#stephen and tony through the years

[urdreamydoodles]

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.

[midniqhtt]

miscellaneous marvel characters

masterlist • marvel • 06/19/25

˚‧⁺ ･ ˖ · ୨ৎ recs

tony

𑣲 sky rockets and robots I @amethystarachnid

Y/N's ex left her when she got pregnant, Tony is a softie here

steve/ loki series

𑣲 remember pt2 pt3 pt4 pt5 pt6 pt7 pt8 pt9 pt9.5 I @bonky-n-steeb

Bored after staying on Asgard your entire life, you decide to sneak on earth. But what happens when Steve falls irrevocably in love with you, the Queen of Asgard, wife of Loki

sam wilson

𑣲 the futures overdue I @aquaticmercy

A year after breaking up with Sam Wilson, he shows up at your doorstep.

peter quill

𑣲 homesick I @rose-gold-bullet

You're sent on a mission to another planet and catch the attention of your ally.

𑣲 say yes (please?) I @mcondance

stephen strange

𑣲 we can’t be friends I @brunchable

Your relationship with Stephen Strange has been strained to the breaking point by his constant absences and mystical duties. Despite Stephen's attempts to mend your fractured bond, you decide to seek a more permanent solution.

𑣲 no other way I @/brunchable

stucky

𑣲 double trouble I @lostalioth

steve and bucky would follow you to the ends of the earth. one call of their names and they’re at your service. they’re obsessed, only problem is you aren’t theirs, not yet anyways.

𑣲 i met them and now im their queen I @mercurial-chuckles

𑣲 accidents happen I @myfictionaldreams

You were visiting a friend when you were accidentally hit in the face, leaving behind a cut across your cheekbone. How will Steve and Bucky react when they see their girl injured?

𑣲 between the pages of a journal I @crazyunsexycool

You had been in a relationship with Steve and Bucky up until the time they went off to war only to lose them both. Years later when Steve and Bucky have reunited the receive the letters and journals you had written. Through them they learn about your life without them.

𑣲 a soul for a soul I @jamesbuchananxsteviegrant

reader dies when collecting the soul stone with steve, and bucky finds out in the final battle against thanos

𑣲 we lost I @/jamesbuchananxsteviegrant

Reader Was In Space With Tony When Thanos Snapped And Is Later Reunited With Bucky And Steve

joaquín torres

𑣲 his secret I @writingdumpster

Joaquin has always wanted to keep you separate from his avenging, but when Sam and Bucky pay him an unexpected visit he can’t anymore.

𑣲 vuelve a mí pt2 I @nathanbatemanfucker

you and joaquin confront the cause of the end of your relationship.

thunderbolts* (multi)

𑣲 cumming in their pants I @lovebugism

𑣲 fake dating I @/lovebugism

𑣲 interrupted/getting caught I @/lovebugism

𑣲 nothing’s gonna stop us I @starktonyx

An attempt at homemade cookies, ridiculous requests to Valentina and a karaoke night will have you finding out you have a hidden singer in your team.

𑣲 seeing you in lingerie I @webslinger-holland

𑣲 the thunderbolts watch you get ready for a date that's not with them I @/webslinger-holland

[ramen8008]

Tony having a list of habits of the avengers that annoy him yet also altering the entirety of the compound to meet those habits.

Tony: You realize how annoying it is to have you in my vents?? Just let me breathe my 5 million dollar air in peace

Also Tony installing a proper scanner which doesn't ring any alarms if Barton is in the vents but instead just makes in a video compilation of each time he falls.

Tony: Thor I swear to the Gods. If you take one more Pop tart from me I wil-

Also Tony bulge buying Pop tarts for every time Thor visits.

Tony: Cap how do you not kn- No being frozen for 80 years is no excuse. This is vital part of history, No I don't care that it's "just a show" this changed lives

Also Tony installing a "Cap is confused again" Protocol on FRIDAY for each time there's anything Steve doesn't understand which might be basic knowledge to everyone else so FRIDAY can give him a summary of it all.

Tony: Nat you need to stop hiding weapons everywhere. I can't be going around finding machetes in the compound!

Also Tony providing her as much space she needs for her weapons in each room if that's what she needs to feel safe.

Tony: No! No magic. Wanda you go through my head again and I swear you'll regret it. My therapist quit, you think you can handle it? Nuh uh this is a magic free household young lady.

Also Tony installing a whole new simulation based training room so she can practice her magic properly.

Tony: Bucky, I know I'm rich but can you please stop crushing my equipment and cups

Also Tony very gently talking to Bucky about everything he is doing step by step as he checks up Bucky's arm. Giving him his own room with open windows so he doesn't feel trapped with every bit of little hobby he might pick up from knitting to painting to playing the piano. A bookshelf with the entire limited edition of The Hobbit and every 40s music he might like. And some more recent songs in case he decides to "stop being old".

Tony: Strange I need you to stop doing that shit. I understand you're a wizard but don't they have rules for that? Like no magic outside of Hogwarts until you're 17? None of that weird stuff in the tower... ever.

Also Tony creating a special meditating room for Stephen with Pink Floyd playing where he can just calm down for a while in the tower and somehow a room in the mirror dimension when he really wants peace and quiet.

Tony: Vision I know you're an AI who is very interested in human nature and I am flattered but I swear if I hear one more explosion because you tried to learn knitting or the piano I will find an off switch whether or not you have one.

Also Tony making every single hobby Vision wants to pick up possible in the best way. Providing him his own kitchen to getting him a piano teacher because he wanted to experience "learning by being taught"

Tony: Banner I get that you have everything under control which is great but my lab is not big enough for The Hulk

Also Tony making his lab big enough. Getting him his own lab. Making sure he had everything he needed to calm down when he couldn't control the Hulk. Labeling him as the "strongest avenger". Getting him a therapist. Making sure he never feels alone yet always has peace

Tony: Rhodey you need to understand that when I say I'm fine I'm fine. You act like such a party pooper you know that?

Also Tony who trusts Rhodey with his life and everything. Making sure Rhodey never feels lesser than. Who couldn't be more grateful that Rhodey stuck by him throughout everything and always stayed. Tony always turning to him for advice and no matter how much he acts like Rhodey is being a bummer always takes his words to heart.

Tony: Peter.... Don't walk on the ceiling! Oh my God don't die! What the hell kid please don't explode your homework again! Your aunt is going to KILL me! You mess with the suit again and I- No , you can't borrow my suit what do you mean? I told you to stay back, tell me what you interpreted that as? No the adults are talking.

Also Tony doing everything that kid wants no matter what. Making sure his suit is so safe that he might as well be immortal. Buying him everything he even remotely suggests to liking. He has his own room in the tower cause of all the time he spends in the labs.

"You want to test out this new thing with your webs but it requires this extremely expensive and toxic chemical? As long as you wear proper protection!"

"you said you had to write about a famous place you went to but since you haven't travelled much you were gonna write about the Stark exhibition or times square.....So I got you these world tour tickets. I think they hit every landmark , just message me the ones they don't and I'll handle it. And don't worry there are two so your aunt can go with you"

[airas-story]

Your writing is amazing. My prompt for you: one of them temporarily muted. Preferably with some angst 🙃❤️

It was the fifth soundless word that made Tony panic. Something was wrong. He searched for his tablet. His fingers tapped out a message, sending it to FRIDAY.

“Boss,” FRIDAY said, voice concerned. “I don’t understand.”

What? Tony stared at the message; he’d thought he’d told FRIDAY what was wrong, but it looked like a four year old had gotten to his tablet and key smashed.

He dropped the tablet, his breathing came hard, fast, and entirely soundless.

A hum behind him and then— “Tony?” Relief coursed through him. Stephen would know what to do. Stephen reached his side immediately. “FRIDAY called me; she thinks you might have had a stroke.”

Had he? He could see how the sudden onset aphasia—though this wasn’t that—might have made FRIDAY think so.

Stephen seemed to realize Tony couldn’t respond. “Tony. I’m taking you to the hospital, okay? We need to check you’re okay.”

Tony didn’t think it was medical, but—

“We need to double check,” Stephen said, somehow knowing what Tony was thinking. “If it’s not medical, we’ll go from there.” Stephen forced Tony to meet his eyes. “Trust me, okay,” Stephen said quietly. “I’m going to take care of you.”

[adrixivy]

I can imagine Peter being extremely clingy to the people he loves. People always say he’s the opposite. That he believes its best that he stays away. Nah. Give me Peter ‘clinging to the sides of people he love’ Parker

Tony walking into the Avengers meeting with Peter who is gripping onto his arm. The older man simply isn’t bothered and just continues looking through his Starkpad: Hey everyone

Peter waves excitedly and he pulls Tony to sit beside Stephen. He sits beside Tony and scoots his chair closer, looking at whatever Tony is looking

Imagine this was the first time the Avengers are meeting Peter. As Spiderman. They know Peter is Tony’s intern yet they don’t know his identity. They’re all immediately staring at Tony weirdly, wondering why is Tony with Spider-Man. Tony seems to notice the stares and he looks at the kid with a look and the kid seems to nod at a sudden realisation. He pulls off his mask and a fluffy mop of brown hair pops out as big puppy eyes look back at them. They were surprised but they quickly relaxed when they realised that it was Peter.

—————

Another thing he does is he follows people around a lot. When he was young, he always clung to Uncle Ben or Aunt May. He never dared to approach anyone unless one of the two says he should or to someone interesting like when he first met Harry Osborn. Aunt May still notices that whenever Peter and her are out, he’s still always clinging to her. He’s hooking her arm with his and she laughs when she realises he’s still the clingy baby all those years ago. (Peter is glaring at everyone who is staring at his aunt for a little too long. Another reason he’s clings to her but he is also clingy)

—————

Wade walks into the penthouse one day and the team immediately tenses up. Despite his relationship with Peter, he shouldn’t have direct access to the area unless someone lets him in. The Avengers aren’t exactly welcoming when it’s Wade. Wade holds up both his hands and sighs.

Wade: Calm down folks! I got the package

He announces and turn his back to them to see Peter clinging onto him the way he would stick to a skyscraper’s window. His back pressed against Wade’s as he pulled his legs up to hide too. The Avengers are stunned to see Peter like that. (He’s definitely going to make that one of his hide and seek spots in the future)

——————

Peter hugs all of the Avengers/his friends every time he sees them. If Peter sees someone not moving and not busy, he’ll hug them. Sometimes for a fun and surprise factor, he leaps onto the person and basically tackles them with a hug

For Wade, he simply stares at the man when he spots him, walks up and kisses his cheek whether through masks or directly. He’s surprisingly not so affectionate around Wade but Wade knows Peter loves him. Despite the voices saying otherwise. Peter pays extra attention to Wade. Always noticing details about Wade’s actions or feelings, always observing his lover. He’s not physically clingy but he’s clingy in a way that Wade finds him adorable like a puppy. He’s always checking up on him and giving him a kiss on the cheek whenever Peter thinks he needs or wants one.

There’s the occasional kiss on the lips too when he’s alone with Wade. He’ll hug Wade when they’re alone and Wade immediately hugs back, holding him tightly to his chest before inevitably walking around with a spider koala wrapped around him when Peter feels like clinging onto him longer

[jgroffdaily]

Things we learned during the Just in Time promotional press tour, including Tony Awards campaigning (February to June 2025):

Jonathan will start converting his dad's horse farm to an artist's retreat this year (Table Manners podcast)

He sang at Bee Shaffer's wedding (Anna Wintour's daughter). Anna asked the Vogue staff to find a new photo for an article after seeing his performance in Just in Time, and she then sent Jonathan an email praising him. Anna also came to see him in Deathtrap in London, (Table Manners and 'The Run-Through with Vogue' podcast)

He was going to be receiving a meal delivery service (Daily Dose) from February until the Tony Awards as he had no time to go out for meals, and would then try to cook for himself. "Once I get my days free I'm going to, like, cook. Make eggs?" (Table Manners podcast, Vogue podcast, others).

He has five guests at every show who are invited back to his dressing room, and the cast are invited to join (Erika Henningsen in Broadway Direct interview).

He thinks he may have a leather fetish. "I like the smell of it, feel of it..." (Jimmy Fallon show, Vogue podcast)

His leather chaps for the Beyonce concert in May were purchased from Go at The Leather Man in Christopher Street, West Village "who got me baby's first chaps... I'm the baby and those are my first chaps." (Jimmy Fallon)

The promotional push for four months with only one day off (spent responding to texts for 10 hours) was physical and relentless: "I'm killing myself... I am killing myself... now it's the big publicity push to June 8th. I don't have time to have a normal life right now." The most time he is off stage during the 2 hour and 30 minute show is 45 seconds. (Vogue podcast)

He is planning an event with Lea Michele in fall/winter 2026 to mark their 20 years of friendship. He wouldn't give any more details, but says he has been "speaking to people" to make it happen (Happy Sad Confused podcast, Evan Ross Katz Instagram story)

Previous lovers have asked to spit on him, and he has consented (Andy Cohen Sirius XM)

He is working with a physical therapist to ensure he is fit for each show, and does a 30 minute dance warm-up before each show taught to him by choreographer Shannon Lewis (Unknown, various)

He no longer stage doors because he did it a few times at Merrily We Roll Along, got RSV, and other members of the cast got sick. He meets guests after each show for about an hour, and would feel guilty if he didn't get to meet and speak with every person at the stage door (Andy Cohen Sirius XM interview)

When Jonathan mentioned playing the drums in the Seth Rudetsky Frozen group interview in 2020, he was preparing for 'Just in Time', which wouldn't go ahead until five years later (unknown)

His top five songs on Spotify last year were by Beyonce, followed by Bobby Darin (unknown, a few places)

He goes on stage with sugar free black cherry Halls in his mouth and calls them 'lozengers'. Started doing this in 'Little Shop of Horrors'. (Kelly Clarkson Show)

Mentions "and I fell down a YouTube K-Hole [ketamine]. Rabbit hole? K-Hole?". Also says the Tony nomination for Just in Time was more personal due to his long-term investment in the project. (Evan Ross Katz interview)

Jonathan was irrationally defensive about criticism of his piano playing while he was learning (NPR Wild Card)

Jonathan lost his early religious faith while 'spelunking' (NPR Wild Card)

He served oatmeal to other guests on the silent retreat in Massachusetts (taken a few weeks after Merrily ended), and he has also been on silent retreats in Lava Hot Springs and outside Quebec (Stephen Colbert, Andrew Chappelle Tactful Pettiness podcast - see that podcast from late 2024 for more interesting stories - previously written up on Tumblr)

