate. 

“Yes, Miss Spector…?” Dr. Barnes began, his voice cutting through your fogged thoughts, pulling you back to the present. Blinking, startled, you realized that all eyes were now on you. 

“Yes, Dr. Barnes?” you replied, a small smile playing on your lips as you tried to mask your confusion. A slight blush rose to your cheeks with embarrassment, you hoping it would go unnoticed. 

He paused, lines formed across his forehead as a furrow formed between his brows. “You had something to add to the discussion?”

Your heart began to race, the thudding loud in your ears. “Oh, no, sorry,” you stammered, shaking your head slightly. “Lost in thought.”

“I see,” he said, softening his expression slightly, his tone measured. “Try to stay with us, Miss Spector. Your insights are valuable.” 

As he resumed his lecture, you sank back into your seat. This little incident was a reminder of the boundaries that separated you from Dr. Barnes. The line between student and teacher was clear at that moment. You noticed Yelena, one of your best friends, giving you a curious glance, but you avoided her eyes, choosing to focus on your notebook in front of you instead. You tried to refocus, attempting to immerse yourself in the material, and jotting down notes. 

You made a conscious effort to engage with the discussion as the class continued, asking questions and offering insights as normal. Dr. Barnes acknowledged you with a small nod, the silent encouragement that boosts your confidence. 

~

When the class finally drew to an end, Dr. Barnes gave out the new assignment, expressing his expectations and detailing the guidelines. 

You lingered behind as students began to pack up and leave. Approaching his desk, the weight of the unspoken connection between you two caused your heart to pound once more. 

“Dr. Barnes,” you began, keeping your voice steady. “Do you have any specific advice for approaching this assignment?” 

He looked up from his desk, his gaze meeting yours as a smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. “Authenticity in writing comes from personal experience. Write what you know.” 

You nodded, “Thank you,” you replied but didn’t move. You lingered, and Dr. Barnes noticed your hesitation. 

“Is there something else on your mind, Miss Spector?” he asked, his tone softer, almost inviting. 

Unsure of how much to professionally reveal, you hesitated. “I just… I, um, I’m struggling to find a personal angle that feels significant enough,” you admitted. “I want my writing to be… compelling like you said.” 

He leaned forward slightly, and his gaze intensified. “Well, compelling writing often comes from exploring parts of yourself that you’re the most afraid of, most afraid to reveal,” he paused for a moment, allowing you the opportunity to speak. You didn’t take it, focusing on his jaw tensing slightly. “It’s about being vulnerable, honest. Sometimes, the stories we’re most hesitant to tell are the ones that resonate the most.” 

His words struck a chord deep within you. “I understand,” you replied, your voice barely a whisper. “Thank you, Dr. Barnes.” 

You turned to leave, and just as you were about to walk out the door, he called after you. “Miss Spector,” his voice stopped you in your tracks. Your breath hitched as you turned back to face him. He stood now and leaned against his desk, rolling up the sleeves of his shirt. “Remember, my door is always open if you need further guidance.” 

“Thank you,” you replied, your gaze flickering down to his hands as they rested casually on his hips. “I appreciate it.” You left the lecture hall, your mind buzzing with a whirlwind of thought. His words lingered, echoing in your mind. Vulnerable, and honest.

---

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[thatboisus]

reading a good ass fanfic up until it said something that just makes you want to stop reading

[rana030]

Pov: you're reading fanfiction and suddenly y/n starts to call him daddy

[theshamelesssimp]

When you're reading a fanfic and suddenly the reader has a name

[l0caltiredgirl]

when i want fluff/angst fics and all i’m getting is smut

the struggle is real

[itshelia]

My mom to her friends, my aunts, and literally everyone she knows: Yeah, my kid is so smart. She is on her phone a lot of the time, but it's not like you guys think, She is not like how kids nowadays are, She reads a lot of books on her phone!!

Me, a fanfic reader who can survive off nothing but just words and day dreams herself to sleep:

[luffyssa]

[darkmemesworld]

Why when im scrolling through a tag i flashed by cho0chie 😦?

All jokes aside i had posted a meme and not even 3 minutes later it got flagged.. and im starting to see a lot of prn bots is it just me??? But why did my stuff get flagged but bots thats are showing naked people still up 🤔

[mymoonsight]

Reposting a comment I made on a post and adding to it

x Reader fics need to handle writing “reader” better sometimes

As a 6ft afab person who’s built like a man and has never been super feminine and has a more unique haircut that’s shorter I hate to read about “readers” petite, small, pale body and her “long flowy straight hair”, etc.

