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ronearoundblindly · 10 months ago

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Big Pharma

Steve Rogers x doctor!Reader

Written for @stargazingfangirl18's Birthday Bonenanza--HAPPY BDAY, SIRI!--using the scenario prompt ~quick, frantic, secret sex in an almost public place + babe's hand over your mouth to keep you quiet~ and the dialogue prompt "goddamnit, will you just f***ing let me do this for you?" with free use kink for good measure. Why not?

Summary: The extreme drug cocktail you devise to save Steve Rogers has one major side effect.

Warnings for smut 🥴, sorta dub-con because it's like sex pollen, F E E L S, Steve being the most chivalrous gentleman while railing you (do it for your country, babes 🫡), completely unintentional dirty talk from Steve but 😮‍💨 we'll allow it, Tony being Tony, and--as always-- terrible puns. (There are no mentions of any medical instruments, except an IV, which is not used.) MINORS DNI. This is a mature gift work; see my Light Masterlist for all-age fanfic that is fine for minors. WC 2k

The constant photoflash burns into your retinas obnoxiously, and you’re not even the subject of the paparazzi.

Captain America is alive—all thanks to you—though he could easily have been six-feet under by now. The mysterious infection was so bad and spread so far, the drug regimen you administered constitutes one of the Avengers’ biggest Hail Marys to date, but it’s working. That’s all that matters…to the world. Behind the scenes is a different story.

As Captain Rogers turns to the next hand he must shake, his sharp blue eyes find you, twinged with a familiar fear.

This stupid event scheduled by Stark to boost morale, to show Cap is just fine and back in fighting form, has gone on too long. It’s happening again.

You worried Rogers might not make it when suddenly Stark showed up hours earlier than the initial, planned press conference—because, of course, there’s meet-and-greets, quick interviews, and these damn handshakes. He’s only gone so long between treatments for the last week.

You nod at Cap and make your way in the small crowd back to Stark. You tell him you’ll need a room, somewhere private to put in the IV, and at least thirty minutes to administer the huge dose. Rogers’s super-metabolism makes it necessary to use approximately forty times the prescription average for antibiotics and steroids. In theory, the side effects are well worth his speedy recovery.

Well, the only side effect.

Stark looks horrendously annoyed. “Can’t you just shoot him up with it and be done?” He doesn’t need your lecture repeated though. “Fine, there’s a greenroom thing over there, but you’ve got fifteen minutes at most, you hear me?”

“Twenty-five, Mr. Stark. He’s not a water balloon.”

“Twenty or he can wheel the damn thing around with him.”

You gulp in nervousness, but the problem isn’t Stark’s attitude. Rogers isn’t going to like rushing this. He feels shame enough already.

“I’ll make it work,” you assure the stubborn playboy. If he only knew…

“Good. A team player. We value that here.”

You have no fucking idea how ironic that is, you scream internally, but you follow him to a door off a back hallway, a room that shares a wall with the space all those people are gathered, and thank Stark.

“Oh good, he’s heard the dog-whistle of treat time,” Tony quips, and you swivel to see Cap trailing behind you.

He’s already made his excuses to step away, too. It must be bad.

You’re sure to pull out your props of a saline drip and tubing from your bag while Tony can still see, but you drop the act the instant the door clicks shut.

Cap take one step forward to flip the lock, immediately unzipping the fly of his iconic leather suit.

See, the only side effect of the drugs is Rogers gets hard, often, and can’t find relief from his efforts alone. Through trial-and-error, the clear solution has been help—discretely��from the only medical professional allowed around him until his condition improved.

Of course, he fought it. Of course, you wanted to preserve his dignity. Of course, you tried to keep it as perfunctory, methodical, and uninspired as possible, but the thing is, that didn’t last.

The more distant and cold the experience, the faster he became desperate and wanting again, and now you have just twenty minutes to make sure Captain America can hold out for hours.

Steve, you remind yourself. He prefers you not use respectful address when engaging is what he deems entirely disrespectful behavior.

You need to get him off in essentially no time at all, so you’ve decided: go big or go home.

Bag tossed to the floor, you unbutton your pants and shimmy out of everything from shoes to panties, letting the longer tail of your dress shirt barely cover your modesty.

Steve looks dumbfounded. It’s bad enough he has to run to you for a handy every few hours, but this?

“Doc, no,” he breaths.

“I understand the procedure,” you say calmly, echoing his harrowing consent from that first night he needed you.

Steve’s brow furrows in strain. “We shouldn’t…”

‘We’ are way past ‘shouldn’t,’ buddy.

“Can’t ask you to…“ but he also knows time’s a wasting.

He’s already fisting himself, struggling to be the gentleman he never stopped being, which at the moment is a huge problem because both of you need to get through the day—you without losing your job and him without popping a boner on national television.

It’s your job to break him and break him right now.

“Goddamnit, will you just fucking let me do this for you?”

There’s a flat smack on the door.

“Do whatever the lady wants and then get back out here,” Tony yells from the other side. “Put us all out of our misery,” he ends with a grumble.

That is by far the most helpful thing Stark has said in the last week, so you mouth “see” and begin undoing your blouse from the bottom, giving Steve his first peek of you. His hand speeds along his length, adam’s apple bobbing in concentration.

“Here, I’ll make it easy for you,” you whisper. You walk to the far corner of the room, put your hands up, shirt rising over your bare ass, and face the wall. Your voice is soothing, pleading even. “Just take what you need.”

In some ways, you feel responsible for his predicament. You are the prescribing doctor, he isn’t in a relationship where a partner could assist, and he insists no one else know. He doesn’t deserve to be poked and prodded more than necessary, and you can’t give him any other meds in combination. None of it is his fault same as none of it is yours. You only intended to heal him.

Truthfully though, none of this is just about his release anymore, much as you’d like to dismiss your feelings.

You can’t deny, however, that each time the air gets a little thicker with tension, the body language a little more intimate. Steve has kept his eyes open, clutched your free hand to his chest, rolled his hips open, and thrust up into your fist. The greater the satisfaction of his climax, the longer he retains control.

“When this is over…I swear,” he grits out, getting closer word by word until his deep voice is right by your ear.

He tugs your shirt up to dip his fingers between your legs. “Been smelling you for two days. Can’t do anything until—” Steve growls, feeling how slick you’ve become in anticipation “—you’re ready for me.”

His concern washes away when two fingers easily breech you to the knuckle and are immediately replaced by the blunt head of his cock dragging between your folds.

You didn’t expect him to give in so fast. You didn’t expect him to have known this aroused you. The idea he might want to continue, to go further, races down your spine, following the opposite path of Steve leaning into you. His forehead presses your occipital as yours presses the wall. The heat of him makes you arch in luxurious proximity.

Steve fucking forward to enter you in one smooth motion makes you forget to be quiet, but before the whole shout of ecstasy escapes, his hand covers your mouth.

“Shhh, Doc,” he breathes at the base of your neck. “Be good for me.”

That only gets you moaning into the seam of his gloves.

His hips start a staccato rhythm, a second of loud friction for each second of silent, fulfilling pressure.

Steve slips his still wet fingers under your shirt and beneath the cup of your bra to swirl a smooth pattern over your nipple. Instead of voicing your approval, you shove yourself back into him faster.

You notice the muffled chatting of Tony and someone else outside while your eyes roll. The slap of your skin against the Cap suit becomes the loudest thing in the room, but that’s not what Steve minds.

He pulls out and spins you around, pausing to see the cream you’ve created at the base of him drip to the carpet below.

Deep sea eyes meet yours through golden lashes.

“If I can’t hear you…” Steve hoists you up to his waist, threading one arm through the bend in your knee, spreading you wide and diving in swiftly.

Your body curls forward automatically to grasp at him and smother yourself in the leather of his shoulder pad. This pace is much faster, purposeful, utterly unravelling you. The position delivers more range of motion, all of the buildup and less of the noise, with the added benefit of his tool belt nudging your clit repeatedly.

Tony pounds on the door. “‘Bout done in there, guys? Let’s go.” How apt, the unknowing jester.

Steve pants, open-mouthed, against your temple.

You smile but can’t stop your own ruin.

A groan gets buried in your disheveled hair. “Are you…close?” His hips snap brutally. “Are you—“ he sounds wrecked “—you gonna…come on my—uungh.”

You tip over the edge, clutching him tight and fluttering for him in every way. The detonation of your orgasm burns red behind your eyelids like camera flashes, a dirty snapshot for you alone.