Five favourite movie musicals are Cabaret, All That Jazz, Grease, Sound of Music and Mary Poppins (Happy, Sad, Confused podcast)

He went to Australia to see the Beyond The Sea musical with David Campbell, and later flew to Malibu, with his then boyfriend (Corey Baker) to meet with Dodd Darin (Various)

He bought leather shorts in Berlin and wanted his fight scene in the Matrix to be over so he could go out to clubs (Vogue, USA Today)

He started therapy two years ago (Stages podcast)

Asked what his parents would assume he was arrested for - sodomy (Stages podcast)

He no longer makes any birthday wishes because he is content with what he has (USA Today)

He still says singing does not come naturally to him and he still needs a lot of practice and a way in to emotionally connect with a song before he can sing it. (Backstage Babble podcast)

Says he never felt ownership of the King in Hamilton because he was a replacement. (Backstage Babble)

Felt like he was inside a painting in Spring Awakening. (Backstage Babble)

Says Merrily was a six month negotiation about dates. Couldn’t commit on their timeline because of ‘other stuff that was happening’ but fought hard and was ‘begging them’ to keep the offer and make it work. “It was a fascinating process” (the negotiations). (Backstage Babble)

Daniel Radcliffe had come to see Hamilton and they had met briefly. Jonathan also knew Daniel’s parents through Susan Blackwell. Was so excited to meet him and was ‘crying’ making videos for him and thought/knew they would have a connection. (Backstage Babble)

Merrily trio never broke character but ‘there was always seven things going on our minds’ and a twinkle in their eye because they were so closely connected to each other and such connectivity on stage. (Backstage Babble)

Auditions for ‘Hair’ in Central Park were held the day after the Spring Awakening sleepover on his parents’ farm (Playbill)

Asked about what a chapter about this part of his life would be called in his biography, his answer was “I put my dancing shoes on". (Stages podcast)

His guests at the Tony Awards were his parents, brother, sister in law and two nieces. His nieces sat with him at different points in the ceremony (Vogue podcast)

An ex-boyfriend at ‘Just in Time’ made him feel self-conscious (Josh Horowitz at the Tony Awards)

He is happy to keep mentioning Gavin Creel in interviews to keep his memory alive (NPR Wild Card)

He says is a bad multi-tasker and would struggle to work if he had kids (Andy Cohen)

Amy Sedaris is his neighbour and they trade gifts and messages (Andy Cohen)

Three favourite musicals are A Chorus Line, Cabaret and The Sound of Music (Playbill)

[softspace-fics]

Sorry about the other request I got REALLY excited and turned trauma dump so just know I'm sorry for the tmi lol thank you for listening to me ramble (also completely unrelated you should write for Tony and strange with a little reader and little peter)

-🦄

Safe place.

A/N - So this request took so long to think of something because I just didn't know how I wanted to portray them, but I think I love this fic so much.

Stephen strange x Tony start + Little!Peter and Little!reader

Masterlist - all my work!

Warnings ⚠️ - FLUFFFFF!! and a little bit of sadness, and reference to bad childhood, but nothing extensive.

__________

Safe places, seen to many as the only place one can be themselves. In some cases, there's no such thing as a safe place, and some have never known the feeling of being truly safe.

You never had a safe place, for most of your life, you were on your own. The moment you knew how to make the most basic meal, your parents left you to fend for yourself basically. So when you met your caregivers, it was such an eye opening experience, for not only them, but for you too.

You had known each other for years prior to them adding you to their family with Peter, and it took a long time before you were completely comfortable letting them take care of you, but soon enough, you did.

Toddling through the room, you see Peter off in his own little corner, seeing how many webs it will take to stick all his blocks he's collected together, and your two caregivers are busy as your papa shows your dada his new tech he built.

You continue to wander through, your pacifier securely between your lips, your little blabbles muted behind it. Your little stuffie friend clutches perfectly to your chest as you climb into your play tent, where more of your friends sit, waiting for you to say hello. Your tablet lays right where you left it when your dada grabbed you for lunch just an hour earlier, ready for your little hands to come and turn on your favorite cartoon.

You grab your favorite blanket, curling into your stuffies safe embrace and safely covered by the soft fabric of your blanket. The music from the intro of your cartoon sounds through your tent, and your eyes light up with joy.

Minutes pass, and halfway through your episode, a shuffle is heard from outside your tent and then peters head peaks through.

“Cuddles?” He softly asks, his eyes begging for snuggles and human contact.

You nod and open your blanket, your normally hyper playmate, cuddled in closely to you, holding you safely in his arms, watching your show alongside you. The two of you mumble some words every now and then, up until the soft snores came from your twin flame, your soft music from your show lulling him to sleep.

Around 2 episodes after Peter falls asleep, quiet footsteps are heard outside your tent, and then a soft knock on the floor just outside the tents walls was heard, alerting your attention. You shift slightly, but not enough to wake Peter as you see your dada peeking in, checking on the two of you.

There would have been a time where a caregiver checking on you would have caused fear and you would have started to tremble, but in this case, part of you wanted to just be engulfed in his arms.

“He asleep?” Dada strange asks you. You slowly nod your head, in an attempt not to wake the boy currently under your head, soundly asleep.

Strange nods his head in a gesture to let you know to carefully climb out of your tent and come to the living room before he gets up from your tent, asking your papa to grab Peter shortly after get you out of the tent. You sit up carefully, placing your tablet back where you found it and carefully tucking your brother under your blanket before taking your stuffie and yourself out to your dada.

Once you're out of your tent you happily toddle back over to him before he protectively picks you up, kissing your forehead and holding you tightly. Your papa eventually appears with your brother wrapped in his favorite blanket, and your favorite blanket securely on your papas shoulder, ready to be given back to you.

Safety was always a concern to you, as you grew up, and even when you got to your big world, it was always a rocky apartment, or a creepy neighbor, or just the instability of the world.

But as your papa hands your blanket over to your dada, and he quickly burritos you in his arms, giving you kisses as he does, you feel a sense of safety you’ve never truly found anywhere else. Your sense of safety grows as jarvis lowers the lights and your caregivers settle you and your brother in their arms. Jarvis puts on your favorite movie, seeing as you're the little one who's awake, giving you the ability to cuddle into your dada and completely relax.

Your breathing begins to even out about a quarter of the way through the movie, as your own dream land takes over your mind. Your dada gently plays with your hair, keeping you safe and sound in his arms.

Safe Places aren't known to all, and some may never have a safe place. But you have found yours, and you knew it.

[mintteas-things]

Familiarity of a Weapon

Word Count: 2,705

Pairing: Stephen Strange x Female Reader

Summary: Steve, Tony, and Bucky go to inquire why Hydra and Zola's Algorithm deems Stephen Strange a threat. In doing so, they run across a Hydra Weapon.

Warnings: Blood, Loss of a loved one, Weapons, fighting

A/N: I rewrote this idea several times. I stuck with this one because it would be better than the other draft I had. It'll be a mini-series! This will contain a darker theme throughout the series.

“Hydra has the ability to predict and wipe out every possible threat to them. Before they become one. Stephen Strange-”

Steve stared at the laminated folder on the Sorcerer. Ever since the fall of Sokovia and the team nearly splintering, the idea of approaching Stephen Strange was a tough one. Everyone was working together to destroy the remaining Hydra bases. If there was going to be another issue like Baron Zemo, Sokovia, and other possible Winter Soldiers, then they needed to strike. Bucky had been hesitant to share the fact there was one missing from the cryo-freezers in Siberia. They had almost missed it, if Steve hadn't redirected attention from the video that Zemo played to the open and obviously thawed chamber. One cryo-freeze was open- out of them all. Zemo had remarked that it was already open by the time he arrived, the trio finding he actually told the truth for once. It was dated back to the summer of 2014- the day before the Helicarriers were launched into the air. The login user was Secretary Pierce. Yet, no other Winter Soldier than Bucky was there. So where was this one? They didn't have time to worry as Bucky, Steve, and Tony had to have a hard heart to heart and strike at Zemo during it all.

It was a long, heart breaking discussion with Tony after it all. However, it was clear they still had a similar objective. The world council shut down the Sokovia Accords when the truth came out about Zemo. It took a lot of convincing and politics, but it worked. Bucky was only out of his cryo-freeze to aid in the mission. Finding Stephen Strange was number one. Hydra obviously found him a big enough threat to make an attempt on his life. Bucky was sitting next to him in the blacked out Cadillac, Tony sitting in the passenger seat as he stared out the windows. Buildings whizzed by, the summer sun high in the sky and inviting them to bask in its glory. People mingled about, going about their daily lives without much regard to their surroundings. Silence filled the vehicle- tensions already high. What in the world did Hydra have on Stephen Strange that would deem him as a whole threat?

The Cadillac stopped, pausing in front of a two story building that seemed aged. It held a circular window, with curves crossing through it in an intricate manner. The Sanctum. The trio stepped out, Bucky already scanning the area for anyone or anything out of place. When he saw nothing, they walked up the small steps and to the grand oak doors that stood between them, and the foyer. Steve knocked, waiting for an answer. There was no answer for a long minute, Tony impatiently knocking again. Bucky nervously looked around, eyes flitting as he felt his skin crawl. The Sanctum opened, Wong and Stephen appearing confused in the foyer as the door opened up and let in the warm glow of the sun and July air. 

“What are the Avengers doing here?” Stephen asked curiously, taking a sip of his tea as he stood tall and proud. 

Steve closed the door behind him, Bucky and Tony trailing ahead and down the three steps as the billionaire talked. “Hydra deemed you a threat two and a half years ago. Why is that twinkle-toes?” His tone was sharp and aggressive, as though ready for a fight.

Steve sent Tony a warning glance, his jaw clenching as he sighed out. “What Tony means is… Zola’s Algorithm deemed you as a potential threat against Hydra once they launched the Helicarriers in the sky,” he explained.

Stephen Strange felt his brows crease, the cool shade of the Sanctum chilling his nose and his lips warm from the rim of his mug. Blue eyes shifted, a raging stormy color glittering in the dim light. “I was still a surgeon at that time. I lost my abilities in 2015 and only- just only- became Master of the Sanctum here in 2016. There's no possible way the algorithm knew of what I would become,” he shook his head.

The trio exchanged a curious look. “It also based it on voting patterns, living..” Steve added quietly.

Stephen gave a shrug. “I mean… there are a few items that could have been used to defeat them, but it's not really useful in the hands of a modern civilian,” he took another sip of his tea. “I wouldn't know why they would even say my name if a simple Surgeon is a threat.”

The trio weren't convinced, merely eyeing the duo before them carefully. A tense silence filled the air, complete with a hard stare as they seemed to contemplate what was said. It was clear that it wasn't easy to fathom. Yet, Steve was already uneased by the idea of Zola and his algorithm. There was something about Stephen that labeled him as an eventual threat; or it had. He was merely a Master of the Sanctum, with some form of ability to stop threats now. But why back then? Was it a predictor? If it was, how far did it predict and how accurate was it? Obviously it predicted enough to get Stephen on this list prematurely. Hydra cleared their files, indicating whatever record they had on him was gone. The bases they did clear out left no trace. It was a constant rabbit chase across the world for any trace of information. 

“Why are you here then, if the helicarriers are down and Hydra and S.H.I.E.L.D. is no more?” Stephen questioned, his lips a thin line and voice sharp. 

“There's another Winter Soldier on the loose,” Bucky answered quietly. All eyes turned on him. “Any time I listened to the recorded conversations… They always referred to him as the Weapon. That's all. They say that the Weapon is now ready and going for you Stephen.”

Frigid air- unnatural and not of magic- flooded the Sanctum. Stephen felt his blood ice and he stared at the former Winter Soldier. He was still being hunted? Silence haunted the room. It was an undeniable silence that was filled with the chill and tension that shifted with heightened fear. Stephen looked between the three, awaiting for anything else. 

“They say he's even worse than me. With a longer record, more gore..” Bucky couldn't maintain eye contact. “Even he was just a rumor. Except he's not a ghost story that sends tingles- he's a haunted legend. The Winter Soldier inside me doesn't even like to remember or wish to remember him. They say the Weapon is under complete control of Hydra. They don't even know if it can become undone.”

“So what you're saying is.. even if we find the Weapon we can't undo the programming given?”

Bucky shook his head. “I’m not the person that knows about that part. Natasha Romanoff knows however, from the Red Room,” his voice was gentle, eyes soft as he thought about the agent. The men exchanged glances, Steve feeling a pain twinge in his chest. His friend remembers it- most of it all. He had apologized to her when everything had settled down. Steve was told this by them separately- each telling a separate version of what they remembered. While she didn't meet him directly, he trained the Widows from the Red Room. It was how they became so deadly.

Steve felt his lashes flutter over his cheeks, his gaze downcast as he gently thumbed the folder. Just as more questions were going to be asked, his phone rang. A soft excuse me, he stepped towards the front door and answered it. 

“I found her,” Natasha’s gentle voice rang in her ears. 

“Her?” Steve quietly echoed in confusion.

“The Weapon is not a he- but a she,” the agent clarified. 

Steve felt his heart stop briefly.

“She's the one who helped train us in the Red Room with Bucky,” a soft inhale, “She was the face for the Winter Soldier. At that time, she was their perfected weapon- the one that they hoped Bucky could achieve. Bucky resisted the programming so much that he didn't become what they wanted. Its why he is Bucky now-” a soft inhale and the sound of paper being flipped was heard from the phone, “Steve… They tortured her so much she forgot who she was. She has no one to bring her back- to identify her like you did…” a pause. “The… base, where we found her files..”

Steve could hear Stephen and Tony bickering in the background, names being called at each other over something stupid. He looked at the group, lips forming into a tight line. “Go on..” he murmured. He could feel his gut sinking, the hairs on his neck rising.

Natasha gave a soft sigh through her lips, her voice barely hiding a tremble, “She's from… Her name is Y/N L/N, she's in her late twenties and she's… shit.” Natasha’s voice trailed off at the mention of how old the Weapon was. There was loud silence- the idea that someone could be either so young, or so old was terrifying. How could it even be possible if the Weapon was older than even he and Bucky?

Steve stared at the marble floor. The clatter of his phone now loud in the foyer and halting the bickering. Everyone looked at him, his face pale and eyes wide as the sound of muffled noises came from the end of the phone. Then a click. Natasha hung up for a reason. Steve could still feel his hackles rising on his neck. Something was wrong and it just wasn't the impossible information. His gaze flitted up, staring at Bucky as his best friend seemed to notice something from the circular window. His gaze was focused on the area, moving up the stairs and looking outside. Stephen readied himself, jerking his arms back and swirling discs of the mystic arts appearing. Wong did the same next to him, their eyes searching the ceiling. Tony seemed to pace back and forth, staring up above as well. Steve hadn't noticed it- but their bickering had stopped a long time ago during his phone call. 