Reader is meant to be ambiguous!! And if it’s important to the plot please mention it at the beginning!!! If it’s not important to the plot why is it being included???

Some people who are reading may be tall, fat, skinny, short, or even somewhere in between. The readers could have a hijab, 4c hair, locks, braids, long hair, short hair, wavy, no hair and even more.

Stop making all readers so sweet and innocent, I want a reader who’s petty and sassy sometimes. I’ve noticed also that so many readers are either too baby to do anything or over powered.

Personally I also hate reading about obviously toxic men and relationships that the reader goes back to because they are “so in love”, like no please let me deck that sucker and leave them in the dust and be happier.

Also, if you label your post with the tag “___ x reader” or titled with “___ x reader” and then make descriptions and then ADD A NAME!!! It’s not an x reader fic and I heavily want to block you.

Edit:

Hey hello! I just wanted to add that I heavily respect and love fic writers! So many have a talent that I will never reach or have and I appreciate your content being put out at all! I made this post as a 5 am ramble and was half delirious lol

People can write as they please and I’ll ignore it if I’m not interested or I’ll make slight internal edits to fit me if I am

[aphrcdites]

“not all men”

you’re right, my favorite fictional character would never.

[urdreamydoodles]

MARVEL COMICS CHARACTERS x FEM!READER

Marvel Comics Characters Receiving a Dirty Picture from You in Public

Characters: Peter Parker, Tony Stark, Steve Rogers, Thor, Loki, Clint Barton, Natasha Romanoff, Bucky Barnes, Matthew Murdock, Frank Castle, Marc Spector, Johnny Storm, Reed Richards, Felicia Hardy, Stephen Strange, Namor, Johnny Blaze, Eddie Brock / Venom, T'Challa & Elektra Natchios

God, I love Marvel Comics...

Peter Parker aka. Spider-Man

Peter has been through a lot. He’s fought villains, lost people he’s loved, and carried the weight of responsibility since he was a kid. But nothing—not Venom, not Doctor Octopus, not the Green Goblin—has ever hit him as hard as opening his phone and seeing you.

He’s perched upside-down on a fire escape, mid-stakeout with Daredevil, when his phone buzzes. He barely glances at it at first, assuming it’s an update from MJ or the Bugle. But then—his Spidey-Sense misfires. His stomach drops. And suddenly, he’s scrambling so fast that he almost falls off the fire escape.

“...Parker?” Matt’s voice is suspicious, brow furrowing beneath the red mask. Peter clutches his phone like a lifeline, heat rushing to his face, his entire body going rigid. “Uh—nope! Nothing’s wrong! Totally fine! Just, uh—gotta—go!” Before Matt can say another word, Peter web-slings away, heart pounding.

Later, in his apartment, he stares at the image, biting his lip so hard he might draw blood. Then, fumbling with his phone, he types back: You cannot just drop this on me in the middle of a mission. I almost DIED. You’re gonna make it up to me. In person. Immediately.

Tony Stark aka. Iron Man

Tony Stark is always the one making people flustered. He’s the king of inappropriate timing, the grandmaster of chaos. So when you flip the game on him? When you send him something completely indecent while he’s in the middle of a live press conference? Oh, he is in trouble.

He’s mid-sentence, standing in front of a sea of reporters, when his phone vibrates. He glances at it without thinking, because hey, it might be about stock prices or another alien invasion. But no. No, it’s you. In the filthiest pose imaginable.

He visibly freezes. Blinks. Blanches. Then—his brain blue screens. The entire room stares as Tony suddenly cuts off mid-sentence, clears his throat, and forces a smirk that’s absolutely not covering up a crisis. “Uh—ladies and gentlemen, I think that’s enough questions for today.”

The moment he’s offstage, he stumbles into the nearest private room, yanks at his tie, and pulls out his phone like it holds the meaning of life. He types back immediately: Oh, now you’ve done it, sweetheart. I hope you’re home right now, because I’m on my way, and I’m bringing consequences.

Steve Rogers aka. Captain America

Steve is not a prude. He’s been around, he’s seen things. But there’s something about you—about the way you know exactly how to knock the breath from his lungs—that makes him feel like a kid again.

He’s in the middle of a strategy meeting with Sam and Bucky, his shield leaning against the table, when his phone vibrates. He checks it without thinking, eyes flicking down—and then every muscle in his body tenses. His grip on the phone tightens. His ears burn red.