“Mercy,” Steve begs, gripping your ass to rut into you, desperate to join. His neck tenses as he spills inside you, pulse throbbing in time with his cock.

He leans against you and the wall, his steady weight stilling your shaky legs. Slowly, your feet are guided to the floor and Steve steps away to wipe away any evidence of his ‘therapeutic treatment.’ His breathing settles much faster than yours, and by the time he’s tucked back in with his suit righted, you’re simply sliding down the wall to catch up.

He hurries over to the small vanity and mini fridge—usually ‘guests’ for speaking (or interrogating) wait here—to bring you supplies.

A box of tissues is set by your side.

“So…” he hands you a bottle of water “…maybe…dinner tonight?”

You set the water down in favor of cleaning yourself, glancing up to offer a reassuring dismissal. “This morning was your last dose,” you remind him. “It should be over soon.”

Steve may not need this anymore, may never need you again, but he doesn’t miss a single beat.

“I’d like—I want to take you some place nice, but…” He chugs his whole water then quickly unclasps the glove on his left hand, rolling up his sleeve, veins jumping over a thick forearm.

“I don’t know what food you enjoy.”

Arguably, he knows a few other things that you enjoy.

There’s another impatient bang at the door.

“I—“ Your heart soars with the soft sincerity of his face, no trace of fear left behind, no hesitation. “I’m gonna need a minute.”

Steve stands, smoothing a hand over his hair. “I’ll lock it behind me…and, um, thank you, Doc.”

It’s the first time he hasn’t apologized this whole week.

“You’re welcome, sir.”

Steve flashes you a dopey smile and shakes his head. “See you out there,” he chuckles.

You can’t be seen when the door opens just enough for Steve to step out, but he makes a show of rolling the suit’s sleeve back down like he really did have an IV infusion, selling the lie like a pro. He keeps Tony talking while shutting you back into your debauched bubble.

Through the wall, you still hear “could you have gone any slower?” followed by a curt, “yes,” and have to stifle a laugh.

“What’d you do, blow a vein?”

You’re picturing an incredibly ironic look on Captain Rogers’ face.

“Just be grateful she puts up with us, Tony…” and their voices disappear down the hall.

His treatment may be finished, but Steve wants you to stick around. He wants you.

Would having dinner with that man really be so terrible? No. Not at all. Even the ‘worst’ of this situation has been a great fucking experience. You don’t want to give that up yet.

It seems you’re both addicted now.

[Main Masterlist; Steve Rogers One-Shots; Ko-Fi]

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urdreamydoodles · 3 months ago

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MARVEL COMICS CHARACTERS X FEM!READER

Mr. Pickles, your small fluffy dog, has disappeared and your lover goes on a hunt to find him

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

Mr. Pickles is my proudest creation ♡

Peter Parker (Spider-Man)

- Peter knows what it means to lose something you love. The moment he sees your face, tear-streaked and trembling, he drops everything—his textbooks, his half-eaten sandwich, his entire afternoon—to pull you into his arms. "We'll find him," he whispers into your hair, his voice a promise, a prayer. His mind races with every possibility—where a tiny, fluffy dog could have wandered, what dangers lurk in the city streets. He forces himself to stay lighthearted, for you. "Mr. Pickles is a survivor," he assures you, "just like his mom." But inside, his heart clenches at the thought of you losing something you love. Again.

- He swings across the city, calling the dog's name, peering into alleyways and between dumpsters, ignoring the odd looks from pedestrians below. "C'mon, buddy," he mutters, landing softly on a rooftop. "If I were a small, dumb, fluffy dog, where would I go?" His mask hides his worry, but his pulse betrays him. You had whispered once, in the quiet dark of your shared bed, that Mr. Pickles was there before Peter—that the little dog had curled against you on nights too cold, too lonely to bear. That he had been your solace. Peter clenches his fists. He has to find him.

- Hours pass, and the city hums beneath him, indifferent. He stops only when he hears the faintest whimper from a storm drain, the soft scrape of tiny paws against metal. Relief crashes over him so fast he almost collapses. "Oh, Mr. Pickles, you little troublemaker," he breathes, scooping the trembling dog into his arms. The weight of him, warm and alive, nearly makes Peter cry. He presses his forehead against the dog's tiny head. "Your mom's gonna kill me if I bring you back dirty," he laughs, voice shaking.

- When he swings through your window, landing with a soft thud, you barely get the chance to register his presence before he's pushing Mr. Pickles into your arms. You sob into the dog's soft fur, and Peter watches, eyes warm, body aching with love. Then, when you finally look up at him, when your beautiful face splits into the most brilliant, teary smile, Peter Parker knows—he would search a thousand cities, lift a thousand storm drain covers, break apart the world itself if it meant keeping that smile.

Tony Stark (Iron Man)

- "It’s just a dog," Tony had said at first, exhaling through his nose, watching you pace the length of his penthouse with wild, desperate eyes. But then you turned to him, looking at him like he had just shattered the universe, and something in his chest tightened. "Okay, okay, bad choice of words," he amended quickly, setting down his glass of scotch. "We’ll find him, sweetheart. Trust me." He kissed your forehead, and when he pulled away, he was already barking orders at J.A.R.V.I.S. to scan the streets.

- The city is his playground, and when Tony Stark hunts, nothing escapes him. Drones sweep over sidewalks, infrared cameras scan the gutters, and his A.I. combs through every security feed within a ten-block radius. It should be easy, finding something small, white, and fluffy. But as the hours stretch, as your voice cracks when you call Mr. Pickles’ name into the empty night, Tony feels something unfamiliar claw at his throat. Panic. Helplessness. He can build weapons that level cities, fly into warzones, rewrite the future with his mind, but he can’t stop the way your hands shake. He can’t fix this with money or brilliance. He just has to find that damn dog.

- And then—finally—one of his drones pings. A little white fluffball, trapped behind the fence of a construction site, tail wagging pathetically, waiting. Tony exhales sharply. "Gotcha, you little idiot," he murmurs, already summoning the nearest Iron Man suit. He could call someone, sure. Could send a bot, have the dog airlifted in a grand display of Stark-level theatrics. But he doesn’t. Because he wants to be the one to bring him home to you. He wants to be the reason your eyes stop looking so haunted.

- When he steps through the front door, Mr. Pickles in his arms, you don’t hesitate. You throw yourself at him, burying your face in his chest, shaking with relief. Tony doesn’t joke. Doesn’t smirk. He just holds you, one hand stroking your hair, the other keeping a firm grip on the tiny dog between you. He sighs against your temple. "Next time, we’re microchipping this little bastard," he murmurs, pressing a kiss to your head. But the truth is, if it meant making you happy, Tony Stark would search the ends of the earth for that damn dog again. And again. And again.

Steve Rogers (Captain America)

- You are inconsolable. Steve sees it in the way you sit curled on the couch, your arms wrapped around yourself like you are holding something together. The sight alone shatters him. He kneels before you, his large hands settling over your trembling ones, his voice low, steady. "We’ll find him, sweetheart. I swear." His words are a shield, a promise carved from the same steel as his bones. Because he will find Mr. Pickles, if only to take that sorrow from your eyes.

- He searches the old-fashioned way. No drones, no high-tech satellites. Just a man and his will. He jogs through the streets, stopping people with a polite, firm urgency, showing a picture of your dog on his phone. He speaks to shopkeepers, to children on bicycles, to the kind-faced woman selling flowers on the corner. Every second counts. But even as his pulse quickens, as the sun dips behind the skyline, he doesn't waver. The world has taken too much from him already—he will not let it take this from you.

- He finds Mr. Pickles in a tiny park, curled up beneath a bench, his fur damp with the evening dew. Steve exhales a deep, relieved breath, crouching slowly, his voice softer than a whisper. "Hey there, buddy," he murmurs, extending a careful hand. The dog whimpers, then leaps into his arms as if he knows—knows this man, knows that Steve Rogers is the safest place in the world.

- When Steve carries him home, you are waiting at the door, your beautiful face lit by the glow of the porchlight, eyes wide with hope. And then—joy. You let out a breathless sob, scooping the dog into your arms, pressing frantic kisses into his fur. Steve watches, his heart twisting in his chest. Then you turn to him, eyes glistening, and throw your arms around his neck. He catches you, as he always will, burying his face into your shoulder. "Told you I’d find him," he murmurs, holding you as tightly as he can.

Thor

- The moment Thor sees your sorrow, it is as if the very sky darkens. "Your heart aches," he rumbles, cupping your cheek, his thumb brushing away a stray tear. "This shall not stand." And with that, he strides from the room, determination crackling in his wake. He does not understand how something so small could mean so much—but he does not need to understand. He only needs to act.