The sounds of thumping back and forth hit Steve’s ears. Followed by gentle scratching and pitter pattering. The window exploded inwards- Bucky flying back and tumbling down the steps. Smoke poured in, the stress of wood and snapping filling the air as light now dared pour in and try to peer into the swirling, white mass which stopped everyone from seeing. 

A flicker.

Appearing just briefly in the sun was a mangled scar, knotted and white with clear webbing of a star on the bicep. Below it was оружие, a clear intention of harming the skin with a knife and scarring. Smoke swirled around the image, a brief flicker of a muzzle with grates and blood over it. The sound of a gun being loaded with a magazine hit Steve’s ears, his eyes widening as he now dared to leap forward. A quick flash of golden orange, wind swept out and the smoke scattered. Stephen was now before the group, the Weapon close and the barrel of the gun pointed at him through the shield he threw up. The getup was similar to Bucky’s Winter Soldier. Except, the muzzle was tight, pinching and irritating the skin that blood rolled down your neck and into the collar of your vest. Your eyes were blank and lifeless. There was a loud silence as Stephen stared you down with an intensity that could smite Dormammu himself.  Your outfit however, was a tight, sleeveless compression shirt with a vest overtop, and gloves that extended to your biceps. Multiple straps littered your arms and torso, holding an array of weapons and combat boots holding cargo pants up. 

No one moved. Not even you. It was clear you were assessing the situation after being surrounded. Tony’s suit had appeared quickly, arc reactor in his palm whirring violently to life as he pointed his palm at the back of your skull. Everyone was tense, clear that they chose the right day to visit Stephen Strange. 

“Y/N,” Steve began softly. He watched your body visibly tense even more, muscles so taut it seemed inhumane. “Y/N L/N,” he finished. You didn’t move, sweat beading down your temple at his voice. Why did it sound familiar? It sounded like someone you knew. Supposed to know.

When Strange repeated it- it felt like your mind was ripping apart. You looked at Stephen Strange with a wild look that was akin to a cornered animal. Your lips parted, your grip tightening around your gun as your heart hammered violently within your chest. You felt like puking. The magic shield went down, Strange standing before you with a pleading look.

You want to throw up. The greys at his temples stood out within his stark black hair, his blue eyes a swirl of deep hues as he stared at you with a weary caution.  You swear you’ve seen him before. You know you’ve seen him other than the files marking him as your target. He was so kind and gentle with you. The image in your brain flickering to a time where men wore fashionable vests and suits, his hands clasped around your face as you stood at the docks. His lips, smothering yours in a fashion so desperate and needy as his breathing was labored. When he pulled back, he mouthed something…. The distant words, you dared not think.

The programming was starting to kick back in- a warning that said if you failed you would surely be tortured worse than before. Just as your muscles twitched to touch the trigger, Bucky slammed into you. He straddled your waist, gripping your vest collar and metal fist raised in preparation to strike. Anger- violence. The bloodlust that tinged his pupils was familiar and you froze before your former companion. You dared not move. Bucky kept poised, ready to strike like a snake and then-

Black.

Strange watched as you slumped out against the floor, body still tense and yet more relaxed. He looked at Steve, the blonde looking surprised his friend actually knocked you out still. Silence filled the room as everyone seemed to relax from their fighting and defensive positions. The glass glistened within the sunlight, scattering rainbow rays away from the area as they seemed to try and formulate words to articulate how oddly easy it was.

“You said that she was brainwashed so much that there may not be any indication of the old person she was,” Steve murmured quietly. "Bucky?"

Bucky frowned, looking at the blonde. “She froze,” he murmured. The moment he saw the scars in your bicep was the moment the Winter Soldier allowed him to access the memories of the Red Room and Hydra with you. “She doesn’t freeze. She kills, instantly. It doesn’t matter if the room was filled with us who could outpower her- she would still strike. Why would she freeze?" Even he couldn't answer that question for his friend.

Strange looked down to you once more, the sense of familiarity dawning upon him as he stared at you. Why did you look familiar? It wasn’t that he saw you presently- he could see you in an old Victorian dress, tears streaming down your face and a sort of pleading for him to not go. He blinked and shook his head, scattering the mental image which was appearing. No, that’s impossible. Then again, two and a half years ago he was setting off to learn how to become a sorcerer. Nothing in this life was impossible. Bucky started to move you, rolling you over and placing you in handcuffs while Steve tied your legs. “Where are you taking her?” Strange’s throat felt dry, a sense of worry slipping through his features.

“Wakanda. We can help her there,” Steve explained softly.

“Let me come with,” the Sorcerer immediately stated. It was close to a demand- but it wasn’t entirely there. His eyes flickered with a sense of want- wanting to try and help. The trio exchanged glances, Wong looking surprised. 

At that, Steve nodded then, a deep sigh expanding his chest out.

[infiniteeight8]

A very confused Scott Lang because he genuinely thought Stephen and Tony were dating.

Anon, you made me very happy when you sent this because I like Scott a lot. 😀 

I don’t name many people, but consider this an everybody lives AU. If any hero died at any point in canon, they’re alive and present. 😀

-

This was the largest gathering of the Avengers and Avengers-adjacent heroes they’d had in more than a year, which means Stephen really should have expected it when Tony grinned, rubbed his hands together, and said, “All right. Let’s play Strongest Avenger.” Thor cheered while Stephen, Hope, and a few others groaned. Tony held up his hands. “Hear me out! I have a twist to propose.”

“What kind of twist?” Bruce asked.

“No arguing for yourself, your significant other, or anyone in your immediate organization,” Tony said. “So Stephen couldn’t argue for another sorcerer, and Hope couldn’t vote for anyone else from the West Coast group.”

Everyone traded looks for a minute. Finally, Hope sighed. “One hour! That’s it.”

Tony grinned. “Excellent! And as the one who started the game, I get to go first. I pick Stephen.”

“You can’t pick Stephen!” Scott protested. “It’s against your twist rules.”

Tony rolled his eyes. “Come on, Stephen’s affiliation is the wizards—”

“Sorcerers,” Stephen corrected automatically.

“—not the New York Avengers.”

“I meant because he’s your boyfriend,” Scott said.

Stephen blinked and exchanged a glance with Tony. 

“Uh, he’s not, actually,” Tony said.

Scott looked distressed. “You two didn’t break up, did you?”

“Scott,” Stephen said carefully, “Tony and I were never together.”

“No,” Scott said in disbelief.

“Yes.”

“No.”

“Scott!” Tony said. “I think I’d know! We’re not dating.”

“That’s ridiculous!” Scott burst out. “You’re great together! You have the same sense of humor, you never have a hard time talking to each other, you’re so good in the field together I seriously wondered for a bit if telepathy was a thing, you check each other out all the time, the Cloak likes Tony, the bots like Stephen, seriously, if you aren’t dating then you should be.”

Stephen… couldn’t actually argue with any of that. He glanced at Tony, who was looking bemused. “You make some good points,” Tony said. He shot Stephen a grin. “You up for it?”

“I could be convinced,” Stephen said, smirking.

Natasha raised her hand. “I vote for Scott for Strongest Avenger,” she said. “Because getting through Tony’s obliviousness when it comes to Stephen is no small feat.”

Everyone broke up laughing, and Scott looked pleased even as he laughed, too.

[nrilliree]

"If character X was a man, you would love her, but she's a woman, so you blame her!!!11 And that's blah blah blah..."

Anonymous just made me realize why I hate the character of Wanda Maximoff in the MCU so much. Because she's the Alicent Hightower of the Marvel universe!

1. Fans of both characters think that because something bad happened to them in their youth, they deserve to be called eternal victims and all the bad things they do should be justified. Because they are THE victims. And of course, fans don't see their guilt, only the men - Viserys, Larys, Tony, Stephen...

2. Both consider themselves morally right when they hurt and sentence to death people around them, because they think they deserve something. Whether it's fictional children from the Sims game in Westwiew, or a throne that never belonged to them. Alicent is guilty of the deaths of the Strongs, the lords in the Red Keep, of starting the Civil War that led to the slaughter of entire family, but so what? After all, her rapist son should sit on the throne belonging to Rhaenyra, because Alicent deserves it. It's exactly the same with Wanda - people in Westwiew were tortured, mentally raped and so traumatized that thousands left the city, Wanda from another dimension was turned into a murderer by mental rape, and dozens of people defending a 14-year-old from death were murdered? So what, after all, Wanda deserves it. After all, they are victims of evil men!

3. Both are infantilized by their fans, who pretend that Alicent did not know that the Civil War would break out, and Wanda did not know what would happen when she read the Darkhold. These are adult women aware of their (bad) choices, not children.

4. Defending these women's "feminism" while dragging other women through the mud. Alicent's fans call Rhaenyra a whore and at every turn belittle how Alicent made her life hell for her own selfish reasons. Same with Wanda's fans who spread hate towards Rebecca Kaplan (you know, the woman who was actually a mother and not just played at being one for 3 days) because Billy Kaplan thinks she's his real mother, or towards 14 year old America who had the nerve not to die for Wanda's happiness.

Thanks, anonymous from mailbox, now I hate Wanda even more <3!

[urdreamydoodles]

MARVEL COMICS CHARACTERS X FEM!READER

Your lover learns that you are a mutant, and decides to act against the world that hates your kind

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

Peter Parker (Spider-Man)

- Peter had always known there was something different about you. It wasn’t the kind of different that made his Spider-Sense tingle, nor was it something he could quite put his finger on. It was in the way you carried yourself, the way your eyes flickered with an unspoken sadness when the news blared stories of mutant riots, the way you tensed when someone spat out the word like it was venom on their tongue. But he never pushed—he knew what it was like to have secrets, to cradle them close like fragile things that could shatter in the wrong hands.

- But when you finally told him, when you stood before him with your hands trembling and your voice barely above a whisper, Peter felt his heart break for you. Not because you were a mutant—God, no—but because you had lived your whole life expecting rejection, even from him. His first instinct was to pull you into his arms, to wrap you in the warmth of his love, to whisper against your hair, "You could never be anything but perfect to me." And when he pulled back, cupping your face in his calloused hands, he met your gaze with unwavering devotion. "I'm so sorry the world made you feel like you had to hide from me."

- From that moment, Peter became your fiercest protector—not that you needed protecting, but love made him reckless. He confronted every slur, every cruel whisper, every venom-laced comment spat your way. When J. Jonah Jameson ran another anti-mutant headline in the Daily Bugle, Peter slammed the paper down on his desk and walked out, his voice shaking with rage. When a man sneered at you on the subway, Peter’s hand found yours, fingers threading together as he stared the man down until he looked away.

- But it wasn’t just anger that drove him—it was justice. He swung through the city, stopping hate crimes against mutants with the same ferocity he used against criminals. He used his platform, his voice, his every breath to push back against the tide of bigotry. "You think mutants are dangerous? Maybe you should look in the mirror." And when people asked why he cared so much, why Spider-Man fought so hard for them, he would simply smile under his mask and say, "Because someone I love is one of them. And I’ll be damned if I let the world treat them like anything less than extraordinary."

- At night, when the world was quiet, Peter would hold you like you were something sacred, tracing the lines of your hands with his fingertips, memorizing you like poetry. "You know, the only thing that ever scared me about you being a mutant," he would whisper against your temple, "is the thought that you'd ever think I could love you any less because of it." And then he would kiss you—soft, reverent, as if every heartbeat between you was a promise.

Tony Stark (Iron Man)

- Tony had always been a man of logic, of science, of equations that made sense and theories that could be proven. But love was neither logical nor quantifiable, and when it came to you, he was hopelessly tangled in the chaos of it. He had seen the way you hesitated when mutant protests flashed across the screen, the way your fingers curled into your palms when politicians spoke of registration, control, fear. He had seen it, but he had never asked. He had always figured that if you wanted to tell him, you would.

- And then, one night, you did. The confession spilled from your lips like something fragile and broken, years of pain woven between every syllable. You had expected disgust, anger, maybe even that cold indifference the world had always shown you. But Tony Stark was not the world. He was Tony Stark, and he laughed—actually laughed—before pulling you into his arms. "Sweetheart," he murmured against your hair, "did you really think I'd care? You could have told me you were an alien princess from the Andromeda Galaxy, and it wouldn’t have changed a damn thing."

- But beneath the bravado, beneath the charm, there was fury—cold and sharp, pressing against his ribs like a blade. How dare the world make you feel this way? How dare they make you hide, make you think that love was something that came with conditions? The next time a senator spewed anti-mutant rhetoric at a gala, Tony took a long sip of his whiskey, smiled that sharp, wolfish smile, and said, "Funny, I was just thinking how the world would be a better place if we registered bigots instead."

- And then there were the grand gestures—because Tony Stark didn’t do things halfway. He poured billions into mutant advocacy programs, bought out entire networks to air pro-mutant campaigns, stood before the world in a press conference and said, "I’ve seen the future, and let me tell you—it’s not built on hate. It’s built on evolution, on progress, on people who are stronger than you could ever hope to be." And when people asked him why, when reporters pried for answers, he only ever said, "Because someone I love deserves better."

- In the quiet of the workshop, with only the hum of machinery and the glow of arc reactors around you, Tony would pull you onto his lap, pressing his lips against your temple. "You know," he murmured, "mutant, human, robot—whatever you are, you’re mine. And that’s the only thing that matters."

Steve Rogers (Captain America)

- Steve had fought wars—on battlefields, in back alleys, in the hearts and minds of the people. He had seen the worst of humanity, had watched hatred take root and grow like a disease. And yet, nothing prepared him for the way his heart ached when you finally told him the truth. It wasn’t anger, wasn’t disappointment—just a slow, dawning grief, not because you were a mutant, but because you had been afraid to tell him. "I fought against people like that," he whispered, his voice thick with sorrow. "People who thought they had the right to decide who was worthy of freedom. I won’t let them do that to you."

- From that day on, Steve became your shield in more ways than one. Not just in battle, but in life. He corrected people when they spoke with ignorance, stood in front of you when the world turned cruel. And when someone had the audacity to say, "But Captain, they’re a mutant—aren’t you afraid?" he would square his shoulders, fix them with that unshakable gaze, and say, "Afraid? Of someone stronger, braver, and better than you? Not in a million years."