“You good, Rogers?” Bucky gives him a knowing smirk, because he immediately recognizes that look—Steve flustered beyond belief. Steve clears his throat, hard, locking his phone like it’s offended him. “Fine,” he says, voice a little too even. “Let’s, uh—let’s keep going.”

But later, when he’s alone, he exhales deeply, pressing a hand over his face before looking at the image again. Then, with slow deliberation, he types: I hope you know what you just started. Because I don’t break my promises, sweetheart. And I promise—you’re not leaving that bed when I get there.

Thor Odinson aka. God of Thunder

Thor has seen battles, has waged wars across the cosmos, has faced monsters and gods. But when his phone pings—when he sees the absolute sin that you’ve just sent him—he forgets how to breathe.

He is in the middle of the Avengers’ common room, laughing boisterously with Bruce and Natasha, when he pulls out his phone. He expects something simple—a text from his brother, perhaps, or a message from Jane. But instead? Instead, he sees you.

The entire room feels it when Thor’s laughter stops. There is a moment—just a beat of silence—before the lights flicker. The air crackles with static electricity. His fingers twitch around the phone, and then, in a low, very serious voice, he mutters, “By the Norns…”

Natasha raises an eyebrow, but Thor abruptly stands, clearing his throat. “I must depart. Urgently.” Bruce frowns. “What? Why?” Thor barely offers an explanation before storming out of the room, typing furiously: You dare tempt the God of Thunder? Very well, little one. You shall learn what it means to summon a storm.

Loki Laufeyson aka. God of Mischief

Loki is the undisputed master of control. He is calm, composed, always one step ahead of everyone else. But when you send him something so shameless, so brazen, in the middle of an important diplomatic event in Asgard—he nearly drops his goblet of wine.

He’s reclining on his throne, listening to some dull ambassador drone on about trade negotiations, when his phone vibrates. He lifts it lazily, expecting nothing of importance—until he sees you.

His entire body goes rigid. His grip tightens around the goblet, the silver denting beneath his fingers. His green eyes darken, and for the first time in centuries, he feels his pulse stutter. The ambassador keeps talking, oblivious, but Loki? Loki is seething.

Later, in his chambers, he lounges on his bed, turning the phone over in his fingers before smirking. Then, with slow, careful precision, he types: You dare tease the God of Mischief? Oh, darling, you are in such trouble. And you know how much I enjoy trouble.

Clint Barton aka. Hawkeye

Clint Barton is used to chaos. He’s fought alien invasions, taken down crime syndicates, and, most impressively, lived in a house with three dogs and somehow survived. But nothing—not the Avengers, not S.H.I.E.L.D., not even Kate Bishop’s endless sarcasm—could have prepared him for this.

He’s in the middle of a debriefing with Captain America and Black Widow when his phone vibrates. Normally, he’d ignore it, but boredom gets the better of him. He sneaks a glance, tilting the screen just slightly—and immediately chokes on his coffee.

“Barton?” Natasha’s voice is sharp, her suspicious gaze snapping to him. Steve looks concerned. Clint, on the other hand, is malfunctioning. He quickly locks his phone, pressing it to his thigh like it’s burning him. “Yep. All good. Just… wrong text thread. You know how it is.”

The second he’s alone, he whistles, rubbing a hand down his face before sending a text: You are absolutely trying to kill me, aren’t you? I’m a trained marksman, babe. You know I always hit my target. Hope you’re ready.

Natasha Romanoff aka. Black Widow

Natasha Romanoff is a professional. She’s endured psychological conditioning, trained with the deadliest assassins in the world, and can lie so well that even she forgets what’s real. But when you send her something so utterly filthy, in the middle of a high-stakes poker game with some very dangerous people—she nearly loses her composure.

She’s holding a perfect poker face, one leg crossed over the other, a cigarette between her fingers (purely for effect). Then, her phone buzzes. She never checks her phone during missions, but for some reason, she does this time.

The second she sees the image, her fingers twitch. She almost fumbles her cigarette. Almost. A single slow breath is all that betrays her before she locks the screen and smirks, adjusting her sunglasses to hide the flicker of heat in her gaze.

Later, after she’s won the game (because of course she has), she finally responds: You must be very confident, sending me something like that. I hope you know what happens when I catch my prey, моя любовь (my love). Because I always catch them.