- He searches with the force of a storm. He speaks to the wind, commanding it to carry your dog’s scent across the city. He calls down thunder, demanding the heavens show him where your little beast has gone. Mortals look on in awe as the god of thunder strides through the streets, golden hair windswept, cape billowing. "MR. PICKLES!" his voice booms, rattling windows. "SHOW THYSELF, TINY WARRIOR!"

- And then, a soft yip—so small, so insignificant against the noise of the city, yet Thor hears it as clear as a battle cry. He finds Mr. Pickles atop a fruit cart, having somehow clambered to its highest peak. The vendor stares, frozen, as Thor reaches out, plucking the tiny dog from the pile of apples. "A most daring escape," Thor muses, holding the squirming fluff in one enormous hand. "You are braver than you appear, small one."

- When he returns to you, the dog safely in his arms, you let out a breathless, laughing sob. "You found him," you whisper. Thor beams. "Of course I did, my love," he declares, sweeping you—dog and all—into his arms. "No force in this realm shall keep what is yours from you.”

Loki

- Loki does not understand the gravity of it at first. A small creature, insignificant in size and strength, lost in the chaos of Midgard—what of it? But then he sees your face, the way grief pools in your beautiful eyes, the tremor in your hands as you call the dog’s name into the empty night. He watches, silent, as sorrow sinks its fangs into you. And suddenly, the matter is no longer trivial. The world may not care for Mr. Pickles, but you do. And Loki… Loki cares for you.

- He does not search as mortals do. No, he does not waste time scouring streets like a fool. He summons illusions, a hundred spectral versions of himself that spill into the city like shadows, slipping through alleyways, gliding across rooftops, whispering Mr. Pickles’s name to the wind. Magic coils at his fingertips, weaving through the currents of the world, seeking out the pulse of something small, something white and ridiculous. “Where have you gone, little fool?” he murmurs to the void. “Your mistress grieves for you. And I will not allow it.”

- The answer comes in a flicker of magic—an image flashing behind his eyes. A storm drain, deep beneath the city streets, where a tiny, trembling thing curls into itself. Loki sighs, pressing two fingers to his temple. “Of course,” he mutters, exasperated. Then, in a breath, he is there—appearing in a ripple of green light, boots sinking into damp concrete. The dog yelps, startled, but Loki merely raises an eyebrow. “You are filthier than I expected,” he muses, kneeling. Mr. Pickles stares, wide-eyed. Loki clicks his tongue. “Come now, do not be tiresome. Your lady awaits.”

- When he steps into your home, dog cradled in his arms like an offering, you let out a choked breath. Relief breaks across your face, radiant and overwhelming. You snatch Mr. Pickles from his grasp, burying your face in his fur, and for a moment, you are too consumed by joy to speak. Loki watches, arms crossed, head tilting. "You are lucky I find your devotion endearing," he drawls. Then, softer, he reaches out, fingertips ghosting along your cheek. "Do not grieve again, darling. I find I have little patience for it."

Clint Barton (Hawkeye)

- Clint knows what loss does to a person. Knows how it hollows them out, how it lingers in the quiet spaces between heartbeats. He sees it now, creeping into the corners of your beautiful face, sinking into the line of your shoulders. And he hates it. So, with a sharp breath and a determined set to his jaw, he presses a kiss to your forehead and grabs his jacket. “Don’t worry, babe,” he says, shouldering his bow. “I’ll bring the little guy home.”

- He moves through the city like he was born to it—quick, sharp-eyed, hands in his pockets as he scans every street, every alley. He whistles low and easy, calling Mr. Pickles’s name like he’s coaxing an old friend. He asks the vendors, the cab drivers, the kids playing basketball on the corner. And when that doesn’t work, he climbs. Up onto fire escapes, across rooftops, perching on ledges with the keen gaze of a predator. His archer’s eyes miss nothing. Somewhere down there, a small dumb dog is waiting to be found.

- It takes time, but eventually, he hears it—a faint, frantic yipping from behind a chain-link fence, where Mr. Pickles has somehow managed to trap himself in a tangle of garbage cans. Clint huffs a laugh, shaking his head. “You’re really makin’ me work for it, huh, buddy?” The dog’s tail wags furiously at the sight of him. Clint doesn’t hesitate; he scales the fence in seconds, dropping down effortlessly. “C’mere, troublemaker,” he murmurs, scooping the tiny thing into his arms. “Your mom’s losing her mind over you.”

- When he walks through the door, Mr. Pickles wriggling excitedly in his grasp, you gasp, half laughing, half crying. “Clint!” And before he can react, you throw your arms around him, pressing desperate kisses to his jaw, his cheeks, his lips. Clint grins, warmth curling in his chest, burying his face in your hair. “Told ya I’d bring him back,” he murmurs. Then, pulling back just enough to look at you, voice teasing, “How ‘bout a reward for the hero?”

Natasha Romanoff (Black Widow)

- Natasha does not waste words on comfort. She sees the way your hands twist together, the way your breath hitches unevenly, and she simply touches your arm—firm, steady. "I’ll find him," she says, no hesitation, no doubt. And then she is gone, slipping into the night like a ghost, like a promise.

- Her search is meticulous, methodical. She moves through the city like a shadow, unseen, unheard. She checks every corner, every crevice, following the trail with a hunter’s patience. She kneels in the dirt, fingers brushing over the faintest paw prints. She watches surveillance footage from gas stations and convenience stores, scanning for any glimpse of white fur. Nothing escapes her. Nothing ever does.

- And then, finally, she finds him. A scared little thing, shivering beneath an abandoned car, too afraid to move. Natasha exhales slowly, lowering herself onto her stomach, voice quiet, gentle. "Hey, малыш," she murmurs. "Been having an adventure, huh?" Mr. Pickles hesitates—then, with a whimper, scrambles toward her. She catches him easily, tucking him against her chest. "Good boy," she whispers, stroking his tiny head. "Let’s get you home."

- When she returns, she says nothing—just steps into the room, holding out the small, trembling dog. The sound you make is small, broken, and then you are running to her, hands shaking as you take Mr. Pickles into your arms. Natasha watches, something warm and aching unfurling in her chest. And when you turn to her, whispering "Thank you," voice thick with emotion, she simply pulls you close, pressing a kiss to your temple. "Always," she murmurs.

Bucky Barnes (Winter Soldier)

- Bucky knows the weight of grief. Knows how it clings to the ribs, how it turns the world gray. When he sees it on you, something inside him twists. He cups your face, brushing his thumbs beneath your eyes, steel and flesh both warm against your skin. “I’ll get him back,” he says, voice rough, edged with quiet desperation. “I swear it.”

- He searches with the kind of relentless patience only a soldier possesses. He moves through the city in silence, scanning every street, listening, waiting. His training takes over—tracking, reading the subtle disturbances in the world. A knocked-over trash can. A set of tiny paw prints in the dust. He follows them like a wolf on a scent, every step precise, measured. He does not stop. He does not falter.

- He finds Mr. Pickles curled up on a stranger’s doorstep, looking lost and exhausted. Bucky crouches slowly, voice soft. “Hey there, little guy.” The dog perks up, ears twitching. A moment passes—then Mr. Pickles scrambles into his arms, pressing his tiny face against Bucky’s chest. The super-soldier lets out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. “Yeah,” he murmurs. “I got you.”

- When he brings Mr. Pickles home, you make a sound—something between a sob and a laugh—and Bucky barely has time to react before you are clinging to him, burying your face in his shoulder. He holds you tightly, breathing you in, grounding himself in your warmth. “Told you I’d find him,” he mutters into your hair. And when you pull back, eyes shining, hands cradling his face, Bucky Barnes knows—he would walk through fire for you. Would chase down a hundred lost things, just to keep you from breaking.

Matthew Murdock (Daredevil)

- It starts with the sound of your voice breaking. A sharp inhale, a stumble of words, a silence where there should be breath. Matt’s head snaps up immediately, his whole body tensing like a wire pulled too tight. “What’s wrong?” he asks, already moving toward you, already reaching. And then you say it, voice trembling. “Mr. Pickles is gone.” The world tilts. He doesn’t need sight to know the grief settling in your frame, the way your arms are wrapped around yourself like a shield. He takes your hands, pressing his forehead to yours. “I’ll find him,” he promises. “I swear.”