- He marched in mutant rallies, stood before congressmen and looked them in the eye when they tried to push their agendas of fear. "I fought a war to stop people like you," he told them, voice steady, unwavering. "And I’ll fight another if I have to." His words spread like wildfire, his name became a beacon. If Captain America stood with mutants, then maybe—just maybe—the world would listen.

- But for all the battles he fought, for all the speeches and protests, what mattered most was how he loved you. In the early mornings, when the sun painted your skin in gold, he would trace slow, reverent lines along your arms, pressing kisses to every inch of you. "You are everything they’re afraid of," he murmured against your lips. "And that makes you extraordinary."

- And when the world felt too heavy, when the weight of their hatred threatened to drown you, Steve would hold you close, forehead pressed to yours, his voice a quiet vow. "They’ll never take this from us," he swore. "Not while I’m standing."

Thor

- Thor had seen many things across the realms—gods and monsters, heroes and villains, beings of power and light and darkness. But when you told him, when you stood before him with your heart in your hands, his reaction was as simple as the man himself. He laughed—a deep, joyous sound that shook the very walls—and swept you into his arms. "You think I would love you less for being different?" he asked, pressing a kiss to your brow. "My love, I am a god from another world. It is you who should look upon me with suspicion!"

- But beneath his laughter was rage—not at you, never at you—but at the world that had made you feel unworthy. He could not understand it, this Midgardian hatred for those who were different. On Asgard, power was revered, bloodlines celebrated. But here, on this fragile little world, fear turned to violence. And Thor had never been one to stand idly by in the face of injustice.

- When he heard men speak against mutants, he did not argue—he roared. His voice thundered through the halls of their governments, shaking the foundations of their hate. "You would condemn those who are stronger than you?" he bellowed. "Then I ask you—would you dare call ME an abomination?" And when they faltered, when they could not meet his gaze, he would smirk and say, "That is what I thought."

- But it was in the quiet moments that his love shone brightest. When he held you beneath the stars, his fingers tracing constellations against your skin. "You are power, you are fire, you are the storm itself," he whispered. "Let them fear you. Let them tremble. But know this, my love—I will stand beside you, always."

- And if the world would not change, if it refused to see the beauty in you, then Thor Odinson would remind them why the gods were to be feared.

Loki

- Loki had always known. He had known from the moment he first looked into your eyes, from the way you flinched at whispered slurs, the way your breath hitched when the world spoke of your kind like a disease. He knew, because he was the same. Always other, always different, always a thing to be feared rather than loved. So when you told him, when the words finally left your lips like a confession, he only tilted his head and smirked. "Did you think I would not see you for what you are?" he murmured, tracing a finger along your jaw. "Did you think I would ever love you less?"

- But behind his smirk, there was fire. Loki had spent his life at the mercy of those who saw difference as weakness, and he would not see you suffer the same. He did not fight with fists or shields—he fought with words, with illusions, with tricks that made fools of those who thought themselves mighty. He whispered secrets into the ears of kings, sowed doubt in the hearts of senators. And when they spoke against mutants, when they spat their venom into the world, Loki only smiled and made them choke on their own lies.

- He did not seek to change the world’s mind—he sought to burn it down. "Why should you suffer their hatred?" he asked one night, his voice soft, dangerous. "Why not take your place above them?" And when you shook your head, when you refused to become the monster they feared, he only sighed and kissed your forehead. "Then let them tremble," he murmured. "For you are far greater than they will ever understand."

- And when the nights were long and your heart was heavy, when the weight of the world pressed against your ribs like iron chains, Loki would pull you into his arms, pressing a kiss to your shoulder. "Let them call us monsters," he whispered. "Let them fear us. But know this, my love—you will never stand alone."

- And as the fires of hatred raged across Midgard, Loki only smiled, watching as the world shifted and twisted in the palm of his hand. Because if there was one thing the Trickster God knew, it was this—love was the most dangerous magic of all.

Matthew Murdock (Daredevil)

Clint Barton (Hawkeye)

- Clint had always been good at spotting the things people tried to hide. It was an instinct sharpened by years of survival, a skill born from growing up in the gutters of a world that didn’t care if he lived or died. He could read people like maps, see the tells in their hands, the flickers in their expressions, the hesitations in their words. And he had seen it in you—the way you flinched at anti-mutant slurs, the way your shoulders stiffened at the news, the way your smile never quite reached your eyes when people spoke of them like they were a disease. But he never pushed. He just waited, patient as ever, because love wasn’t about forcing doors open—it was about letting someone hand you the key.

- When you finally told him, when the words left your lips in a whisper so fragile it could have shattered, Clint didn’t blink. Didn’t flinch. Didn’t hesitate. He only leaned back in his chair, crossed his arms behind his head, and smirked. “Well, that explains why you’re so much cooler than me.” The joke was light, effortless, but there was something in his eyes—something sharp, something raw. “You really think I’d care?” he asked, voice softer now. And when you looked away, when the weight of the world threatened to crush you, he reached for you, tugging you into his arms with a sigh. “Babe, I don’t care if you’ve got laser eyes or can turn people into frogs—I’m still gonna make bad jokes and steal the covers at night.”

- But beneath the easygoing attitude, there was fire. The next time someone sneered "mutie" under their breath, Clint didn’t let it slide. He was in their face before they even realized what was happening, blue eyes flashing like ice, his tone deceptively casual. “What was that, buddy? Didn’t quite catch it.” And when the man stammered, when he tried to backpedal, Clint only smirked. “That’s what I thought.” He didn’t need to throw punches—his words cut sharper than any arrow.

- But when words weren’t enough, when hatred turned to violence, Clint was the first to stand in front of you, bow drawn, eyes cold. “Pick on someone your own size,” he would say, voice a quiet promise of violence. Because if there was one thing Clint Barton never tolerated, it was bullies. And he wasn’t about to let the world take one more thing from you.

- At night, when the city lights flickered outside your window, when the weight of your past felt too heavy to bear, Clint would pull you close, pressing lazy kisses to your temple. “You don’t ever have to hide from me,” he murmured, voice thick with sleep. “Not from me, not from anyone. You’re stuck with me, sweetheart. Get used to it.”

Natasha Romanoff (Black Widow)

- Natasha had spent her entire life learning how to read people, how to peel them apart layer by layer until there was nothing left to hide. But you—you were the one puzzle she had never solved, the one mystery she never wanted to crack open with force. She had seen the way your hands trembled when the news spat their venom about mutants, the way your gaze flickered with something like fear when the subject came up. She didn’t push. She knew better than anyone that secrets were stitched into the skin, that some wounds bled even when they weren’t visible.

- But when you finally told her, when the words fell from your lips like something broken, Natasha only tilted her head, studying you with those sharp green eyes. And then, so softly you almost didn’t hear it, she whispered, “I know.” She had known for a while—had put the pieces together long before you ever spoke the words aloud. But she also knew that trust wasn’t something given freely, that love wasn’t about demanding answers. It was about waiting.

- And if you thought, for even a second, that Natasha Romanoff would love you any less, you didn’t know her at all. “Do you think I care?” she asked, voice steady, unwavering. “Do you think I would ever let the world decide how I see you?” And when your breath hitched, when your hands clenched into fists, she stepped closer, pressing her forehead against yours. “I have spent my life being what other people wanted me to be. I will never ask that of you.”

- But if she had been quiet before, if she had let comments about mutants pass unchallenged in the name of discretion, that changed. Natasha was no stranger to political warfare, to the slow, methodical dismantling of enemies without ever lifting a gun. When senators pushed for anti-mutant laws, she ruined them before they ever saw it coming. When anti-mutant organizations rose, they found their files wiped, their bank accounts drained, their secrets exposed. "You hurt them," she whispered into the ear of a man who had called for mutant executions, "and I will erase you."

- At home, in the safety of her arms, Natasha was softer. She kissed your knuckles like they were something sacred, traced patterns against your skin as if memorizing every inch of you. “You don’t have to hide anymore,” she whispered against your lips. “Not from me.”

Bucky Barnes (The Winter Soldier)

- Bucky knew what it was like to be feared. He knew what it was like to have people look at you like you were something less than human, like you were a weapon instead of a person. And when you finally told him, when you whispered the truth into the quiet of your shared apartment, his jaw clenched. Not at you, never at you—but at the world that had made you feel like this, that had made you afraid to tell the one person who loved you most.

- He didn’t speak right away, just reached for you, his metal fingers cool against your skin, his touch gentle. “Doll,” he murmured, voice rough with emotion, “I’ve done things that would make the devil blush. And you think I’d ever judge you for being born different?”

- But after that, something changed. Bucky had always kept his head down, had always stayed in the shadows when it came to politics and public opinion. But now? Now he was a storm waiting to break. He walked into rooms where men spoke of mutants like they were vermin and let his presence alone silence them. And when they still had the audacity to sneer, to whisper, he let them see the Winter Soldier lurking just beneath his skin. “Say it again,” he dared, voice low, dangerous.

- And God help anyone who laid a hand on you. Bucky didn’t just stop fights—he ended them. He didn’t care if it made him a threat, if it made people wary of him again. He had spent too many years fighting the wrong battles. He would not lose you to their hatred.

- But when the night was quiet, when the world faded away, Bucky was just Bucky. He held you like you were the only thing keeping him tethered, pressed his lips to your shoulder as if grounding himself in the feeling of you. “I know what it’s like to feel like a ghost in your own skin,” he murmured. “But you? You’re more alive than anyone I’ve ever known.”

- The moment you told Matt, his expression barely flickered. No sharp inhale, no startled pause. He only tilted his head slightly, listening to the sound of your heartbeat thudding like a bird trapped in a cage. He had suspected, of course—Matt could hear the way your breath hitched when someone spat slurs against mutants, could feel the tension coil in your muscles when the news spewed their poison. But he had never pried. He knew what it was like to carry a secret, to guard it like a wound that might never heal.

- When you finished speaking, silence stretched between you, thick with something unspoken. And then, softly, Matt reached for you, his fingers brushing against your wrist before lacing through your own. "You really thought I'd turn away?" he asked, voice barely above a whisper. He lifted a hand to your cheek, tracing the shape of you as if committing it to memory all over again. "I know what it's like to be something the world hates. I know what it’s like to be called a monster." His voice was steady, but there was something fierce in it—something that said, I will never let them take this from us.

- After that, Matt stopped holding back. If he had once measured his words when it came to mutant discrimination, now he tore through lies like a blade through silk. In courtrooms, he dismantled anti-mutant legislation with the same brutal precision he used to take down criminals in the streets. "Your Honor, I wonder—if my client were anything other than a mutant, would we even be having this discussion?" And in the dead of night, when those same men conspired in alleyways and behind closed doors, the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen made them regret every word.

- But when he was with you, when it was just the two of you in the quiet of your apartment, Matt was softer. He pulled you into his lap, let his hands roam as if learning every inch of you anew. "You're not a sin," he murmured against your skin. "You're not something to be ashamed of." And when you whispered that the world would never stop hating people like you, his grip tightened, his voice dark with promise. "Then let them fear me instead."

- Because if the world wanted a devil, Matt would give them one.

Frank Castle (The Punisher)

- Frank didn't react the way you expected. He didn’t ask why you hadn’t told him sooner. Didn’t ask how you’d been hiding it for so long. He just stared at you for a long moment, jaw tight, eyes unreadable. And then he exhaled sharply, shaking his head. "That why you were afraid?" he asked, voice rough as gravel. "That I’d look at you different?" His brows furrowed, something dark flashing in his gaze. "You really think that little of me?"

- After that, Frank made his stance on mutants crystal clear. There were men—rich, powerful men—who thought they could wipe out mutantkind in silence, who thought they could hunt people like you without consequence. Frank made sure they learned otherwise. When a senator proposed mutant registration, he found his car a smoking ruin. When a high-ranking mutant-hating official disappeared, no one ever found the body.

- Frank didn’t fight for mutant rights in the public eye. He didn’t make speeches, didn’t march in protests. But when someone threatened you, threatened people like you, they disappeared. It wasn’t justice. It was punishment. It was war. And Frank Castle didn’t lose wars.

- But when he was with you, when the blood and the violence faded into the background, Frank was different. He held you close, his touch bruising but gentle, like he was afraid you’d slip through his fingers. "You ain't gotta be scared no more," he murmured against your hair. "Not while I’m breathin’."

- And God help anyone who ever tried to hurt you. Because Frank Castle didn’t believe in mercy.

Bullseye (Lester)

- When you finally told Bullseye, you braced yourself for disgust, for cruelty, for one of his sharp, cutting laughs. But instead, he just blinked at you once, twice—then tilted his head with a smirk. "That’s what you were scared of?" His voice was pure amusement, laced with something darker. "Oh, sweetheart. You should know by now—I don’t give a damn what you are. Long as you bleed like the rest of ‘em."

- And that was it. No anger, no questions, no sympathy. He didn’t treat you like you were fragile. Didn’t tell you that you were special. Bullseye loved destruction, loved chaos, and knowing that you were something the world feared? It only made you more interesting to him.

- But after that, something in him shifted. He took extra pleasure in tearing apart anti-mutant extremists, in carving his own brand of justice into their skin. If someone so much as looked at you wrong, he made sure they never did it again. "Gotta admit," he murmured one night, flicking a bloodstained knife between his fingers. "It’s fun, huntin’ those bastards down. Feels like a goddamn sport."

- But despite his cruelty, despite his madness, there were moments of startling softness. He would run his fingers through your hair absentmindedly, twirl a strand around his finger, murmur against your skin, "You really thought I’d hate you? Sweetheart, I’m not the one who’s ever gonna leave." And that was the most terrifying thing of all—because with Bullseye, love wasn’t gentle. It was obsession.

- He didn’t just accept you. He worshiped you. And in the end, that was the most dangerous thing of all.

Marc Spector (Moon Knight)

- Marc had always known you were hiding something. He saw it in the way your body tensed when people talked about mutants, in the way you flinched when a headline spat venom about the so-called "mutant problem." He had spent his life surrounded by secrets, drowning in them, and he could feel yours pressing against you like a second skin. But he never forced it out of you. Marc knew that secrets weren’t pried open—they were given, piece by piece, when the weight of them became too much to bear.

- When you finally told him, your voice was barely more than a whisper, as if the confession alone might break you. For a long moment, Marc didn’t say anything. He just stared, unreadable, his hands curling into fists at his sides. But then—"That’s it?" His voice was quiet, rough, like gravel scraping against pavement. He shook his head, almost scoffing. "You really thought I’d turn my back on you?" And then, softer, his hand reaching for yours, "I’ve been Khonshu’s blade, a mercenary, a killer. You think being born different is what’s gonna change how I see you?"