Bucky Barnes aka. Winter Soldier

Bucky is already always on edge. He spent decades being controlled, his mind fractured, his instincts constantly telling him that danger lurks around every corner. But when his phone vibrates in the middle of a mission briefing and he makes the mistake of checking it—he nearly self-destructs.

He’s sitting next to Sam Wilson, arms crossed, trying to focus on the tactical discussion. Then, out of habit, he glances at his phone. And suddenly? His enhanced heartbeat spikes. His grip on the phone tightens, metal fingers creaking.

Sam immediately notices. “Dude. You okay?” Bucky doesn’t answer. He just exhales deeply, jaw clenching, and locks his phone like it’s personally offended him. “Fine,” he mutters, but the way his throat bobs betrays him.

Later, in the privacy of his room, he leans against the wall, pressing his flesh hand over his face before looking at the image again. Then, he types—slow, deliberate, full of promise: You are playing with fire, doll. And you know I don’t burn alone.

Matthew Murdock aka. Daredevil

Matt has learned to control himself. He has to, considering his senses pick up everything. The heartbeat of a liar, the scent of blood, the whisper of fabric against skin. But when he puts in his earpiece during a stakeout with Elektra and hears you—sultry, teasing, wicked—his composure shatters.

Your voice is a purr, warm and full of amusement, as you describe, in explicit detail, exactly what you want to do to him. Every syllable slides into his ear like a sin, and for the first time in years, Matt Murdock forgets how to breathe.

“Murdock.” Elektra’s voice is unimpressed. “Are you even listening?” Matt clenches his jaw, forcing his expression into something neutral as he slowly removes the earpiece. “Yeah,” he lies, his voice way too tight. “Loud and clear.” But his fingers twitch, betraying him.

Later, alone in his apartment, he plays the message again. And again. Until his own heartbeat is thunderous in his ears. Then, with a slow smirk, he records his reply—his voice low, gravelly, barely more than a rasp: Angel, you have no idea what you’ve just done. And I promise—you won’t be able to walk tomorrow.

Frank Castle aka. The Punisher

Frank Castle does not fluster. He’s a man who’s seen the worst of the world, a soldier who has lost everything. He does not get distracted. But when he’s sitting in the middle of a grimy bar, brooding over a whiskey, and his phone vibrates—everything stops.

He checks it absently, expecting intel from Micro or maybe a warning from Daredevil. But instead, he gets you. And just like that, his grip on the glass tightens. His jaw locks. His entire body tenses, muscles coiled, because you have just sent him something so utterly indecent that he has to set his whiskey down before he crushes the glass.

The bartender notices. “You good, man?” Frank barely glances up, his fingers white-knuckled around his phone. “Fine,” he mutters, voice rough. He shoves his phone back in his pocket and downs the rest of his drink in one go.

Later, in the dead of night, he finally lets himself look at the picture again. He exhales, rubbing a hand over his face, before sending a single message: You think you’re real cute, huh? Yeah. Keep that same energy when I get home. See if you’re still smirking when I’ve got my hands on you.

Marc Spector aka. Moon Knight

Marc has lived multiple lives. A mercenary. A vigilante. A fist of vengeance. But the moment his phone vibrates in the middle of a stakeout, and he sees you—he nearly blows his own cover.

He’s perched on a rooftop, watching a weapons deal go down, his mind sharp and focused. Then, out of habit, he checks his phone. His breath hitches. His grip tightens around the device, and he has to physically restrain himself from groaning. Khonshu’s voice rumbles in his mind: "Your mortal desires are distracting, Spector." Marc grits his teeth. "Yeah, no shit."

“Something wrong?” Jake’s voice purrs from inside his head, amused. “She send you something nice, hermano?” Marc rolls his eyes, exhaling sharply before locking his phone. “Mind your damn business.” But his pulse is thundering.

Later, back at his apartment, he leans against the wall, staring at the image before typing: You have no idea what you’ve just done. Hope you’re home. Hope you’re ready.

Johnny Storm aka. Human Torch

Johnny Storm is used to attention. He thrives on it. He’s a celebrity, a hero, a walking flame. But when you send him something scandalous in the middle of a live television interview, even he isn’t ready for it.

He’s laughing, flashing his signature cocky grin at the camera, when his phone buzzes. He checks it without thinking—because hey, it might be Sue yelling at him again—but instead, it’s you. In the filthiest pose imaginable.

Johnny visibly chokes. His entire body tenses. For the first time ever, he forgets what he was saying. The interviewer blinks. “Uh… Johnny?” His brain short-circuits. His face heats—literally. The tips of his ears ignite before he clenches his fists and forces himself to not spontaneously combust on live television.