- The city is an orchestra of noise and movement, but Matt filters through it with razor precision. He follows the trail of memory—the last place you saw Mr. Pickles, the familiar scuffle of tiny paws on pavement. He kneels in alleyways, fingertips ghosting over the ground, feeling for the faintest traces: a disturbed patch of dust, a scent still lingering in the air. He listens. A hundred heartbeats, a thousand voices, the ever-present hum of New York’s restless energy. And then—there. A frantic, rapid little rhythm, lost beneath a fire escape.

- He moves quickly, scaling the metal with effortless grace, landing silently in the narrow space behind the building. Mr. Pickles is trembling beneath an old wooden crate, his tiny frame pressed into the shadows. “Hey, buddy,” Matt murmurs, crouching low. “You gave us a scare.” The dog yelps as Matt reaches out, but there’s no hesitation in his hands, only certainty. Warmth. He scoops Mr. Pickles up, tucking him close, fingers gentle against soft fur. “Let’s get you home.”

- The moment Matt steps through the door, you let out a breath that shatters into relief. He barely has time to react before you are in his arms, hands in his hair, lips pressing desperately against his. Mr. Pickles wiggles between you, but neither of you care. Matt holds you tighter, his own relief threading through his pulse. “Told you,” he breathes against your mouth. “I’d never let you lose something you love.”

Frank Castle (Punisher)

- You’re crying, and that alone is enough to ignite something violent in Frank. His hands clench into fists, his jaw locks tight, his body coils with the instinct to hunt. But there’s no enemy here. No one to punish. Just you, beautiful and wrecked, your hands trembling as you whisper, “Frank, I can’t find him.” He exhales slow, steady, pushing down the fury. His hands cup your face, rough thumbs brushing over wet cheeks. “I’ll get ‘im back,” he murmurs. “I promise.”

- His search is relentless. Frank moves through the city with soldier’s efficiency, checking every street corner, every back alley, every goddamn sewer grate if he has to. He interrogates people without mercy, his voice low and dangerous as he asks, “You seen a little white dog around here?” Nobody dares to lie to him. He is a shadow in the night, a force of nature, and nothing—not time, not distance, not God himself—will stop him from bringing your dog back.

- Eventually, he finds Mr. Pickles cornered by a stray, trapped between a chain-link fence and a growling, desperate mutt twice his size. Frank doesn’t hesitate. One sharp whistle, one step forward, and the stray bolts. “Damn idiot,” he mutters, kneeling. Mr. Pickles stares up at him, wide-eyed and shaking. “You’re lucky she loves you,” Frank grumbles, scooping him up, pressing the dog to his chest with surprising gentleness. “Otherwise, you’d be on your own, dumbass.”

- When he gets home, you’re waiting at the door, eyes raw with worry. The second you see him, you choke out a gasp, arms reaching. Frank hands Mr. Pickles over, watching as you cradle the tiny thing like he’s the most precious thing in the world. He exhales, runs a hand through his hair, and then you’re kissing him—deep, breathless, full of gratitude. His hands grip your waist, pulling you close, his voice rough against your lips. “Told you I’d fix it, baby.”

Bullseye (Lester)

- “You’re joking.” But the look on your face tells him you’re not. And the worst part? He cares. Too much. About you, about the way your lip trembles, about the devastation in your beautiful, stupid eyes. His fingers twitch, the urge to break something crawling under his skin. He can kill a man from a mile away with a paperclip, but he can’t fix this. Not with a bullet, not with a blade. “Shit,” he mutters, dragging a hand down his face. Then, voice dark with resolve—“I’ll find the little bastard.”

- Lester doesn’t search like a normal person. No, he turns the whole goddamn city into his hunting ground. He perches on rooftops, scanning the streets below with hawk-like precision. He talks to informants, threatens people in back alleys, flips a knife between his fingers as he leans in close and growls, “If I were a tiny dumb dog, where the hell would I be?” Nobody dares to waste his time.

- He finally spots Mr. Pickles trapped on a moving truck, the tiny idiot balancing on the edge, about to tumble onto the freeway. “Oh, for fuck’s sake.” Lester moves before he thinks. A perfect throw—his knife slicing through the air, puncturing the truck’s tire. It screeches to a halt, and before anyone can react, he’s already there, snatching Mr. Pickles up. “You got a goddamn death wish?” he mutters, tucking the tiny dog under his jacket. “Let’s get you home before I start regretting this.”

- The second he walks in, you’re on him, eyes wide with relief. You press kisses over his face, his jaw, whispering, “Thank you, thank you.” Lester smirks, tilting his head. “Y’know, I don’t do this rescue shit for just anyone.” You arch a brow. “Oh?” His grin sharpens. “Yeah. So, how ‘bout you thank me properly?” His hands slip around your waist, pulling you in, his lips brushing your ear. “In bed.”

Marc Spector (Moon Knight)

- He knows loss. Knows the way it digs into the ribs, the way it carves out something hollow in your chest. And when he sees that same ache in your eyes, his heart clenches. “I’ll find him,” he says, his voice low, steady. His hands cup your face, thumbs stroking soft against your cheeks. “I won’t let you lose him.”

- He moves through the night like a phantom, like a god of the hunt. Moonlight glints off his armor as he scales rooftops, his senses sharp, his pulse steady. He tracks the city like a predator—footprints in the dust, paw marks in the mud, the scent of something small and lost. Every streetlamp flickers as he passes, every shadow seems to bend toward him. He is relentless.

- He finds Mr. Pickles huddled in the hollow of a tree in Central Park, shivering, tiny paws covered in dirt. Marc exhales, dropping into a crouch, his cape pooling around him. “Hey, little guy,” he murmurs. “Scared?” The dog lets out a small whimper, tail tucked. “Yeah,” Marc sighs. “Me too, sometimes.” He reaches out, slow and patient. Mr. Pickles hesitates—then, finally, clambers into his arms. Marc holds him close, pressing his forehead to soft fur. “Let’s get you home.”

- When he returns, you break. Your arms wrap around him, your whole body trembling with relief. Marc holds you, silent, solid, his heartbeat steady beneath your ear. “Thank you,” you whisper. He exhales, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. “I’ll always bring back what you love,” he murmurs. “Always.”

Taskmaster (Tony Masters)

- You are pacing. Your hands are shaking. Your lips are parted as if you want to say something, but no words come. Tony watches, leaning back against the wall, arms crossed. His skull mask tilts ever so slightly. “You’re stressin’ over a dog,” he drawls, but there’s something in his voice—not mockery, not amusement, just observation. You shoot him a sharp look, eyes shining with unshed tears, and that’s all it takes. His posture shifts, his fingers flex, his weight shifts onto the balls of his feet. A mission, then. “Alright,” he mutters. “Let’s go hunt.”

- Tony doesn’t search. He tracks. He moves like a predator, analyzing the world through the same ruthless lens he uses in combat. He remembers the way Mr. Pickles moves, the rhythm of his little paws on the floor, the places he lingers longest. He follows invisible trails, crouching low to examine scuff marks on the sidewalk, flicking his hood up as he moves through the city like a ghost. He doesn’t ask for help. He doesn’t need it.

- He finds Mr. Pickles before dawn, stuck in a drainage pipe, trembling but unharmed. Tony crouches, tilting his head. “Y’know,” he muses, voice low and sardonic, “for a dumb little mutt, you got a lotta guts runnin’ off like that.” Mr. Pickles whimpers. Tony sighs. “Yeah, yeah. C’mere.” He reaches in, grips the tiny dog by the scruff, and lifts him effortlessly. There’s a moment of silence as he looks at the tiny, ridiculous creature. Then, begrudgingly, softly—“Good boy.”

- When he returns, you practically crash into him, arms wrapping around his neck. He stiffens for half a second—then melts. Your lips find his jaw, his cheek, his mouth, whispering endless thank-yous. Tony smirks against your lips. “Told ya I’d find ‘im,” he murmurs. His gloved hands tighten on your waist. “Now, you gonna give me a reward, or what?”

Johnny Storm (Human Torch)

- The second you realize Mr. Pickles is missing, you collapse onto the couch, burying your face in your hands. Johnny is beside you instantly, dropping to his knees in front of you, hands gripping yours. “Hey, hey, hey, no tears, babe,” he soothes, pressing a kiss to your knuckles. “We’re gonna find him.” You shake your head, voice breaking. “But what if—” Johnny cuts you off with a grin, cupping your cheeks. “Nope. No ‘what ifs.’ You and me? We got this.” His eyes flicker with fire. “And lucky for you, I’m kinda the fastest guy around.”