- After that, something in Marc burned hotter, fiercer. He had never been one to hold his tongue, but now? Now, he was ruthless. When a politician spewed anti-mutant rhetoric, their life crumbled overnight. When hate groups targeted mutants, they found themselves hunted in the dark, their screams lost to the night. He never let you see the worst of it—never let you know just how far he went. But when you traced the bruises on his knuckles, when you saw the fresh cuts on his skin, you knew.

- "They don’t get to win," he told you one night, his voice low, dangerous. "Not while I’m still breathing." And when you tried to tell him that you were used to it, that it didn’t matter, he caught your chin between his fingers, forcing you to look at him. "It matters to me."

- When the nightmares came, when the weight of it all became too much, Marc held you close, his breath warm against your hair. "I’m not going anywhere," he murmured against your temple. And even when his mind fractured, even when he got lost in the chaos of himself, he always found his way back to you.

Taskmaster (Tony Masters)

- Taskmaster was many things—a killer, a mercenary, a man whose entire life revolved around reading people. And he had read you like an open book the moment he met you. The tension in your shoulders, the hesitation in your voice whenever the topic of mutants came up—he had seen it all, memorized it. He wasn’t an idiot. He knew what you were. But he waited. If you wanted to keep your secret, he wasn’t going to be the one to take it from you.

- But when you finally told him, your voice tight with fear, he just… shrugged. "Yeah. And?" His tone was almost lazy, like it was the most uninteresting thing in the world. When you gaped at him, confusion written all over your face, he only smirked. "Sweetheart, I’ve worked for the worst people you can imagine. You think I care about something like that?" His smirk faded then, his voice turning serious. "You’re mine. That’s all that matters."

- After that, he didn’t just accept it—he weaponized it. If someone so much as looked at you wrong, they didn’t get a second chance. Taskmaster didn’t do morality, didn’t fight for justice. But he did fight for you. And if hurting anti-mutant extremists meant getting a fat paycheck at the same time? Even better.

- He never made speeches, never tried to convince people they were wrong. He just made them pay. When a high-ranking government official pushed for mutant registration, they woke up to find their security detail dead and Taskmaster sitting in their living room, twirling a knife between his fingers. "You’re gonna back off," he told them, voice dangerously calm. "Or I start making this personal." They always backed off.

- But at the end of the day, when it was just the two of you, he was softer in ways he’d never admit. He let you trace the scars on his arms, let you press your forehead against his without a word. "Told ya," he murmured one night, voice almost gentle. "I don’t give a damn what you are. Long as you’re mine."

Johnny Storm (Human Torch)

- Johnny didn’t notice at first. He was too busy being in love with you, too caught up in the way you laughed, the way your eyes shone when you looked at him. But when you finally told him, when the words left your lips like something fragile and breakable, he froze. For the first time in his life, Johnny Storm was speechless.

- And then, after a long, terrible silence, he just—laughed. "Babe," he grinned, pulling you into his arms, "I don’t care if you’re a mutant, an alien, or a wizard. You’re still you. And you’re still the most beautiful person I’ve ever seen." He kissed you then, like the whole world could burn and he wouldn’t care.

- But after that? Oh, he made sure everyone knew exactly where he stood. When people talked about mutants like they were a threat, Johnny cut them off with a sharp, "Oh, so now you’ve got a problem with my girlfriend? Say that again, I dare you." And when someone was dumb enough to throw insults in your direction, Johnny lit up, flames crackling around him. "Wanna say that one more time?" he grinned, voice dripping with dangerous amusement. They never did.

- He used his fame, his charm, his name to shift public opinion. He appeared on talk shows, flashing that easy grin, saying things like, "C’mon, guys, this is ridiculous. Mutants are just people. Get over it." And when protests got violent, when mutant kids were being hunted in the streets, Johnny was there, a burning shield between them and the world.

- But when it was just the two of you, when the flames had cooled, he was nothing but warmth. He pulled you against him, pressing soft kisses to your forehead. "I love you," he whispered into your skin, his voice quiet, serious. "And nothing is ever gonna change that."

Reed Richards (Mister Fantastic)

- When you finally told Reed, his first response was silence. Not because he was shocked, not because he needed time to process—but because he was calculating, rearranging every interaction you had ever shared, analyzing every moment where he had failed to see your fear. You had hidden it well, but now that he knew, the weight of it settled over him like a problem he had failed to solve.

- His hands found yours, his gaze steady. "You should have told me," he said, but there was no accusation in his voice. Only quiet regret. He lifted your fingers to his lips, his touch reverent, as if he could rewrite history with something as simple as love. "You’ve carried this alone for too long." And then, with something firmer, something unshakable: "You never have to again."

- From that moment on, Reed became your shield in ways you never expected. He wrote papers dismantling anti-mutant pseudoscience, tore down bigotry with cold, hard fact. When politicians spoke of mutant registration, he left them grasping for counterarguments they could never find. "You claim mutation is unnatural," he said in one televised debate, eyes sharp. "Tell me, Senator—what part of the human genome would you erase? What percentage of the population do you consider a mistake?" The silence that followed was deafening.

- But beyond the science, beyond the politics, there was Reed as your lover. He spent nights in his lab, creating devices to keep you safe, scanning your DNA not to change you, but to understand you. He memorized the nuances of your abilities, mapped them in ways even you hadn’t. "You are a marvel," he told you once, voice full of awe. And for the first time in your life, you believed it.

- And when you lay beside him in the quiet of the Baxter Building, when he pulled you against him with hands ink-stained from endless notes written in your defense, you realized something else: Reed Richards did not love in halves. He was methodical, relentless, infinite. And now, he was yours.

Ben Grimm (The Thing)

- When you told Ben, his first reaction was a long, slow blink. Then, without hesitation, he reached out and ruffled your hair like it was the most natural thing in the world. "That’s what you were scared of?" His voice was warm, gruff, edged with something heartbreakingly gentle. "C’mon, you really think that changes a damn thing?"

- But as much as he tried to downplay it, the knowledge did change something in him. Not in how he saw you, but in how he saw the world. He had always known what it was to be feared, to be hated for something beyond his control—but this? This was different. He started noticing the way people tensed when they spoke about mutants, the way fear bled into cruelty, the way their hatred was masked as logic. And suddenly, it wasn’t just talk. It was personal.

- When someone made a crack about mutants, Ben didn’t get political. He didn’t debate. He just stood up. Let his shadow stretch long, let his presence settle heavy over the room. "You wanna run that by me again?" he rumbled, voice all gravel and quiet fury. And somehow, they never wanted to.

- But with you, Ben was nothing but soft. He pulled you against his chest, let you rest against the solid warmth of him, held you like you were something fragile in a world that had never been kind. "Yer perfect, y’know that?" he muttered one night, fingers tracing mindless patterns against your skin. And when you tried to protest, to remind him of all the ways the world had told you otherwise, he only huffed. "Nah. They don’t get to decide that. Not about you."

- And so he stayed. Through every sneer, every whispered slur, every fight that came too close to home. He stayed because you were his, and Ben Grimm had never walked away from something he loved.

Susan Storm (Invisible Woman)

- When you finally found the courage to tell Sue, she didn’t gasp, didn’t recoil—she simply reached for you, her hands framing your face with a tenderness that made your breath catch. "Oh, sweetheart," she murmured, brushing her thumbs against your skin. "You must have been so scared."

- And just like that, it was no longer about what you were, but about what the world had done to you. About the weight you had carried alone, about the fear that had burrowed into your bones. And Susan Storm, for all her grace, for all her composure, had never been one to stand by while the world hurt the people she loved.

- She became fierce. Not just in words, but in action. She used her influence, her name, her power to carve out space for mutants where there had been none before. She protected, she fought, she defended. And when the world pushed back, she pushed harder.

- And when the nights were quiet, when it was just the two of you tangled together beneath the covers, she let the walls fall. "You don’t have to be strong all the time," she whispered against your temple. "Not with me."

- And maybe, just maybe, for the first time in your life, you believed her.

Felicia Hardy (Black Cat)

- Felicia’s first reaction was a slow, sharp grin. "Oh, baby," she purred, tracing a finger along your jaw. "Did you really think I’d care?" And then, with a soft chuckle, "I love you. Not whatever label the world wants to slap on you."

- But after that, things changed. Not between you and her���Felicia had always been ride-or-die—but between her and the rest of the world. She started stealing from anti-mutant organizations, draining their bank accounts, erasing their influence. She exposed corrupt politicians, left damning evidence in the hands of journalists who wouldn’t bury the truth. She didn’t just defend you—she made sure they suffered.

- And when someone dared to insult you to her face? Oh, that was a mistake. Felicia was many things—a thief, a liar, a woman who played by her own rules—but she had never been forgiving.

- But when it was just the two of you, when the world fell away, she was something softer. She pulled you close, her touch feather-light, her lips brushing against your ear as she whispered, "You don’t ever have to hide from me."

- And she meant it. With Felicia, there were no masks, no secrets—just you, raw and real and loved.

Stephen Strange (Doctor Strange)

- You told Stephen in the dead of night, in the hush between flickering candlelight and the whispered hum of ancient spells. The words barely left your lips before you regretted them, before the years of fear coiled around your ribs like iron chains. You had seen the world turn its back on you before—had watched the disgust, the pity, the cold, clinical rejection in the eyes of those who should have loved you. And so, when Stephen only sighed, when he looked at you with something impossibly gentle, it felt like the weight of the universe shifted.

- He did not recoil, did not hesitate. Instead, he reached for you, fingers tracing the lines of your wrist as if following the constellations of your existence. "My love," he murmured, voice steeped in something ancient, something infinite, "I have walked the hidden paths of the multiverse, have spoken with beings older than time itself. Do you truly believe that something as arbitrary as human prejudice could alter the way I see you?"

- After that, Stephen became an immovable force against those who dared to speak against you. His words were blades sharper than any steel, cutting through the ignorance of men who cloaked their hatred in rhetoric. He did not rage—he did not need to. He dismantled their arguments with the ease of a scholar correcting a student, left them floundering in the wake of his intellect. And when words were not enough, when cruelty turned to violence, Stephen stood between you and the world with a shield of eldritch fire.

- He wove spells into the fabric of your existence, sigils of protection hidden in the way his hands lingered on your skin. No force, mortal or divine, could lay a hand upon you without answering to him. He would break reality itself before he allowed harm to come to you. "They will not touch what is mine," he vowed, and the universe itself seemed to bend to his will.

- And yet, in the quiet hours, when the world faded away and it was just the two of you wrapped in the sanctuary of the Sanctum, he was simply Stephen. He kissed away your fears with the patience of a man who had once lost everything, who knew what it meant to find something worth keeping. "You are not cursed," he told you one night, his voice woven with something that felt like devotion. "You are celestial." And in his arms, you could finally believe it.

Namor (The Sub-Mariner)

- The weight of your secret had always been heavier in his presence. Namor was not a man accustomed to softness, not a man who bent to the whims of others. His love was a tempest, fierce and unrelenting, and you had never known if that storm would hold you or tear you apart. But when you finally told him, when the truth finally slipped past your lips like a confession carved in blood, the air between you went still.

- He did not speak for a long moment. His gaze was unreadable, sharp as a blade honed for war. And then—"You feared I would turn from you?" His voice was quiet, but there was something dangerous lurking beneath it, something ancient and offended. "You feared Namor, King of Atlantis, would forsake his beloved for being what she has always been?" His hand found your chin, tilting your face up toward him, his expression dark with something that looked like fury—not at you, but at the world that had made you believe he could be so small.

- The moment passed, and then his lips were on yours, fierce and possessive, a declaration written in salt and fire. "You are mine," he murmured against your mouth. "Let them speak against you, if they dare. I will drown their cities in ruin before I let them lay a hand upon you." And you knew, with every inch of your soul, that he meant it.

- After that, Namor made no secret of where he stood. When leaders of the surface world spoke of mutants as a threat, they found themselves facing the cold fury of a king who had toppled empires. "Your hatred is as weak as the land you stand upon," he sneered at them, voice like a blade slicing through their feeble protests. "And just as easily shattered." His presence alone sent waves of terror through the political landscape—because an enemy of mutants was now an enemy of Atlantis.

- But beneath all the fire, beneath the war cries and the kingdom that bowed to his will, there was Namor, the man who held you like the most precious thing in the ocean’s depths. "You are of the sea now," he told you once, his voice quieter, reverent. "No one—no thing—will ever take you from me." And when you lay beside him in the deep silence of his kingdom, you knew that, for the first time, you were not alone.

Johnny Blaze (Ghost Rider)

- You had seen the fire in Johnny’s eyes, had traced the inferno that lived in his veins. And yet, when you told him—when you finally let the weight of your truth spill from your lips—you expected him to burn you with it. You expected the same rejection you had spent your life swallowing, expected the words that had been carved into your skin since childhood: monster, mistake, unwanted.

- But Johnny only exhaled, running a scarred hand through his hair before looking at you with something impossibly tender. "That’s what you were scared of?" He let out a breathless, almost disbelieving laugh, before reaching for you, pulling you against him with a gentleness that contradicted the hellfire in his soul. "Sweetheart, I sold my goddamn soul to the devil. You think I got room to judge anybody?"

- And that was it. No questions, no hesitations—just love, steady and unshaken. But the world was not so kind, and Johnny saw it. Saw the way they looked at you, the way their hatred curled like poison in the air. And something dark stirred in him, something ancient and vengeful. The Rider did not abide by human morality, did not hesitate to pass judgment. And when Johnny let him loose, when the skull and chains and fire consumed him, the wicked burned.

- "You wanna know what real monsters look like?" he snarled at those who spat hatred at you. "Take a good, long look." And then the fire came, and the screams followed. The guilty never walked away the same. Some never walked away at all.

- But when the flames died, when the smoke settled, it was just Johnny again. Just the man who traced circles against your back, who kissed your knuckles like a silent vow. "Ain’t nothin’ in this world that could make me love you less," he murmured against your skin. "You hear me? Nothin’." And for once, in a world that had never made space for you, you believed it.

Eddie Brock / Venom

- You expected the worst. Eddie had always been a man of absolutes, of raw emotion barely restrained beneath the surface. And Venom? The symbiote was a creature of instinct, unpredictable and feral. You had spent days, weeks, months dreading the moment—wondering if love would turn to disgust, if loyalty would be drowned beneath the tide of prejudice you had known your whole life.