The second the interview is over, he’s sprinting to his dressing room, slamming the door shut and typing frantically: Ohhh, you are in trouble. You’re really trying to set me on fire, huh? Hope you’re home, babe, ‘cause I’m flying over. Right. Now.

Reed Richards aka. Mister Fantastic

Reed Richards is a genius. His mind is constantly working at speeds beyond human comprehension. But when he’s mid-lecture at a prestigious scientific conference and his phone vibrates—his brilliant mind suddenly goes blank.

He absently checks his phone, half-expecting an alert from the Baxter Building. But instead, it’s you. Wearing almost nothing.

For a solid ten seconds, he is frozen. His eyes slightly widen. His fingers twitch. And then, very slowly, he locks his phone and clears his throat. “Ah—excuse me, esteemed colleagues, but I must—um—attend to an urgent matter.”

Later, he adjusts his glasses, staring at the image with a fascinated, almost scientific appreciation. Then, with methodical precision, he types: You are a very distracting woman. I will be conducting an… in-depth study on you as soon as I return. Expect a thorough examination.

Felicia Hardy aka. Black Cat

Felicia Hardy is a master of seduction. She flusters men for fun. But when she’s in the middle of a high-stakes casino heist, and you send her something utterly indecent, even she loses her composure.

She’s leaning against the bar, sipping an expensive martini, eyes locked on her mark. Then, her phone buzzes. She lazily checks it, expecting an update from her crew. But instead? Instead, she sees you.

Her eyelashes flutter. Her lips part just slightly. And for the first time in years, her poker face cracks. The bartender—oblivious—raises an eyebrow. “Everything okay, miss?” Felicia exhales, smirking as she locks her phone. “Oh, it’s better than okay.”

Later, she lounges on silk sheets, staring at the picture before purring into her phone: You really think you can tease me, kitten? Oh, sweetheart… you just made a very expensive bet. And I never lose.

Stephen Strange aka. Doctor Strange

Stephen Strange is not easily shaken. He’s fought cosmic horrors, bent reality, and wielded power beyond mortal comprehension. But when he’s in the middle of a magical duel with Dormammu, and you send him a sinfully explicit picture—he almost loses.

He’s mid-incantation, floating above the Sanctum’s rooftop, when his phone vibrates. Normally, he’d ignore it—except something in the back of his mind tells him it’s you. He flicks his fingers, glancing at the screen—and immediately regrets it.

His spell stutters. His fingers twitch. The fabric of reality briefly warps. Wong, standing below, yells, “What the hell was that?!” Stephen clenches his jaw, locking his phone immediately before snapping his wrist and repairing the timeline. “Nothing,” he mutters. “Absolutely nothing.”

The moment the battle is over, he retreats into his study, loosening his Cloak, before typing: You dare distract the Sorcerer Supreme? You have no idea what you’ve just unleashed, darling. And I do hope you’re prepared for consequences beyond mortal comprehension.

Namor aka. The Sub-Mariner

Namor is a king. He does not answer to anyone. He has waged war against the surface world, stood against the mightiest heroes, and commands the loyalty of an entire empire. But when he is seated on his throne, discussing politics with his council, and his communicator vibrates—everything else becomes irrelevant.

He glances down, expecting a diplomatic missive. Instead, he is greeted by you—a vision of temptation, captured in a way that only he has the privilege to see. His grip on the communicator tightens, his lips parting slightly. The light of the display reflects in his dark, narrowed eyes.

The council drones on, but Namor hears nothing. His golden gauntlets flex, his knuckles tightening as his jaw sets. A slow, deliberate exhale is all that betrays his reaction. But those closest to him—his most trusted generals—see the flicker of something dangerous in his expression. A storm, barely contained.

Later, as he stands upon his balcony, overlooking the endless ocean, he types a single response: You seek to tempt a king, my love? Then be prepared for the wrath of a god. When next we meet, you will drown in my devotion.

Johnny Blaze aka. Ghost Rider

Johnny Blaze has seen Hell—literally. He has ridden across the desolate highways of damnation, stared into the abyss, and laughed. But when he’s sitting in a biker bar, nursing a whiskey and half-listening to some guy ramble about the Devil, his phone vibrates. And when he checks it—he nearly sets the whole place on fire.

The image of you is burned into his mind, seared into his soul. He sucks in a slow breath through his teeth, his fingers tightening around the glass. His knuckles go white. Somewhere deep inside, the Spirit of Vengeance chuckles.