- He takes off like a shooting star, flames trailing behind him as he soars above the city, scanning the streets below. He shouts Mr. Pickles’ name at the top of his lungs, occasionally stopping to ask strangers, “Hey, seen a fluffy little guy runnin’ around?” He speeds down alleyways, streaks of fire illuminating the dark corners, his energy boundless, relentless. It’s not just about finding the dog—it’s about fixing you. About bringing back the light in your eyes.

- Finally, he spots a flash of white fur near a hot dog stand. Mr. Pickles is standing on his tiny hind legs, trying to steal a bite from an unsuspecting tourist. Johnny lets out a relieved laugh, swooping down. “Oh my God, you little menace,” he groans, scooping the dog up. “You had her crying, dude! Not cool.” Mr. Pickles licks his face. Johnny sighs, tucking him under his arm. “Yeah, yeah. You’re lucky I’m a sucker.”

- When he gets home, you’re standing by the door, breath held tight in your chest. The moment you see them, you let out a half-sob, half-laugh, arms flinging around both Johnny and Mr. Pickles. “Told ya,” Johnny murmurs against your hair, grinning. “Flame on, baby. Fastest rescue in history.” He leans in, voice dropping. “Now, how ‘bout you show me just how grateful you are?”

Reed Richards (Mister Fantastic)

- The moment you realize Mr. Pickles is missing, you don’t even need to say anything. Reed notices the micro-expressions on your face, the tiny shift in your breathing, the way your fingers twitch like they don’t know where to go. He sets his book down immediately. “I assume,” he says, in that calm, measured way of his, “that we are dealing with an emergency.” You nod, lip trembling, and he reaches out, brushing a gentle hand against your wrist. “Then let’s begin our search.”

- He doesn’t waste time. He maps out the city in his head, calculating Mr. Pickles’ likely movement patterns based on past behavior, environmental factors, and canine psychology. He extends his limbs, stretching impossibly long, weaving through traffic and alleyways, covering more ground in minutes than most could in hours. Occasionally, he stops to scan the area with a handheld device he designed on the spot to track small biological signatures. Mr. Pickles is, unfortunately, an unpredictable anomaly. But Reed does not believe in unsolvable problems.

- At last, he finds the dog nestled inside the engine of a parked car, trapped but unharmed. “Ah,” Reed murmurs, extending a flexible arm to gently extract him. “A remarkably foolish but statistically predictable hiding spot.” Mr. Pickles whimpers. Reed tucks him against his chest, adjusting his glasses. “I would advise against repeating this experiment.”

- When he returns, you nearly collapse in relief. You take Mr. Pickles from his arms, cradling him, whispering his name over and over. Reed watches you for a moment, expression unreadable—then, finally, he steps forward, cupping your face. “There was never a doubt,” he says softly, pressing a slow, deliberate kiss to your forehead. “I will always solve any problem that brings you pain.”

Ben Grimm (The Thing)

- “Aw, hell.” The moment you start crying, Ben is done. He has no idea what to do, how to fix it, how to stop that horrible look on your face. He’s good at breaking things, not putting them back together. But this? This, he can try to fix. He places a massive, careful hand on your back. “Don’tchu worry, sweetheart. We’re gonna get yer lil’ guy back. Just leave it to ol’ Ben.”

- He scours the city on foot, his heavy footsteps echoing through the streets. People move out of his way as he calls out, “MR. PICKLES! C’MON, BUDDY!” He checks every alley, every trash can, even gets on his hands and knees to peek under cars. He talks to street vendors, cab drivers, little kids—anyone who might’ve seen a small, fluffy blur.

- After what feels like forever, he finally hears a familiar yipping sound. He turns, spotting Mr. Pickles perched on top of a hot dog cart, happily munching away. Ben groans, shaking his head. “Ya gotta be kiddin’ me.” He reaches out, scooping up the tiny troublemaker in one massive hand. “Yer givin’ me gray hairs, ya dumb mutt.” Mr. Pickles wags his tail. “Yeah, yeah,” Ben mutters. “Let’s getcha home.”

- The second he steps inside, you sprint toward him, practically climbing his massive frame to get to Mr. Pickles. “Thank you,” you whisper over and over, eyes shining with gratitude. Ben rubs the back of his neck, cheeks going a little too orange. “Ah, it’s nothin’,” he grumbles. But when you lean up and press a kiss to his rocky jaw, he goes still. Then, with a soft chuckle, he wraps you up in the safest, warmest embrace you’ve ever known. “Anythin’ for you, doll.”

Susan Storm (Invisible Woman)

- The moment she sees the distress in your eyes, the tremble in your fingers, Susan moves with the quiet urgency of someone who has carried the weight of others for as long as she can remember. “We’ll find him,” she promises, voice steady, hands cupping your face. She presses her lips to your forehead, a whisper of warmth against your skin. There is no hesitation in her. No doubt. Only unwavering resolve. “Just hold on, love. I won’t stop until he’s back in your arms.”

- Susan moves like the wind—unseen, yet everywhere. Her force fields expand in rippling waves, creating invisible barriers to guide the search, sealing off streets, preventing Mr. Pickles from wandering further. She steps through the city like a ghost, her presence unnoticed by the world, her focus honed to a razor’s edge. She asks the right people, checks every hidden corner, listens for the frantic patter of tiny paws.

- When she finds him—trapped in a fenced-off garden, too small to climb back out—her breath catches in relief. She kneels, extending a hand. “There you are, sweetheart,” she murmurs, voice softer than the dawn. Mr. Pickles hesitates, then scurries into her arms. She holds him close, invisible tears slipping down her cheeks. “You scared us, little one,” she whispers, pressing a kiss to his fur.

- When she returns, you barely have time to react before she’s wrapping you up in her arms, pressing you close, Mr. Pickles nestled between you. “Told you,” she breathes into your hair. “I’ll always bring you back what you love.” And then, because she cannot help herself, because she needs to erase the sadness she saw on your face—she tilts your chin up, kisses you slow and deep, sealing her promise with something stronger than words.

Felicia Hardy (Black Cat)

- “Oh, baby,” Felicia purrs, cupping your face in her gloved hands, brushing her thumbs over your cheekbones. “Don’t look at me like that. You’ll break my heart.” There’s a playful tilt to her lips, but her eyes—sharp, feline, dangerous—gleam with something softer. Something devoted. “No one takes from me,” she whispers, pressing a kiss to the corner of your mouth. “Not even fate. And definitely not some city street swallowing up our little guy.”

- She moves through the city with the grace of something not quite human, slipping through the shadows, scaling rooftops, landing lightly on balcony railings as she surveys the streets below. The city belongs to her in a way it never will to anyone else—its secrets, its dark corners, its hidden treasures. And tonight, the only treasure she seeks is a tiny, fluffy menace named Mr. Pickles.

- She finds him at the docks, standing nose-to-nose with a massive alley cat. “Oh, sweetie,” Felicia sighs, perching on the edge of a crate. “Making enemies already?” The alley cat hisses. Mr. Pickles barks back, fearless in his stupidity. Felicia chuckles, scooping him up effortlessly. “You really are my type,” she teases, nuzzling him before vanishing back into the night.

- When she returns, she doesn’t give you a chance to react. She drops Mr. Pickles into your lap, then straddles you, tangling her fingers in your hair, kissing you like she’s staking a claim. “Mine,” she murmurs against your lips. “You. The mutt. Everything. Mine.” Her voice is velvet and sin, but there’s something deeper there, something unspoken. She saved your dog because she would burn the world down before she let you cry.

Stephen Strange (Doctor Strange)

- He watches you, standing in the Sanctum’s grand hall, your arms wrapped around yourself, your breath unsteady. A storm brewing behind your eyes. Stephen has faced nightmares made flesh, walked through dimensions of madness, fought gods and demons alike—but none of it compares to the sheer, unbearable helplessness of seeing you in pain. He exhales slowly, gathering himself. “I will fix this,” he vows, voice a quiet thunder. “I will bring him back.”

- He opens portals, stepping between realms, searching beyond the limits of the ordinary. His cloak flutters behind him as he moves through the city, eyes glowing with eldritch energy, scanning for the telltale imprint of Mr. Pickles’ presence. He does not guess. He calculates. He peers into the threads of time, tracing the tiny, insignificant path of one small life—because no life is insignificant if it matters to you.

- He finds Mr. Pickles caught in a drainpipe, whimpering, his fluffy fur dirtied with city grime. Stephen kneels, murmuring a soft incantation, and the pipe bends, the metal warping to free its prisoner. “You,” he mutters, scooping the dog up with the same careful precision he uses when handling mystical artifacts, “are far more trouble than your size should allow.” Mr. Pickles yips. Stephen sighs. “Yes, yes. Let’s go home.”