- But when the words finally left your lips, when you admitted what you were with a voice tight and brittle, Eddie just stared. Not with anger. Not with fear. Just silence, long and unreadable. And then—"That’s what had you so freaked out?" His voice was almost bored, like you had just confessed something as mundane as forgetting to lock the door. Venom slithered over his shoulder then, black tendrils shifting, its alien voice a deep, guttural purr. "WE ARE NOT AFRAID," it growled. "WE LOVE YOU."

- And that was that. Eddie never treated you differently. There were no long speeches, no reassurances—you didn’t need them. You were his. That was the only thing that mattered. But the world? The world didn’t see it that way. And Eddie, for all his temper, had never cared much for the opinions of cowards. "You wanna talk to me about monsters?" he snarled at a reporter who dared to spew anti-mutant rhetoric. "You think you know what ‘dangerous’ looks like? Let me introduce you." And then the symbiote spread its maw, teeth glinting, hunger rising. The fear in their eyes was enough.

- Venom became your guardian, your shadow, your monster in the dark. When the bigots came, they never came twice. "They are WEAK," the symbiote cooed in your ear. "THEY WILL NOT TOUCH YOU." And Eddie, for all his gruffness, only pulled you against his chest, arms solid and safe. "They gotta go through me first," he muttered. And no one—no one—was getting through him.

- But in the quiet moments, when the world wasn’t looking, he was just Eddie. Just a man who held you like you were the only thing keeping him tethered to humanity. "You think I’m the normal one in this relationship?" he joked one night, pressing a kiss against your forehead. "Sweetheart, you’re the best damn thing that ever happened to me." And maybe, just maybe, you could finally believe it.

T’Challa (Black Panther)

- You had spent your life preparing for rejection, bracing for the moment love turned to loss. You had seen kings pass judgment on your kind before—had heard their decrees of condemnation, their insistence that you were too different, too dangerous. And T’Challa—T’Challa—was a king before anything else.

- But when you finally told him, when you spoke your truth in the sanctuary of his chambers, his expression did not waver. He watched you with the patience of a man who had already known the answer, as if he had long suspected the secret you carried. "I see," he murmured, his voice like the softest roll of thunder. And then, after a long pause, he took your hands in his, his grip steady, unshaken. "You are afraid I will turn from you?" He exhaled slowly, as if the thought alone was offensive. "Beloved, you insult me."

- It was not pity in his gaze—it was understanding. Wakanda had spent centuries fighting against the world’s judgment, against the fear and greed that sought to tear it apart. He had felt the weight of being seen as other, as a threat. And so, his response was not outrage, not shock, but something far more powerful. Acceptance.

- And the world listened. When leaders spoke of mutant registration, of control, of suppression, they found their words met with the unwavering will of the Black Panther. "Wakanda will not stand with cowards," he declared, his voice carrying across the United Nations floor like the strike of a war drum. "You speak of protecting humanity, yet you wield fear as a weapon. We have seen this before. We have lived it. And we will not allow history to repeat itself."

- But when it was just the two of you, when the weight of kingship faded and it was simply T’Challa, he was nothing but gentle. He pulled you close, his lips tracing the curve of your shoulder, his voice a low, steady murmur. "You are my heart," he whispered against your skin. "And my heart does not fear."

Elektra Natchios

- Elektra had always been a blade honed to perfection—silent, deadly, unforgiving. You had never known if her love was something sharp or something soft, had never been certain if you were an exception or just another inevitable loss waiting to happen. And so, when you told her, when you let your secret slip between breaths, you braced yourself for the cut.

- But Elektra did not flinch. Did not look at you with fear, or pity, or hesitation. Instead, she tilted her head, assessing you with the same cold precision she reserved for the battlefield. And then, after a long, heavy silence, she smirked. "You thought I would care?" she mused, her voice like silk over steel. "Darling, I’ve murdered kings. I’ve torn empires apart with my own hands. Do you think something as small as genetics could change how I see you?"

- After that, she became merciless with those who sought to harm you. The Hand, the government, the cowards who whispered venom against mutants—none of them were safe. When a senator proposed a bill to restrict mutant rights, he disappeared. When a crime syndicate funneled money into anti-mutant propaganda, their bodies were found in the river, their throats slit with precision. Elektra did not argue with bigots. She ended them.

- But in the quiet, when the blood was washed from her hands, she was something else. She traced the line of your jaw with a touch that was almost reverent, as if memorizing the shape of you. "They will never touch you," she promised one night, her voice a whisper against your lips. "Not while I still breathe." And you knew, with bone-deep certainty, that she meant it.

- Because Elektra’s love was not gentle. It was not tender. It was a promise carved in blood and steel. And it was yours.

Muse

- Telling Muse was like spilling ink into water—unpredictable, shifting, impossible to contain. He stared at you for a long moment, his head tilting in that unnatural way of his, as if dissecting your words, peeling them apart layer by layer. And then, he laughed. Not cruelly. Not mockingly. But with something like delight.

- "You think I would care?" he mused, his voice thick with amusement, with something almost manic. "Darling, normal is boring." He leaned closer then, his breath warm against your ear. "But you? You’re art."

- After that, the world became a canvas. The walls of Hell’s Kitchen bled with murals of your face, with paintings that whispered of something divine. He did not defend you with words—he did not care for words. Instead, he let the city see you the way he saw you. Mutant? Human? It didn’t matter. You were beautiful.

- And when someone dared to insult you, when they let their fear curl into something ugly, Muse did not argue. He simply disappeared for a night. And when he returned, there was red on his hands, on his lips, staining his teeth like war paint.

- But in the quiet, when the madness faded, he was just Muse. Just the man who traced shapes into your skin, who whispered things that made your breath catch. "You are my greatest masterpiece," he murmured, his fingers ghosting over your pulse. And you knew, with absolute certainty, that he meant it.

Victor von Doom (Dr. Doom)

- You told him in a whisper, in the shadowed halls of Latveria’s castle, your voice barely more than a breath. Doom had never been a man to suffer surprises, and you knew—knew—how he viewed the world. His vision was absolute, his standards uncompromising. You had braced yourself for fury, for cold dismissal, for a sharp-edged rejection that would carve itself into your bones. But when the words left your lips, Victor merely turned his head, his green cloak billowing behind him as he regarded you in silence.

- His mask gave away nothing, but his voice, when he finally spoke, was steady. "You believe Doom would be swayed by such trivialities?" There was no outrage. No scorn. Only the weight of certainty. "You are mine. That has not changed." And just like that, your fear seemed foolish. Doom had never cared for the prejudices of lesser men—why would he start now?

- But what did change was how the world suffered for its ignorance. The moment the anti-mutant hysteria reached Latveria’s borders, it was met with swift, merciless retribution. "Mutants are under my protection," he declared, standing before the United Nations, his voice like the strike of a hammer. "Those who threaten them threaten Doom. And Doom does not forgive." Countries that passed anti-mutant laws found their infrastructure failing overnight, their leaders waking to nightmares of iron gauntlets closing around their throats.

- Doom did not merely defend you—he reshaped reality itself to ensure that no hand dared rise against you again. When a coalition of world leaders tried to enforce mutant registration, their satellites fell from the sky, their wealth turned to ash. "They will learn," he murmured, his fingers ghosting over your cheek, "or they will burn."

- But in the quiet, when the weight of sovereignty slipped from his shoulders, Victor held you differently. He traced the line of your jaw with ungloved hands, his voice no longer the decree of a ruler, but the murmur of a man. "You are beyond them," he told you one night, his lips ghosting over yours. "And Doom does not bow to the small-minded."

Peter Quill (Star-Lord)

- The moment the words left your mouth, Peter blinked, his brows furrowing like he had misheard you. "Wait—hold up. That’s what’s been eating you?" He let out a breathless, incredulous laugh, raking a hand through his hair. "Babe, I thought you were gonna tell me you had, like, a killer ex or some galactic bounty on your head."

- He took your hands then, squeezing them with the kind of reckless, unwavering devotion that only Peter Quill could offer. "I don’t care about that mutant stuff, okay? You’re you. That’s what matters." And just like that, the weight on your chest vanished. Because Peter—sweet, ridiculous, infuriating Peter—had never cared about things like labels. You were his. That was the only thing that mattered.

- But when the galaxy did care, when the whispers of mutant hatred spread beyond Earth, Peter changed. Gone was the easygoing smuggler, the charming rogue. In his place was the son of a warlord, a man who had seen entire planets fall to fear. "You wanna go after mutants?" he snarled at a Kree ambassador who dared to suggest mutant containment. "Lemme tell you something, pal—mutants don’t need protecting from people like you. You need protecting from them."

- The Guardians became your fiercest defenders. Rocket rigged explosives to anti-mutant ships, Drax openly challenged bigots to duels (none survived), and Gamora—gods, Gamora—made sure that the universe learned a very simple lesson: you do not come for what belongs to the Guardians of the Galaxy.

- But when it was just you and Peter, when the weight of the cosmos faded, he was still the same dork who danced with you in the cockpit, who pressed forehead kisses against your skin, who whispered, "You’re my favorite person in the whole galaxy." And you believed him.

Richard Rider (Nova)

- Rich had always been a man caught between two worlds—human and cosmic, soldier and survivor. You knew, deep down, that he understood what it was to be other, to be shaped by forces beyond his control. And yet, when you finally told him the truth, you still braced for the worst.

- He just stared at you. Not in shock. Not in horror. Just… processing. And then, after what felt like eternity, he exhaled and scrubbed a hand over his face. "Jesus, babe, I thought you were gonna tell me something bad." He let out a shaky laugh, shaking his head. "I don’t give a damn about that. You think being a mutant makes you different? I’ve been half-space-god since I was a teenager. You’re nothing compared to the weird crap I’ve seen."

- But when Earth made it clear that it did care, when mutants were hunted and vilified, Rich stepped up. Hard. The Nova Corps had always been neutral, but Rich? Rich was not. He tore through fleets of Sentinels, shut down space stations funding anti-mutant research, and made sure the Shi’ar never forgot what happened when they overstepped. "Mutants are under my protection," he declared, his voice carrying through the void. "Come for them, and you answer to Nova Prime."

- And when the anti-mutant rhetoric reached Earth, when humans whispered about control and containment, Rich snapped. "You people don’t get it, do you?" he spat during a live broadcast, his helmet in his hands, his blue eyes furious. "The universe is full of things that would eat you alive. And you’re wasting your time fighting mutants? Jesus Christ, you people never learn."

- But when it was just you and him, when the war was distant and the stars were quiet, he pulled you into his arms and pressed a lingering kiss against your temple. "You’re my whole damn universe," he murmured, his voice thick with exhaustion, with love. "And I’m never letting anything happen to you."

[reveryfics]

New Years Day

Pairings: Stephen Strange x Male reader

Summary: Stephen joins you out on the terrace, the two of your sharing a kiss beneath the fire works.

A/n: Happy new years everyone! Requests are open.

⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯

The air in the Avengers Tower buzzed with anticipation. It was nearly midnight, and Tony Stark, ever the consummate host, had outdone himself. The penthouse floor was a whirlwind of vibrant colors, the scent of exotic canapés mingling with the festive music. Laughter and clinking glasses filled the air as heroes and allies from across the globe mingled.

Stephen Strange, Sorcerer and reluctant social butterfly, navigated the crowd with a practiced ease. He had brought a friend from the Sanctum, a quiet man who preferred the company of ancient texts to that of people. Stephen, determined to break him out of his solitary habits, had insisted he join the festivities.

Throughout the evening, Stephen steered him through the throng, introducing him to various members of the Avengers. Thor, ever boisterous, regaled them with tales of Asgardian feasts, while Natasha Romanoff, her eyes sharp and observant, offered astute commentary on the political undercurrents of the gathering.

Initially hesitant and withdrawn, he gradually thawed under Stephen's gentle encouragement. He surprised himself by finding the conversation engaging, even exhilarating. He learned about the complexities of superhero life, the weight of responsibility that rested on their shoulders, and the unexpected camaraderie that had blossomed between them.

As the clock struck eleven, he excused himself, seeking solitude on the terrace. The city lights shimmered below, a breathtaking panorama against the velvet backdrop of the night sky. He found himself drawn to the cool night air, the distant rumble of the city a comforting counterpoint to the vibrant chaos within.

Soon, Stephen joined him. "Enjoying the view?" he asked, his voice a soft murmur in the stillness.

He nodded, his gaze fixed on the horizon. "It's… impressive," he admitted, a rare smile gracing his lips. "I never imagined I'd be spending New Year's Eve like this."

"Me neither," Stephen confessed, a wry smile playing on his lips. "But I'm glad I am. It's been… invigorating."

He turned to Stepehen, his eyes searching his face. "I… I'm glad I came," he said, his voice surprisingly sincere. "I've enjoyed getting to know you, Stephen. You… you have a way of making things… interesting."

Stephen felt a warmth spread through him. "Thank you. I… I enjoy your company as well. You're more insightful than you give yourself credit for."

As the countdown began, the atmosphere in the penthouse reached a fever pitch. "Ten… nine… eight…" The voices rose in unison, a collective anticipation building.

Stephen raised his glass of champagne. "Happy New Year."

"Happy New Year," he echoed, his eyes sparkling with a newfound enthusiasm.

"Seven… six… five…" The city lights seemed to hold their breath.

Suddenly, the sky erupted in a dazzling display of fireworks. Colors splashed across the canvas of night, a symphony of light and sound. The ball began its descent, a silver orb against the inky blackness.

"Four… three… two… one!"

As the final seconds ticked away, Stephen, driven by an inexplicable impulse, turned to the other. He leaned in, his breath catching in his throat, and pressed his lips to his.

The kiss was unexpected, a sudden burst of warmth and surprise. Caught off guard, he froze for a moment, then slowly responded, his hands instinctively reaching for Stephen's waist.

Stephen pulled away, his cheeks flushed. His eyes wide with a mixture of shock and delight, simply chuckled. "Well," he said, his voice husky, "I guess this will be a good year for me."

Stephen smiled, his heart pounding. "Indeed," he replied, his gaze locked on the other, a silent promise hanging in the air.

The fireworks continued to explode overhead, painting the night sky with a kaleidoscope of colors. But for Stephen and him, the most dazzling display was the one that had unfolded between them, a spark of something new and unexpected.

The air crackled with a tension neither of them could deny. Stephen, emboldened by the unexpected turn of events, leaned in and brushed his lips against the other's once more. This time, the kiss was deeper, more lingering, a silent confession of the feelings that had been simmering beneath the surface.