“Something wrong, Blaze?” One of the other bikers eyes him warily. Johnny forces a smirk, setting his whiskey down before he crushes the glass in his grip. “Nah,” he rasps, his voice a little too rough. “Just realized I got… unfinished business to take care of.”

Later, on his Hellfire-coated bike, he sends a text: You got a real bad habit of making me wanna sin, sweetheart. And I promise—I’ll make sure you repent. Over. And over.

Eddie Brock & Venom aka. Venom

Eddie Brock has been through hell. He’s fought monsters, been one himself, lost everything, and still kept going. But nothing—not a damn thing—could prepare him for the absolute carnage of getting that picture from you in the middle of a crowded subway.

He’s scrolling through his phone absentmindedly, Venom muttering in his head about wanting tater tots, when the image loads. For a solid five seconds, he is completely still. Then—

“Eddie.” Venom’s voice rumbles, amused. “Your mate is very… bold. We approve.” Eddie, red-faced, slams his phone against his chest like that’ll somehow erase what just happened. “Jesus Christ,” he mutters, eyes darting around to make sure no one saw. A teenager across from him raises an eyebrow.

Later, when he’s alone, he finally lets himself look at the picture again. A slow, predatory grin spreads across his face as he types back: Oh, you think you’re being cute, huh? Yeah. Just wait till I get my hands on you. Hell, maybe we’ll even let Venom have a little fun, too.

T’Challa aka. Black Panther

T’Challa is a king, a warrior, a legend. His mind is a fortress, his will unshakable. But when he is seated in the royal palace of Wakanda, surrounded by dignitaries, and his Kimoyo Beads alert him to a personal message—his focus wavers.

He allows himself a discreet glance. And in that moment? His heart skips a single beat. His fingers—steady even in the heat of battle—tighten just slightly around his beads. His expression does not change. But to those who know him well—Okoye, Shuri—they notice the subtlest flicker of something dangerous in his eyes.

Shuri smirks. “Brother,” she murmurs, leaning in. “You look… distracted.” T’Challa exhales deeply, locking the message with a casual flick of his fingers. “I am merely… anticipating a conversation.”

Later, when he is alone, he reviews the picture once more, fingers grazing his jaw before he types: You are testing my patience, beloved. And you know I am a man of great discipline. But for you? I am willing to break my own rules. Expect me soon.

Elektra Natchios aka. Elektra

Elektra Natchios does not fluster. She has slit the throats of kings, danced on the edge of oblivion, and played cat-and-mouse with death itself. But when she is sharpening her sai on the rooftop of a New York high-rise and her phone buzzes—her grip falters.

The blade nicks her glove. Barely. But it happens. Her lips part in a slow, dangerous smirk as she tilts the phone toward the moonlight, drinking in the absolute audacity of your message.

“Something amusing?” A voice—a rival assassin, lurking in the shadows. Elektra does not answer. She merely tucks her phone away, standing smoothly, her stance lethal. “Yes,” she purrs. “Something… very amusing.”

Later, as she leans against the window of her penthouse, she finally sends a reply: You are so very reckless, my love. And I do enjoy breaking reckless little things.

[delicatebarness]

the manuscript | chapter two

Summary: My office, tomorrow.

Warnings: Age Gap. (Dr Barnes: late 40s & Reader: early 20s)

Word Count: 1630

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A/N: I'm done. I can't handle the heat. - Please feel free to leave feedback or let me know where and how you want the story to continue, this is just as much yours as it is mine. - B

Tags: @mostlymarvelgirl | @mrsnikstan | @angelbabyyy99

“𝐈 𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐫𝐞𝐝 𝐚𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐛𝐨𝐚𝐫𝐝, 𝐥𝐨𝐬𝐭 𝐢𝐧 𝐦𝐲 𝐨𝐰𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐠𝐡𝐭𝐬, 𝐚𝐦𝐢𝐝𝐬𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐝𝐢𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐧𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐮𝐝 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐦𝐮𝐬𝐢𝐜. 𝐓𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐠𝐡 𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐞𝐬𝐭, 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐭𝐨𝐮𝐜𝐡 𝐥𝐚𝐜𝐤𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐝𝐞𝐩𝐭𝐡 𝐈 𝐜𝐫𝐚𝐯𝐞𝐝. 𝐀𝐬 𝐡𝐞 𝐰𝐡𝐢𝐬𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐞𝐝 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐬𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐬𝐟𝐚𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧, 𝐈 𝐭𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐨 𝐫𝐞𝐜𝐢𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐜𝐚𝐭𝐞. 𝐘𝐞𝐭, 𝐚𝐬 𝐞𝐚𝐜𝐡 𝐦𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐩𝐚𝐬𝐬𝐞𝐝, 𝐈 𝐟𝐞𝐥𝐭 𝐦𝐲𝐬𝐞𝐥𝐟 𝐝𝐫𝐢𝐟𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐟𝐮𝐫𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐚𝐰𝐚𝐲…”