- When he steps back through the portal, you are waiting, eyes wide, body trembling. Before you can speak, he hands you the dog, then—without a word—pulls you into his arms. His fingers tangle in your hair, his lips press to your temple. “Do not look at me like I have done something extraordinary,” he murmurs. “You should know by now—I would defy the laws of the universe for you.”

Namor (The Sub-Mariner)

- “This is unacceptable.” His voice is steel wrapped in silk, his eyes burning with the fire of a thousand storms. He stands before you like a god carved from the depths, arms crossed over his chest, jaw set with unshakable determination. “No creature that belongs to you shall be lost. The world will return him to you—or it will suffer for its defiance.”

- He commands the sea, bending its will to his own, sending forth silent summons to the creatures of the deep. Whales sing in the distance, dolphins weave through the harbor, seabirds circle the skies, their sharp eyes scanning the city for one foolishly misplaced pet. Namor himself moves like the tide—relentless, unstoppable. The people part for him as he walks the streets, his presence commanding, his gaze sharp enough to cut through the city itself.

- He finds Mr. Pickles tangled in a fishing net near the docks, a group of sailors laughing at the tiny creature’s predicament. Namor does not speak. He does not warn. He simply moves, and the air itself seems to bow before him. The sailors stumble back as he lifts the dog with regal precision, eyes flashing like the heart of a storm. “You belong to her,” he murmurs, brushing a careful thumb over the tiny head. “And that means you belong to me.”

- When he returns, he does not wait for gratitude. He places Mr. Pickles in your arms, then tilts your chin up, studying your face. “Never doubt,” he murmurs, voice low, dangerous, intimate, “that what is yours is mine to protect.” His lips brush against yours, the ghost of a promise. “And I do not lose.”

Johnny Blaze (Ghost Rider)

- Johnny has seen hell. He has ridden through the infernal flames, faced demons that would drive lesser men to madness, and carried the weight of sins that do not belong to him. But nothing—nothing—unnerves him quite like the sight of you, beautiful and heartbroken, with tears trembling in your eyes. “We’ll find him,” he says, his voice rough, calloused like his hands. He brushes his thumb over your cheek, gentle in a way most wouldn’t expect from a man like him. “I swear on my goddamn soul, sweetheart. We’ll get your boy back.”

- He revs up his bike, and the night itself seems to shudder in response. The wheels burn with hellfire as he tears through the streets, eyes glowing with something unnatural, something righteous. He hunts like a predator, cutting through alleyways, questioning people in that low, gravelly voice that makes even the toughest criminals step back. His shadow looms long and unrelenting, the scent of brimstone trailing in his wake.

- He finds Mr. Pickles at the edge of a junkyard, trapped between rusted metal and the prying claws of something dark and rabid. A hellhound, perhaps, sensing something of Johnny in the small creature. The Rider emerges then, the chain coiling in his grip like a living thing. “You picked the wrong damn dog,” he growls, and in one flaming strike, the beast vanishes into nothingness. Johnny kneels, picking up the trembling ball of fluff. “Come on, little guy,” he mutters. “Let’s get you home.”

- When he returns, he doesn’t say a word—just walks straight to you, places Mr. Pickles in your arms, and wraps his arms around both of you. His forehead presses against yours, his breath warm and tinged with smoke. “Told ya,” he murmurs, voice low, gravel scraping against velvet. “I’d go to hell and back for you. And I will—whenever you ask.”

Eddie Brock / Venom

- “Oh, babe,” Eddie sighs, running a hand down his face as he watches you crumple onto the couch, Mr. Pickles nowhere to be found. His heart clenches. He’s not good at this—comfort. But he tries. “We’ll find him,” he promises, kneeling in front of you, gripping your hands like an anchor. “Me and Venom, we’ll tear the whole damn city apart if we have to.”

- “YES,” Venom rumbles, the symbiote’s voice crawling up Eddie’s spine. “THE LITTLE FLUFF CREATURE BELONGS TO US. WE WILL DEVOUR ANY WHO HARM HIM.” Eddie rolls his eyes, but the truth is—he’s grateful. With Venom’s heightened senses, they scour the city like something primal, moving through rooftops, slithering through the underbelly of New York, sniffing out every trace of their tiny, ridiculous prey.

- They find Mr. Pickles cowering near a dumpster, shaking but unharmed. “HE IS SAFE,” Venom declares, wrapping tendrils around the small creature, lifting him gently. Eddie sighs, rubbing his temples. “You look like an idiot,” he tells Mr. Pickles, though there’s no real heat in his voice. Venom coils protectively around the dog. “HE IS OURS NOW.”

- When they return, Eddie barely has time to react before you throw yourself at him, clutching Mr. Pickles between you. He grunts, but his arms instinctively come around you, holding tight. Venom purrs—purrs. Eddie groans. “Great. Now I got two clingy idiots.” But then he buries his face in your hair, pressing a lingering kiss to your temple. “Yeah, yeah,” he mutters. “You’re welcome, sweetheart.”

T’Challa (Black Panther)

- T’Challa is a man of unshakable control, a king whose every step is measured, every breath purposeful. But when he sees you—so strong, so fierce, now unraveled by something as small and precious as a missing dog—his heart tightens. He cups your face in his hands, pressing his forehead to yours. “I will not let you suffer,” he murmurs. “No matter how small the loss may seem to others, I know it is not small to you.”

- The Dora Milaje move swiftly, Wakandan technology scanning the city with ruthless efficiency. But T’Challa does not simply stand by—he hunts. He moves like a shadow through the streets, his senses sharper than any mortal’s, his agility unmatched. He does not run. He glides, a predator in the night, every step silent as he follows the invisible trail of a tiny, lost thing.

- He finds Mr. Pickles at the feet of a would-be thief, a man who thought stealing a small, expensive-looking dog might earn him a quick payday. The man doesn’t even see T’Challa before he’s on him, a whisper of claws, a silent strike. The thief crumples before he even knows what happened. T’Challa picks up Mr. Pickles, cradling the tiny creature with surprising tenderness. “You have caused quite the commotion, little one,” he murmurs.

- When he returns, he does not speak right away—simply hands Mr. Pickles to you and watches as relief floods your face. And then, with the grace of a ruler, the ferocity of a warrior, he kneels before you, his hands on your waist, his lips ghosting over your knuckles. “You are my heart,” he whispers. “And I will always return to you what you love.”

Elektra Natchios

- Elektra does not love lightly. Love, to her, is a battlefield—something you fight for, something you bleed for. And so when she sees you, eyes red-rimmed, body curled in grief over your missing dog, something inside her snaps. She kneels before you, takes your hands, and presses a kiss to your wrist. “He will be found,” she vows, her voice like steel wrapped in silk. “And those who took him will regret it.”

- She moves through the city like a blade, slipping between buildings, whispering threats in the ears of informants. She is not gentle in her search—Elektra is a storm, a hurricane dressed in crimson, and when she wants answers, she gets them. The city bends before her, criminals whispering her name in fear as she cuts a path through the underworld, searching for a dog that dared to run from you.

- She finds Mr. Pickles in the hands of a smuggler, tucked beneath a coat, a prize to be sold. Elektra does not speak. She does not negotiate. She simply moves. The fight is over in seconds—bones breaking, a body crumpling, the sound of breath stolen away. She lifts Mr. Pickles into her arms, brushing blood-stained fingers over his fur. “You are lucky,” she tells him, voice a deadly lullaby. “She loves you. That is why you are alive.”

- When she returns, she does not hand him over immediately. Instead, she tilts your chin up, studies your face with eyes that have seen too much, and kisses you—deep, slow, possessive. And then, finally, she places Mr. Pickles in your hands. “He is safe,” she murmurs, brushing her lips over your forehead. “Because you are mine. And nothing that is yours will ever be taken from you.”

Muse

- Muse does not understand grief in the way others do. Suffering, to him, is art. Blood, tears, sorrow—they are strokes on a canvas, fleeting expressions of beauty. But when he sees you undone, sadness spilling from you like a watercolor bleeding into the edges of the world, something inside him twists. He tilts his head, dark eyes drinking you in, committing your heartbreak to memory. “You are beautiful when you mourn,” he murmurs, almost dreamlike. But then, softer, something close to reverence—“Tell me who I must bleed.”