He sighed contentedly, his fingers tightening slightly on Stephen's. He pulled back, his eyes sparkling with a mischievous glint.

Stephen grinned, his heart soaring. He took his hand, his fingers intertwining with his. Hand in hand, they stepped back inside, the warmth of the party a stark contrast to the cool night air they had just shared. The music swelled, the laughter and conversation flowed around them, but for Stephen and him, the world seemed to have shrunk, focused solely on the electric current that passed between them.

The rest of the evening was a blur of champagne toasts, witty banter, and shared glances that spoke volumes. Stephen found himself drawn to the other like a moth to a flame, his every action, every word, captivating. Hel, in turn, seemed to bask in Stephen's attention, his initial shyness replaced by a newfound confidence.

As the night wore on, the initial excitement of the party began to subside. People began to drift away, their goodbyes tinged with the lingering magic of the night. Stephen and him, however, remained, their conversation deepening as the hours passed. They talked about everything and nothing, sharing stories, dreams, and vulnerabilities.

Finally, as the last of the guests departed, leaving the penthouse bathed in the soft glow of the city lights, Stephen turned to the other. "I… I should probably get some rest," he said, his voice tinged with reluctance.

He nodded, his gaze lingering on Stephen's face. "Me too. Though," he added with a playful smile, "I must admit, I'm not quite ready to leave this… this feeling."

Stephen smiled, his heart aching with a bittersweet longing. "Me neither."

He hesitated, then leaned in and kissed him gently. It was a brief, chaste kiss, a lingering echo of the passion they had shared earlier.

"Goodnight," Stephen whispered, his voice husky.

"Goodnight, Stephen," he replied, his voice barely audible.

As Stephen turned to leave, he caught a glimpse of the male watching him, a soft smile gracing his lips. In that moment, Stephen knew that this was just the beginning, that their New Year's Eve adventure was far from over. He had found something truly special in him, a connection that went beyond friendship, a spark that promised to ignite a lifetime of happiness.

And as the other male soon walked away, he couldn't help but feel that this, indeed, was going to be the best year of his life.

[space-mermaid-writing]

Janora. Nora bear. Nora sweetest. Dearest Janora. May I kindly request something with magical exhaustion? Perhaps a post-battle crash?

Your writing is a gem btw! 💖

Kitty. My dearest Kitty Cat. You beautiful being. I kiss your forehead. Of course you give me such a tasty prompt ♥ I had so many ideas for this. You know I love a good 'magic caused problems' prompt. Beta by @harpywritesfic because this trio is iconic

Ko-Fi | Read it on AO3 | Word count: 0.7k

Stephen stumbled through a portal back into the Sanctum. He felt drained, as if all the strength had been sucked from his body. As he struggled to stay on his feet, he was grateful that the Cloak of Levitation took most of his weight and gently held him upright.

Even the walk towards the couch felt like a challenge, while reaching the bed in his room upstairs seemed far too ambitious for him in his exhausted state.

“Stephen? Are you all right?”

The unexpected voice cut through the haze of his fatigue, causing the sorcerer to whirl around in surprise. There stood Tony, framed in the doorway of the library, take-out bags in hand, his expression concerned. He had probably come over for one of their usual lunch date-... meetings; unfortunately, the engineer's timing was rather bad.

“I'm fine,” Stephen muttered just as a dizzy spell washed over him and the world around him began to spin. It took all his willpower to stay on his feet.

“Uh-huh, somehow I don't believe you.” Tony placed a reassuring hand on the sorcerer's back to steer him towards... somewhere. When did Tony get so close? Had Stephen briefly blacked out?

“Are you injured?” The engineer's words held layers of concern.

Stephen shook his head. Speaking required too much energy at that moment, and every fiber of his body was screaming to save the remaining strength until the moment Tony finally left. Even now, he was adamant about hiding his weakness, unwilling to show just how vulnerable he truly felt.

Either Tony hadn’t noticed the subtle shake of his head, or he simply didn’t believe him, because he turned his attention to the Cloak with the same question. “Red? Any injuries he's trying to hide?”

The Cloak, with its own sentience, must have provided some form of reassurance. Whatever its answer was seemed to ease some of Tony's worry. “At least there’s that,” the engineer murmured, a hint of relief creeping into his voice.

“'s fine.” Stephen didn't even realize he repeated himself. But he felt like he had to defend himself. After all, between the three of them – himself, Tony, and the Cloak – he was the expert in magic and a trained medical doctor. Yet, the confident image he usually tried to maintain was jeopardized by his obvious exhaustion. It was strange to have so little control over his own situation at that moment.

Tony finally maneuvered him onto a soft surface, and a relieved sigh escaped Stephen's lips. Blinking – he hadn't even noticed that his eyes had become heavy – he realized this wasn't the couch. They had somehow made it all the way to his bedroom. Again, the sorcerer wondered when they had covered that distance. There were stairs. He must have been in and out.

Tony sat at the edge of the mattress and watched him with an intense attention that should have made Stephen uncomfortable. Then, without warning, Tony's eyes widened abruptly, a flash of alarm crossing his features. “Shit, your nose is bleeding.”

“'s just magical exhaustion,” Stephen managed to explain. “... need rest.”

The bleeding nose was a common side effect of his magical overexertion, a minor inconvenience that would resolve on its own in due time. At least he wasn't puking black goo this time.

Tony gently dabbed the sorcerer's face with a tissue. Stephen's barely cohesive words did nothing to ease his mind. “Would it help to get some nutrition into you?” he asked. The question was well intentioned, for Tony had learned over the years that Stephen often forgot his own needs when he immersed himself in his work. Pot and kettle, indeed.

“Sleep first,” Stephen replied, the words barely audible. Did he even say them aloud, or were they merely thoughts drifting through his mind?

He glanced over to his pillow as he tried to estimate how far he had to move to reach it. But that small movement turned out to be too much for him. The next moment his eyes rolled back and he blacked out.

[airas-story]

Prompt:

Stephen and Tony are married when the car accident happened. TAO took Stephen from the accident because he's gonna die but when he woke up he has no memory and TAO fsr hid the truth. The next time Stephen and Tony met is when Bruce fell to the sanctum.

♡

Okay, but I maybe thought too much about this, because finding out about Tony would have been as easy as googling Stephen's name, no way would anything about Stephen not mention that he was married to Tony Stark/Iron Man, and finding Stephen's name (if TAO didn't give it to him) would have been as easy as looking to see if there'd been any info on the accident TAO saved him from. So why would Stephen have not reached out to Tony? Well...

“Did you know!?” Stephen demanded, rage and anger and hurt tearing through him. “Did you know she’d enchanted me? Did you know about Tony?”

Wong’s face was calm, composed. “Stephen. The Ancient One had reasons—”

“What possible reason would be good enough to make sure I couldn’t remember my husband?”

“You had amnesia.”

“It’s called a Google Search!” Stephen snapped. “Our wedding was ‘the biggest of the century’. Even a cursory search of myself and I’d have found him. Yet somehow I didn’t. It didn’t make sense until I checked myself for enchantments.”

For two years Kamar-Taj had been his home, the only place he’d had when he’d woken up healing from a dangerous accident with no memories. His ‘research’ into himself had shown he had nothing to go back to, the life of a surgeon impossible to him. He’d almost been grateful he couldn’t remember the loss. 

Except they’d stolen Tony, too.

When Banner had dropped into the Sanctum, grateful to see him and asking him to call Tony, his husband, Stephen had been confused. Then ‘meeting’ Tony, seeing the shock, then relief, then confusion, then grief and hurt… Stephen had known something was going on. But Thanos had come first.

Once Thanos had been defeated, though… 

The truth was ugly.

“Stephen, you were needed. The good you’ve done, the people you’ve protected…”

Rage filled him. “That should have been my choice, not the choice you all forced me into!” He swallowed hard. “I thought you were my friend, Wong. I trusted you. You knowingly aided in keeping me from my husband, from my life.”

Grief and guilt flickered in Wong’s eyes. “Stephen—”

Stephen shook his head. “I’m leaving, Wong. Next time the world needs saving… save it yourself.”

He didn’t wait for Wong to respond, striding out of the Sanctum that let him out with a morose creak. There was so much he would miss. The Sanctum, the Cloak, the family he’d built.

But it was built on a lie.

Tony was waiting outside for him. “Stephen, are you sure?”

Stephen met his gaze. “They stole my life, my choice. They stole you.” He might not remember falling in love with Tony the first time, but he’d had the chance 14 million more times, and he suspected that without the enchantment in place, the memory of the first time would eventually come back. “I’m taking it all back.”

[salty-ironstrange-shipper]

Hi. I saw this post asking for a fic that changed one's brain chemistry. Now there are a lot of fics I like; over 2000 bookmarked on ao3. And a lot of fics I love; I have 400+ of those fics tagged 'fave'. Of those 400, there are only around two dozen I would say legitimately changed me as a person. 1% changed the way I saw relationships and the world, changed the way I read and write. And I couldn't narrow it down to one - or ten - and didn't want to dump in OP's tags. So have this list of fics that permanently changed who I am as a person.

Warning: I love long fics, and some of these are the same specific tropes that I love or that really affect me personally (ex. arranged marriage). Expect angst, and especially angst with a happy ending. That said these fics are all objectively amazing.

(sorry to people who don't like long fics, but we are simply not the same. and that's OK.)

listed in order of fandom, then length.

Banshee In A Well - 43k, complete, DC, Tim Drake. Childhood trauma, childhood trauma, came back wrong/can't stop coming back! Tim is a little FREAK and I luv him.

straight on 'til morning - 102k, complete, DC, timkon/Kon-El. This is within the niche genre that for some reason appeals to me specifically, of characters having a LOT of feelings about sex and dealing with it poorly.

variations on a theme - 5k, complete, MCU, ironstrange. This is one of the fics that made me truly love ironstrange. Stephen sees through millions of possibilities and in doing so, falls in love with Tony. Evocative, beautiful, succinct.

The Art of Losing - 33k, complete, Red White and Royal Blue, firstprince. This fic made me cry. This fic BROKE MY HEART. And I WENT BACK TO IT. Multiple times! This is a breakup fic that breaks you down then puts you back together. You will come out different, and only you can say if it's for the worse or the better.

With so much of my heart (that none is left to protest) - 65k, complete, Red White and Royal Blue, firstprince. There are so many firstprince fics that essentially translate the events of the book into a different setting. And I love all of them. (My own fic, then fucking have me, also does this, self plug self plug self plug). I had to narrow this selection down to just one, and this is probably my absolute favorite.

You Don't Have To (Say Yes) - 192k, complete, Star Trek, spirk/Jim Kirk. This is within the niche genre that for some reason appeals to me specifically, of characters having a LOT of feelings about sex and dealing with it poorly (yeah, again).

THE MARRIAGE OF TRUE MINDS - 262k, complete, Star Trek, spirk. Star Trek arranged marriage epistolary fic. I read this 4 years ago, and I STILL think of a line from this fic constantly (we're aligned, we're aligned, we're aligned). If you don't read anything else for the rest of your life, read this.

DON'T THE WAVES PULL THE SAND? DON'T THE MOON PULL THE TIDES? - 58k, complete, Star Wars, finnpoe. I don't even go here. And yet. And yet. This is within the niche genre that for some reason appeals to me specifically, of characters having a LOT of feelings about sex and dealing with it poorly (yeah, AGAIN).

Not Part of the Plan - SERIES, 8 works, 337k, complete. Supernatural, destiel. This is an arranged marriage fic au series, that started with a oneshot pwp, and somehow grew into a sprawling, world and character building EPIC. And that to me is always a marker of quality. You KNOW it's good if the author couldn't stop themselves.

wander your own land - 379k, incomplete, Yellowjackets, shaunajackie and others. I told you I like long fics. Girl survival situationships, cannibalism, jealousy, cabin fever, hallucinations, trying to keep a fucking baby alive in some of the worst possible circumstances.

Infinite Variations of a Summer Day - 76k, complete, X-Men, Pietro Maximoff. I love Pietro, he is one of my favorite characters of all time, and this is such a great character fic. See Pietro slowly driven insane in a time loop that examines his relationships with himself, his team, his family, and his powers.

drop your own recs in the notes. and if you have any suggestions for griddlehark/the locked tomb, pLEA- *gunshots*

[americasass81]

Dark Manifestations

Warnings 18+ for the following:- Stalking, Kidnapping, Bondage, Supernatural Elements, Use of Pet Name, Implied Mention of Anxiety, Implied Non-Consensual Sex, Implied Breeding.  Seriously do not read if any of this upsets you, the warnings are there for a reason. Feedback is welcomed and any mistakes are my own.

By proceeding you are acknowledging that you are over 18 and are consenting to the content below the cut.

Author’s Note 1:- Taking a bit longer than I thought to complete, this fic was written as a birthday gift for @ironlady1993 and her love for these three heroes.  Really hope you enjoy this Ari.  Happy birthday my beautiful friend. lyl💕💕💕

Author’s Note 2:- As always, all images have been found through google search.

Synopsis:- Overseeing a Stark Party should be the opportunity of a lifetime, but what happens to that life when a certain set of heroes get ideas that don’t quite mesh with how you see your future?

Pairings:- dark!Steve Rogers x Named Female Reader, dark!Iron-Man x Named Female Reader, dark!Stephen Strange x Named Female Reader.

Total Word Count:- 3,752

The guests mingled and the drinks flowed as you left the kitchen area and headed off back towards the main hall.  Wishing you could be back at home in your nice warm bed as various guests milled around and soaked up the party atmosphere, your boss had insisted however that you be on hand to make sure everything ran smoothly despite the fact that this was not how you had planned on spending your birthday.  After all, as she was quick to inform you, a Stark party was an entertainment extravaganza and organizing one could make or break any firm.  So here you stood, a beacon of poise and professionalism as Avengers and guests alike talked, drank and appeared to be having a fabulous time.  If only the same could be said for you.

Looking out over the expanse of guests and servers while trying to calculate whether or not there was enough of everything to keep all of them satisfied, as well as thinking of all the other activities you could be presently engaged in, your distracted state forced you to jump a little however when the words whispered from a body behind your back brought you back to your current task and location.  "Hey sweetheart, this is a great party you’ve thrown together.  Didn’t mean to startle you though.  May I buy you a drink at the bar?" the obvious male voice asked and you thanked all the gods both old and new that you had kept your retort about the drink being free to yourself when you turned around to find none other than Steve Rogers invading what little space remained in the doorway.