Hitting the delete key repeatedly, the sound echoed throughout the library’s peaceful atmosphere. You sighed, watching the blinking cursor on your laptop screen, it felt like an accusatory eye. Frustrated, you leaned back in your chair. 

You were determined to write something profound after your encounter with Dr. Barnes, that echoed the depth he had challenged you to explore. Each of your attempts felt inadequate. His words replayed in your mind: “Exploring parts of yourself that you’re the most afraid of, most afraid to reveal.” 

Staring at the screen, your fingers flew across the keyboard, paragraphs appearing and disappearing. Doubt crept in, every time you thought you had a handle on it. You began to feel isolated as the dim lighting and occasional rustle of pages surrounded you.

The intensity in Dr. Barnes’ eyes when he spoke about vulnerability, wandered back into your thoughts. Something in his presence that left you unsettled, in a way you didn’t understand, stirring feelings you aren’t ready to confront. 

Just as you began typing again, Peter appeared in front of you. “Hey,” he whispered leaning over the table to kiss you. “Thought I’d find you here,” he continued to whisper, sitting opposite you. “How’s the assignments going?” 

You forced a smile. “Вообще-то, как-то застрял.” 

His brows furrowed as you switched to Russian, leaning over the table again, his eyes searched yours as if trying to decipher code. “Sorry, baby, I didn’t catch that,” he admitted, a playful smirk spreading across his lips. 

You smiled again, this time a genuine one. “I said I’m a bit stuck with the assignment,” you translated roughly, your voice filled with amusement. 

“Oh,” he replied, his gaze lingered on you, desire danced in his eyes. “You know,” his voice dropped to a husky whisper, “there’s something incredibly… hot about you speaking Russian.” 

A heat rose to your cheeks as his words lingered in the air, his gaze intense and filled with a warm desire. However, despite his playful demeanor, something cast a shadow over what should have been a moment of intimacy. 

You couldn’t shake the feeling of disconnection as he leaned in closer. It was as if you were playing for cameras, following a script and cues without feeling true passion behind the actions. 

With a hesitant smile, you lacked the genuine spark that should ignite between two people in love. The chemistry you once had shared evaporated over the years, leaving behind awkward silences. 

Peter withdrew, disappointment flickering over his features. “I’ll leave you to it, then,” he murmured. You offered a weak smile as you nodded in acknowledgment. 

“Thanks, Peter,” you replied as he stood from the table. As he turned to leave, you couldn’t help but feel guilt at the lost connection. You knew the distance between you was widening with each passing day, and deep down, you knew that forcing something that wasn’t there, only lead to further heartache. 

Turning back to your laptop with a heavy sigh, the assignment suddenly feels more daunting. As you typed, you felt a sense of clarity wash over you, the realization that true passion couldn’t be manufactured– it has to come from within you. 

Delving deeper into your work, you focused on excavating raw emotions buried beneath the surface. 

An email notification popped into the corner of your screen, distracting you from your work. Curious, you clicked on it, revealing a message from Dr. Barnes. 

The subject line simply read: My office, tomorrow. 

Your pulse quickened with anticipation as you read the contents of the email. Dr. Barnes has requested you meet him at his office the following day, excitement filled you as you sent a reply, confirming his request. 

~

Dr. Barnes' had bolstered your confidence but also intensified the tension you held toward him. As you walked to his office door, you couldn’t ignore the flutter in your stomach as you knocked lightly, his nameplate gleaming in the afternoon light.

“Come in,” his voice called from within. 

Dr. Barnes was seated at his desk when you opened the door, stepping inside. Papers spread out before him. He looked up with a smile. “Miss Spector, please have a seat.” 

“Thank you,” you said, accepting his offer as you took the chair opposite him. The room was quiet, the faint ticking of a clock on the wall and his rustle of papers. 

He studied you as he leaned back in his chair, taking a moment before speaking. “I’m glad you came, I wanted to discuss your writing in more detail. You have a lot of potential, but there are areas where you can dig deeper.” 