- He moves through the city like a ghost, a whisper lost in the wind. No doors stop him, no walls contain him. He slithers between cracks in the world, past flickering streetlights, through alleys where rats scurry at his presence. He listens—to the murmurs of the city, to the stutter of fearful hearts, to the stories inked in dried blood on concrete. He sketches shapes in the air as he moves, painting Mr. Pickles’s outline with invisible strokes, willing the world to yield its secrets.

- He finds the dog in a forgotten place—a shuttered church, abandoned and hollow, where the echoes of old prayers cling to rotting wood. Mr. Pickles is curled beneath the altar, lost in something greater than himself, a dumb, small creature in a world too vast. Muse crouches before him, fingers brushing the cold stone. “Even the most foolish of things seek sanctuary,” he murmurs. He lifts the dog into his arms like a relic, cradling him as one would a delicate masterpiece.

- When he returns, he does not hand the creature to you immediately. Instead, he watches you, drinking in the relief that softens your grief, the way you tremble with something raw. “Your sadness was divine,” he tells you, his voice reverent, worshipful. “But your joy—” He steps closer, his breath a whisper against your skin. “Your joy is the kind of art that kills.” And then, at last, he places Mr. Pickles in your hands, his fingers lingering, his head tilting as if considering whether to carve this moment into eternity.

Victor von Doom (Dr. Doom)

- Doom does not tolerate imperfection. The world is a broken thing, filled with fragile creatures who tremble at the weight of their own insignificance. But you—you are not insignificant. You are his, and that means you are above such things as sorrow. And yet, here you stand, shattered by the absence of something as small, as foolish, as utterly unworthy as a dog. He cups your face in his gauntleted hands, his voice a low command. “You will not despair. Doom will fix this.”

- The search is swift, efficient, without hesitation. His Doombots flood the city, scanning every street, every shadow. There is no corner of the world Doom does not control, no path hidden from his gaze. He does not waste time questioning—he demands. When a man hesitates to answer, Doom does not repeat himself. He simply removes the obstacle. The world bends before his will, because it must.

- He finds the dog in the hands of a thief who does not understand the gravity of his mistake. Doom does not strike immediately. He steps forward, his very presence sending the fool to his knees. “You have taken something that belongs to me,” he states, voice smooth, absolute. “That is unacceptable.” The thief stammers, begs, offers apologies Doom does not need. With a flick of his wrist, Doom reclaims what is his. The thief remains on the ground, trembling—his punishment will come later.

- When he returns, he does not hand you the dog. No, he holds Mr. Pickles before you, as if offering proof of his superiority, as if daring you to ever doubt him again. “Do not weep for lost things,” he tells you, his voice softer now, for you alone. “Not when you have Doom. Nothing that belongs to you shall ever be taken from you while I draw breath.” And then, as though bestowing a gift upon royalty, he places Mr. Pickles into your waiting arms, watching as you press your face into the ridiculous fluff with something close to peace. Doom allows himself the smallest of smiles.

Peter Quill (Star-Lord)

- “Oh, babe.” Peter’s heart breaks a little at the sight of you, curled up on the couch, your eyes wet, your lip trembling. He’s seen you fight, seen you take down things twice your size without so much as flinching, but this—this tiny, stupid missing dog—has unraveled you. He cups your face, pressing a lingering kiss to your forehead. “Don’t worry, okay? The Legendary Star-Lord’s got this. I’ll have Mr. Pickles back before you can say ‘Peter, you’re the best boyfriend ever.’”

- He takes off running—literally. No plan, no strategy, just vibes. He asks around, chasing every lead with the reckless charm of a man who talks his way out of problems more often than he solves them. He nearly gets into a fight with a street vendor, accidentally enters an underground dog racing ring (and somehow wins money he never meant to bet), and ends up bribing a kid with a pack of alien candy just to get a lead.

- When he finally finds Mr. Pickles, the little guy is on a rooftop, looking profoundly lost and utterly confused. “Oh, buddy,” Peter sighs, scooping him up. “Your mom is gonna kill me if she finds out I let you get this far. You owe me, man.” Mr. Pickles licks his face. Peter grimaces. “Gross, dude.”

- He returns to you, arms wide, Mr. Pickles balanced on his shoulder like some kind of pirate parrot. “Ta-da!” He grins as you snatch your dog, pressing frantic kisses into his fur. Peter watches you with something soft in his eyes, something real. “See?” he murmurs, wrapping his arms around you. “Told you I’d bring him back. And not just ‘cause I didn’t wanna see you cry—though, babe, I really didn’t wanna see you cry.” He presses a kiss to your cheek, grinning. “Next time, though? Maybe we put a tracker on this little dude.”

Nova (Richard Rider)

- Richard’s stomach sinks when he sees you like this. You’re never like this—never fragile, never still. But now, your arms are empty, your lips pressed tight, your whole body tensed in a way that tells him just how much you’re holding back. He reaches for you, thumb brushing against your wrist. “We’re gonna find him,” he promises. “No matter what it takes.” And when he says it, he means it.

- He takes to the sky, the city unfolding beneath him in a blur of neon and shadows. He scans every street, every heartbeat, his senses stretched thin, reaching beyond what should be possible. He moves like a comet, burning through the night, a streak of gold and blue against the dark. No lost thing escapes his gaze—not when he is Nova.

- He finds Mr. Pickles in the middle of traffic, a tiny, oblivious fluffball wandering straight into chaos. Richard doesn’t think—he moves. One second, the little dog is about to meet a terrible fate. The next, he’s safe, cradled against Richard’s chest as cars screech to a halt beneath them. Richard exhales, pressing his forehead against the ridiculous creature. “You are so lucky I like your mom.”

- He lands in front of you, Mr. Pickles still tucked in his arms, and the second he sees your relief, he knows—he would have torn the universe apart for this moment. He hands the dog to you, watching the way your whole body softens. And then, before he can say something stupid, you throw your arms around his neck, pressing your lips to his. He laughs against your mouth, breathless. “Yeah, yeah,” he murmurs, holding you tighter. “I know. I’m the best.”

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krirebr · 4 months ago

Text

All Things Go 1

Pairing: Alpha Steve Rogers x Omega Female Reader

Word Count: ~2.9k

Summary: It's been a few months since Steve was pulled out of the ice and immediately had to fight aliens with the newly formed Avengers. He is doing fine with all that, all things considered. Which is why he's so upset when he's suddenly benched from missions and forced to welcome a support omega into his home. He's fine!

Warnings: Angst (with an eventual happy ending), panic attack, disassociation flashback, Steve actually having to deal with the PTSD and depression and anxiety he would so clearly have if he'd been through everything in the MCU, alpha/beta/omega dynamics, possible slow burn - we'll see All of my work is 18+ - Minors DNI

Dividers by me

Series Masterlist

Masterlist

A/N: Oh boy. Here I am. Back on my angsty bullshit. This story was kickstarted by this ask. It's an inverse of the program at the center of Still Life, but not in the same universe.

This idea was helped along a ton by @stellar-solar-flare who helped me overcome my fear of writing a mostly canon compliant Steve and dipping my toes into an Avengers AU.

Any comment, reblog, or ask to let me know what you think will be greatly appreciated. And if you need to come scream at me, that's ok too!

As always, thank you so much for reading! 💜

Steve checked his watch for a third time as he paced around his apartment. It was bad enough that he had to indulge this ridiculous idea, but she was late on top of it. Four minutes, now. He’d been pacing for the last fifteen. He’d tried to sit down while he waited, but the buzz of the adrenaline just under his skin had been too strong.

It was the disrespect, that’s what it was, that really bothered him in her tardiness. That was going around lately. A whole team that refused to listen to him. And then had the gall to go to Fury behind his back after what happened during the last mission. And yes, of course, it was all couched in concern. But he saw it for what it was: a mutiny. And he’d been benched because of it. From all missions for the foreseeable future. So what was he supposed to do now? Thawed out 70 years in the future just to be stranded without a purpose.

But that wasn’t the worst of it. No, the worst part was now six minutes late. A support omega. He’d scoffed right in Fury’s face when he’d “suggested” it. Of all the stupid, 21st-century things he’d encountered, this took the cake. Like there could possibly be some base alpha part of him that was so broken it could only be soothed by an omega with a degree in psychology. Ridiculous. He was fine!

But it’d been the kind of suggestion that didn’t come with the option to say no. Not if he ever wanted to get back on the team. So fine. He’d play nice, show her there was nothing wrong, and get her to sign off on him going back into the field. He’d be back in action in just a few days. And then he might be able to breathe again.