"Thank you Captain Rogers but unfortunately some of us are actually working here tonight.  Now if you'll excuse me," you continued politely while also failing to note the disappointment that crossed his chiseled features, "but I really must get back to things," you finished before walking away and picking up a tray to begin clearing up some empty glasses you saw sitting unattended on an nearby table without sparing him a second thought.  But perhaps you should have.

Standing there a while longer in your wake now, Steve bit his lip as he tried to figure out what exactly it was about your rebuff that didn't sit well with him however.  Sure he had spent his younger years being practically ignored and ridiculed by the opposite sex and though Sam had now taken up the shield in his place, he was still Steve Rogers and it irked him to be dismissed, however politely, in favor of you doing a job that was quite clearly several steps beneath you.  Thinking on how he could make you see the error of your snap decision, he was pulled from his thoughts however as a hand came down to rest upon his shoulder.

"Hey Capsicle, you enjoying yourself, old man?" Tony asked as he came to stand beside his friend now while snatching a glass of champagne from the tray of a passing server.

Muttering some half hearted compliment in reply about how well the event seemed to be going as his eyes continued to track your movements, Steve excused himself from Tony's presence however with talk of joining Clint and Sam at the pool table as a means of distracting himself from the irritation bubbling just beneath the surface.  Irritation still clearly focused on you.

Feeling eyes continue to track you as now you handed off your tray of empty glasses to one of the many servers working the floor, glancing around to find Steve watching you while Sam chatted at him, you were never more thankful to your assistant Shona however when her voice spoke in your earpiece to tell you there was an issue in the kitchen needing your attention.  Heading off there quickly then to discover that a spill on the floor had caused a server to slip and injure themselves, you quickly assessed the situation before dealing with each individual fallout.  Making sure that the area was avoided while you checked out the injured party, a smile and a couple of "I'm fine" arguments later found you happy that the person in question was indeed well enough to return to work.  Though you did switch up their assignment to give them an easier time as the night was really only just beginning.  Then making sure yourself that the spill which caused the commotion was thoroughly cleaned up, you headed back upstairs to ensure everything there was running as smoothly as possible.  But somehow that wasn't quite the case.

Taking some time to stop by the bar once you returned to the entertainment hall, you ordered a small whiskey to calm yourself after the kitchen debacle before turning around to come face to face once more with the former American patriot and his insufferable attitude.  "I thought you weren't drinking tonight sweetheart.  Or is it just me you refuse to have a drink with?" he asked with a raised eyebrow and you were actually relieved when the appearance of Tony Stark rescued you from coming up with some answer that didn’t sound like the telling off you wanted to direct his way.  At least momentarily relieved anyway.

"Ari darling, is everything all right?  F.R.I.D.A.Y. alerted me to an issue in the kitchen."

Turning away from Steve now to face the host of the party, you plastered on your best professional smile and once again greeted the man of the hour.  "Yes Mr. Stark.  It was a very minor incident, no harm was done and things are once again running like clockwork.  I hope you're happy with everything," you finished as Steve continued to observe you in a way you now felt mildly uncomfortable with.

"Yes darling, everything is delightful and I will definitely be sending my compliments onto your boss," he said, as like Steve his eyes traveled the length and breadth of your body uninvited.  "By the way," he continued, "how many more times am I going to have to ask you to call me Tony?" he asked, reaching out now to accept his drink from the bartender while his fingers grazed your shoulder in the process.

"At least once more I'm sure Mr. Stark.  Now if both of you gentlemen will excuse me, parties really don't run themselves I'm afraid," you answered politely before placing your empty glass back down on the bar and heading as far into the throng of people as you could possibly get, resulting in you being well out of earshot when their conversation started up.

"Damn Tony, even you're not beyond her indifference," Steve said as he too accepted a drink and stared after your retreating figure once more while his mind took him places his body was only aching to go.  "What do you think her problem is?"

"I don't quite know Rogers but I gotta say, she has me intrigued," his former teammate answered as he too finished his glass while his eyes joined Steve's as you disappeared into the crowd.  Now you just had to stay there and hope no more unwanted attention found its way towards you before this night was over.  Not that your luck held up very long in that regard however.

Glad to be away now from the two heroes, who for some reason you couldn't explain creeped you the hell out, you were so busy fleeing their attention and looking over your notes on the event so far that you almost toppled over however when you walked straight into a decidedly solid yet muscular mass.  Looking up from your clipboard then as two strong arms reached out to prevent you falling backwards onto your ass, your eyes now locked on those of the Sorcerer Supreme and for some unexplained reason, a sudden chill ran through you as he spoke.

"Easy there princess, wouldn't want you to hurt yourself," his silky voice said as he held you firmly while you tried to right yourself.  Finally regaining your composure, you stepped out of his arms and looking around was thankful at least that no one seemed to have witnessed your mishap.  "I hope you're enjoying yourself," Stephen continued as he brought you out of your thoughts and back instead to the reason you were once again so distracted.

"Sorry, what did you say?" you asked, giving the man your most professional look which had now been well practiced by this time of the evening.

"I asked if you were enjoying the party," he repeated as you looked behind you also to see two other Avengers watching this interaction now with the most curious of expressions clouding their features.

"I'll enjoy myself when this party is over and I've got the week off to recuperate," you replied before raising your hand to your earpiece as if to accept a call before walking away without another word.  Standing in your wake then as you didn't even dignify him with an excuse, Stephen Strange now headed off towards the other side of the room as a dark corner beckoned to the three disgruntled heroes.

Continuing on with your duties then for the rest of the night while simultaneously rebuffing numerous more advances from the three heroes who couldn't seem to understand that not everyone wanted to worship at their feet, you were finally thankful at least when the last party guest left and one by one Earth's Mightiest Heroes began to retire to their various quarters.  Exhausted beyond belief now at the night you had just put down, you promised yourself that the next time you spoke to Adriana you would tell her in no uncertain terms that you quit.  Sure the money was great and you were damn good at your job, but the type of attention you had been fending off all night from people who were supposed to be the best humanity had to offer, told you that enough was enough.  They were supposed to know better and, birthday or not, it was not in your contract to spend all your time massaging their clearly inflated egos.  No, perhaps it was finally time instead to follow your passion and bury yourself among a mountain of library books like you had always dreamed and leave the event organizing to those better suited to handling famous people.

Tidying up the final few bits and pieces then while making sure the last remaining unnecessary lights were all shut off, you headed off along the corridor now and was so focused on reaching the elevator that you failed to notice the tinkling sound that signaled the danger you were in until the walls of the building began to shimmer and shift as if out of focus.  But by then it was too late.

Watching in disbelief as the elevator that would take you to safety disappeared, a new sound behind you had you turning sharply instead to face the first avenger and one third of the bane of your existence throughout the night.  "Now sweetheart, you're going to make us think you don't like us," Steve said while you looked around frantically for a means of escape as well as his other two teammates you could only assume the 'us' referred to.

Seeing no other people however and so turning back again towards what once had been your way out, a glowing crack in the wall before you gave you hope.  Not much, but at least it was a start.  Not daring then to glance back at the man behind you now as you quickly decided the unknown was better by far than what currently presented itself to you, you took a deep breath, closed your eyes and dove through it without caring what happened or where you ended up.  At least until you opened your eyes in a somewhat similar place.

Running through this new corridor now as a shimmering orange portal appeared behind you, you didn't give it another thought however as you reached out and rushed through the first door you came across.  Which proved to be another monumental mistake.  One it seemed you had been making consistently since you had first agreed to supervise this cursed event.  For that's where it seemed this night had been headed.

Resting your head and hands against the door now as you tried to control your ragged breathing and racing heartbeat, your blood ran cold however when a soft whisper reached your ears and confirmed that this destination too held a figure you were not much willing to entertain.  "At last darling, I've been waiting."

Turning around slowly to face a now suited up Iron Man, your fingers reached for the handle of the door again as something about his demeanor told you that this was not the hero the world knew him to be, even if his behavior all night had not already convinced you.  Rising from his position on a bed you were now just noticing, panic gripped you more fiercely however as the door that would have offered you salvation moments ago suddenly disappeared and thereby confirming that something sinister was definitely at play and you were at its mercy.

Moving around the now closed off box as the man before you stalked towards you like a jungle predator, a ray of hope arrived again as another shimmering portal appeared before you however.  Deciding again that what you didn’t know had to be far more enticing than what Tony Stark and this scene seemed interested in, you dodged around Iron-Man, jumped through the portal and ran the length of yet another corridor until a familiar room told you that you had not actually left the Avengers Towers behind.  Which gave you hope at least that your car was waiting here somewhere to whisk you away to safety.  Hope that was soon to be shattered beyond repair leaving nothing but devastation in its wake however.

Slowing down as you entered the entertainment room which now showed no signs of ever having hosted the night’s party, you froze completely however at the sight of the Sorcerer Supreme standing by the floor to ceiling windows, bathed in the moonlight shining through from the world outside.  Turning his head to gaze upon you now, the sinister glow in his once kind eyes alerted you to the possible danger he too posed and it sent a shiver down your spine.  One of these men you realized now would have been enough to handle at the best of times, but three of them in their current guises was a damn nightmare.  One you had to escape from.

Holding onto this feeling now and looking nervously behind you into the corridor you had just left, you began to slowly edge backwards towards the door when two more portals appeared and out walked the only other two men who gripped your heart as if death itself had come to visit.  You were finally outnumbered.  Standing now on either side of the man you suspected responsible for this whole freaky moving tower thing, a flapping at your back forced you to shift your focus from them however, as a six-eyed black bird appeared, blocked your escape and drained whatever hope you had left to you.  Frightened beyond belief now at the terrifying images that held you in their grasp, you still had enough wits about you however to not just surrender without a fight and so diving beneath the creature's expansive wings you ran like hell from the three former heroes that seemed to have lost their minds while hoping they stayed as far away from you for as long as possible.  Which it seems was similar to what they had in mind.  For now at least.

Not daring to look behind you then as an intense flapping sounded in your ears, you kept running until suddenly, the floor gave way beneath you as yet another portal took out your feet and swallowed you whole.  Tumbling endlessly now through what appeared to be the same corridor over and over and over again, as portal after portal appeared beneath you, fear gripped you like never before but you finally stopped screaming at least when the massive, scary bird reappeared and swooped in between you and yet another portal.  Hanging on to this creature now for dear life as exhaustion finally started to creep over you, you wished you had fought harder however when it landed back in the entertainment room with the three heroes determined it seemed to turn your life into a living nightmare.  For what else could they have planned?

Standing where you'd left them still as the creature now settled on its powerful legs so as to allow you to alight, yet another shock ran through you however as Doctor Strange waved his hand and the room around you disappeared to be replaced by what could only be described as a millionaire's representation of a caveman's room.  Boasting nothing but a bar, coffee table and some couches spread out throughout the spacious structure, it was the thick stone walls and no visible exit however that really caught and held your attention.  For the only light here now was all artificial and as a result it drew your eyes elsewhere.

Looking around as the guys made themselves comfortable now, you would have been totally devastated by the lack of escape options if it wasn't for the events which happened next however.  Eyeing up every possible shadow for even the smallest hope of escape, this was quickly extinguished as Steve Rogers stood before you and encased you now in his powerful arms.  Struggling against his grip then as he kissed you harshly, panic overtook you further as a coil of magical energy wound around your neck and snaked down your arms to completely secure your wrists.  Bound now in the blond man's arms as Doctor Strange and Iron-Man approached you from either side, their close-up appearance simply confirmed what this whole night had already shown you … something wasn't quite right with these heroes.

Closing your eyes again against this realization as the room shimmered and changed around you once more, the enormous bed you had seen earlier appearing against one wall now, tucked neatly between four impressive stone pillars simply confirmed what your gut so far had screamed at you.  It was definitely their plan to claim you and your senses just couldn’t seem to handle this truth as you tried your best to shut out what was happening all around you.  But it didn’t last long unfortunately.  Dressed in darker hues of black, red, blue, silver, orange and purple, time would soon reveal just how far these three men had fallen however and that revelation alone held all your attention now, at least until their voices broke through whatever panic their actions and altered appearances had triggered.

"Do you think you might have terrified her, Strange?" you heard Tony ask as your eyes remained shut to the world around you while you shrank back farther in fear as a snap of the sorcerer's fingers rid you of what remained of your tattered outfit before your bound and naked form was then moved away from the other two deranged monsters to the bed prepared specially for you.

"Of course he did, Tony.  Look at that thing," Steve replied and tentatively opening one eyelid now as the sheets beneath you caressed your thoroughly exhausted and naked body, you shut it just as quickly however when the terrifying visage of the bird that brought you back to this nightmare filled your vision once more as it now settled on a perch above your head in a makeshift headboard that was by far the most horrifying scene you had witnessed thus far.  Which is why you wished this terrifying experience would end there.  But these beasts had plans that totally went against anything you now wished for.

Hoping against hope now that your tiny movements would go unnoticed, all hope was dashed like waves against the shore however when the final voice reached your ears as Doctor Strange snickered and ran his fingers now along your moistening cheek.  "Well that's my bad I guess, but you didn't exactly live up to your end of the deal now did you?" he questioned as he snapped his fingers once more and magically shed all the clothes covering up his impressive physique while you watched in abject horror as his equally terrifying companions did the same.  Not that their actions distracted you too long however as his words solidified in your brain and brought you back to some semblance of your usually rational self.

"Deal?" you questioned forcefully now as the three fully naked men focused solely on you then in a way that told you they couldn't wait to see what argument you planned to set forth.  But you simply ignored them and continued on before your nerve and this sudden burst of anger faded to be replaced with fear and panic once more.  "What deal?  I never agreed to any of this.  Why the hell would I?"

"Well now, that is true I'm afraid.  You never did willingly agree to be ours,” Tony interrupted before allowing the evil Doctor Strange to clarify further.  “But you are the one who signed the contract for the party while your boss was out of town.  After that it was simply a matter of adding a few extra lines of text here and there and now you belong to us forever ... body and soul.  Isn't magic wonderful?" he finished with an inhuman laugh then as he now looked over at his companions and winked at them before speaking once more while his fingers delicately wormed their way down your trembling body towards your weeping flower as his lips came to rest against the shell of your ear.  "So which one of us do you want to be fucked by first, princess?”

And not waiting for a response however, all three of these fallen heroes descended towards the bed and spent the following hours claiming your body in every manner of depraved sex act that fueled their lust and forced you to accept everything they gave you despite the screams that tore forth from your lungs, shattered your soul and remade you into the perfect vessel from which they planned to start a whole new brood of dark heroes with you as their chosen queen.