You nodded, the weight of his gaze felt heavy. “I appreciate that, Dr. Barnes. I want my writing to be as… captivating as possible.” 

“Good,” he said, his voice low. “Tell me, what holds you back from being completely honest in your writing?” 

You hesitated, he caught you off guard with his question. “I guess… I’m struggling with finding a personal angle that feels… significant enough,” you admitted. 

His gaze never left yours as he nodded. “Significance often lies in the depths of vulnerability,” he said softly. “It’s about revealing parts of ourselves that we’re most afraid to confront.” 

His words struck a chord within you, “I understand,” you replied, your voice barely above a whisper as a shiver ran down your spine. 

Dr. Barnes leaned forward slightly, unwavering his gaze. “What are you most afraid of, Miss Spector?” he asked, resting his chin against his fist. 

You swallowed hard, a lump forming in your throat as the air between you crackled with tension. The weight of his question hung heavy in the room. 

“I…” you began, yet the words caught in your throat. How could you admit to him your fears? How could you reveal the darkest corners of your soul?

He leaned even closer, his gaze boring into yours. “Trust me,” he murmured, his voice became almost audible. “I’m here to help you explore those fears.” 

Gathering your courage, you took a deep breath. “I’m afraid of being rejected,” you confessed. “You know, pouring my heart out onto the page and having it dismissed,” you explained, half truly. 

Dr. Barnes nodded, his expression thoughtful. “That’s a common fear,” his voice low and husky as he acknowledges. He paused for a moment, leaning back in his chair before standing. His movements were deliberate as he walked closer to you. “But, it’s also where the most heartfelt writing comes from.” He picked up a pen from his desk, tapping it lightly against the surface. “When you write from a place of… sensitivity, you create something genuine and powerful.” 

The mere proximity sent a jolt of electricity through you. There was a flicker of understanding, but also something else, an undercurrent of desire that caught you off guard. “So… I need to embrace that fear and write anyway?” you asked with a pang of uncertainty in your voice. 

“Exactly,” he affirmed, his eyes locked with yours again, looking down at you while your heart raced. “It’s about channeling that fear into your writing, use it as fuel for your creativity rather than holding you back.” 

Your pulse quickened as he spoke, his presence seemed to envelop you, and you found yourself leaning forward, drawn to him by an irresistible invisible force. The space between you shrunk, the air heavy with anticipation. 

“And, how do I get past that fear?” you asked, your voice whispering as the words hung between you. 

Now only inches away from you, he loomed over you. “It’s not about getting past it,” he said softly, “it’s about acknowledging it and pushing through it.” 

The temptation to bridge the gap between you was almost overwhelming, but you resisted. The tension between you escalated with each passing second. 

“Every writer encounters rejection,” he murmured, lowering himself to your eye level. His voice was soft, whispering. “But, it’s those who persist, and push through, who succeed.” His face was so close that your breath caught in your throat. 

“Trust your voice and your perspective.” he urged, his gaze locking with yours, captivating you in his presence. 

Desire swirled in your veins as your heart raced. The space between you charged with a longing that seemed to pull you closer together. 

“I’ll try,” you whispered, shifting slightly in the chair. “I’ll try to write despite the fear.” 

He smiled a soft, warm, and genuine smile that made you weak in the knees. “Good girl,” he said, his voice laced with a hint of danger and temptation. “I’m looking forward to seeing what you come up with.” 

With that, he stood up and moved behind his desk, the distance between you feeling insurmountable. 

~

In the solitude of your own space, you were focused on the tantalizing possibility of what could have been. The allure of your professor lingered a forbidden temptation that thrilled yet terrified you. 

You tried to push your desires to the back of your mind, but despite everything you tried, they still danced around your consciousness: teasing you. Crossing that line would have consequences, and you knew that, but the pull was almost impossible to resist. 

Sitting down at your desk, you took a deep breath and let the words flow from your fingertips with a newfound inspiration. One fueled by the raw emotions stirred within you by the enigmatic presence of Dr. Barnes. In the depths of your writing, you found a sense of liberation, and freedom to explore your biggest fear, him.

---

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[thatboisus]

maybe i was born to read fanfic and obsess over fictional men idk

[eyelessfaces]

hell yeah

[theshamelesssimp]

Me when I get to the part of a fanfic that has me giggling and kicking my feet

[l0caltiredgirl]

me @ y/n when they do something i’d never do:

like babe this isn’t us ?? get it together