As he was about to start another lap of his living room, the doorbell finally chimed. He took a moment, so as not to seem like he’d been standing right next to it. Then he took a deep breath, pasted on that Captain America smile, and opened the door. “Hi,” he said, immediately stepping aside to give you room. “Come on in.”

“Captain Rogers,” you said with your own big smile as you introduced yourself, then picked up your valise from the ground beside you and stepped into his apartment. You were sharply dressed, professional. In how you held yourself, too. But your eyes were warm. And you were beautiful. It reminded him of some of the nicer omegas Buck used to go out with. There was a sharp pang in his chest. Like always, he ignored it.

“Thank you for welcoming me into your home.” you continued. As if he’d had any sort of choice. “I’m so sorry I’m late. The security checks took longer than I’d expected.”

“No problem at all,” he said. Ten whole minutes. “I hadn’t even noticed. Here, let me put your bag in the room I set aside for you.”

“Oh, a guest room?” you asked. He stopped at your question, a little confused. Where else would you sleep? “That’s very thoughtful of you. I’ll definitely appreciate having my own space. But, sleeping arrangements are something we can discuss and customize to fit our goals. Sharing a bed can be really helpful if sleep is something you’re struggling with.”

Absolutely not. No. Definitely not. “Oh, I don’t think that’s necessary,” he demurred. “With the serum, I really don’t require much sleep,” he called down to you as he quickly took your bag to the small guest room he’d finally furnished because he had to have somewhere to put you. It’d never occurred to him you’d want to share his bed. Did people really do that?

When he came back into the living room, you were still hovering by the door, your messenger bag slung over your shoulder and your hands clasped in front of you. You were looking around, taking in the blank walls, spartan furniture. Judging him probably. Well, it’s not like he’d had much time to decorate in between saving the world. What did any of that matter? “Can I get you anything to drink? Eat?” he asked.

“No, I’m fine,” you said, with a benign smile that seemed aggressively professional. “If you don’t mind, I’d love if we could sit and chat for a few minutes before we move on to anything else.”

“Of course,” he said, with his own benign smile, as he gestured to the two couches that had come with the apartment. He waited for you to sit in one and then took a seat in the other, a mass-produced coffee table covering the chasm between you.

“First,” you said, your hands resting neatly in your lap, “I just wanted to make sure that my scent is one you’re comfortable having in your home on a long-term basis. I know that the real thing can sometimes be a little different than the sample you based your choice off of.”

Steve had just randomly grabbed one from the box he’d been presented with. He’d thrown it at Fury with a grumbled, “That one’s fine,” as he left the small room they’d given him to make his choice. He’d never even opened it.

He only got a vague hint of it now, sitting across the room from you. Floral maybe. He didn’t bother to take a deep breath, to catalogue it. You’d only be here for a few days max. Not enough time for your scent to permeate. So, it didn’t really matter what he thought about it.

“Yes, it’s fine,” he nodded at you.

“Good,” you said, your smile becoming slightly more genuine. “Well, first I can take a few minutes to talk through what it is we’re going to be doing here. I'm sure you've already gotten the whole spiel, but it might be helpful to hear it from my perspective. Get a feel for how I do things.”

You paused like you were waiting for a response so he nodded along. “Sure, sounds great.” He already knew what the program was. He already knew he didn’t need it. This was a waste of time.

“Mostly, I’m just here to help you as an alpha get back to feeling like your most grounded, best self. Stability and comfort are mainly what I’m here to provide. Listening and guidance too, if that’s what you want. This is fully customizable, very collaborative. I’m not a therapist, but I do have my masters in behavioral psychology. And I’ve been doing this for a while now. So whatever you throw at me, I can handle it. Basically, this arrangement can look like whatever the two of us want it to look like. The biggest requirement, on both sides, is honesty.”

He leaned forward. This was the in he’d been waiting for. “I really appreciate that. And I do want to be completely honest with you. I don’t want to waste your time. The truth is, this is unnecessary. I think people expect me not to adjust well, so they’re treating me like I’m not. But really, I’m fine. I’m doing fine. And I just don’t think I’m going to get much from this.”

You didn’t say anything for a long moment, just looked at him curiously with your lips pursed. At one point, your eyes flicked down to where his hand was resting on his knee. Could you see the way it shook? His hands hadn’t stopped shaking since he’d come out of the ice. He straightened it out so it laid flat on the denim of his jeans, willing it to be still. That didn’t mean anything.

Finally, your eyes left him as you turned to your messenger bag, pulling out a thin file. “Do you mind,” you asked, “if we talk about some of the concerns your team has for you?”

Steve’s jaw ticked. Not for. About. Fury had already done this. “I know their concerns. I don’t think that’s necessary.”

You shrugged casually, like it didn’t much matter to you either way. “I think it could be instructive to what we’re trying to do here.”

“Fine,” he ground out, but you didn’t react to his tone. You just opened the file. Before you had a chance to say anything, he leaned forward and spat out, “Listen, I know what’s in there. They think I don’t listen to anyone. That I’m a bad leader. That my plans are too risky. That I can’t keep anyone safe. Did I get everything?”

You bobbed your head a little, your expression impassive, your voice soft. “Not exactly. They did say that you refuse to listen to people. But they never said anything about you being a bad leader. Or not keeping them safe. They said the thing you’re most likely to risk on these missions is yourself. They’re worried about you.” He couldn’t hold in his scoff and you paused to look him in the eye. “Do you really jump out of planes without a parachute?”

He felt his eyes go a little wide like he’d been caught, doing what exactly, he wasn’t quite sure. He shook his head. “No, that’s not– You know what’s in my veins. If I were a normal man, sure, that’d be suicidal. But I have more strength, better reflexes, I heal faster. It’s not a big deal. It’s fine.”

Your brow furrowed as you leaned forward too. “But, you still get injured, don’t you? Even if it doesn’t last as long. You still feel all that pain. Steve,” and the way you said his name, for the first time, different somehow than the way any omega had ever said it before, he felt it like a knife to the heart, “why would you want to put yourself through feeling all that if you didn’t have to?”

He was up off the couch before he even realized it. The room was suddenly smaller than it’d been a minute ago. His mind was racing and he didn’t know why or how to make it stop.

“Captain Rogers.” You were standing right in front of him, holding your hands up at your chest, your palms out. “I’m sorry Captain, I didn’t mean to push. Are you alright?” All he could do for the moment was blink at you. “Hey, how ‘bout you take a deep breath with me, ok? A slow breath in through your nose.”

He followed your lead and took a deep breath in. And, oh. He was struck by the scent of you. Lilacs and oranges. You smelled like spring.

“And out through your mouth,” you said quietly and he realized he’d been holding his breath. He exhaled slowly and you smiled. “Do you want to take a break?” you asked softly. “I have a few more questions, but I don’t need to ask them right now.”

He shook himself out of whatever daze he’d been in. “No,” he said, standing up straighter. “I’m fine. Let’s keep going.”

He sat back down on the couch, but you hadn’t moved yet. “Are you sure?” you asked.

“Yes. I’m fine. Let’s go.” It was only at the look on your face, that he realized how short he’d been. He took a breath. “Sorry,” he said, forcing some calm into his tone. “I’d like to keep going.”

“Okay,” you nodded and finally sat back down across from him. You opened your folder again. “You were a little… vague in your intake questionnaire. So, if you're able, I’d appreciate it if you could just tell me a little about what you’ve been going through, how you’ve been feeling.”

He fidgeted a little in his seat and he saw you clock it. He stilled himself, then said, with as casual an air as he could muster, “If I was vague, it’s only because there really isn’t much to report. I’ve been fine.” He was using that word too much. He knew it. But he didn’t know how else to say it.

“I find that hard to believe.”

“Excuse me?”

“I’m sorry.” You shook your head. “It’s just, on paper? You’ve been through a lot in what must feel like a very short amount of time. And that’s just the widely reported stuff. What’s in the history books and on the news. It would be understandable if you were struggling. Anyone would be.”

“Well, I’m not anyone, am I?” he snapped.

“No, you’re not,” you said slowly, calmly, and he hated how unflappable you were. “You’re a hero.” He just barely stopped his lip from curling up into a snarl at that. He’d had enough. “But–”

“Listen, I just need to get back in the field, okay? I just need another mission. That’s all I need. We don’t have to– None of this will be necessary if I can just get back out there. I understand that you’re a professional and you’ll want to seem thorough, so we can wait a few days. But I’m fine and that’s what I need you to tell Fury. If the team doesn’t want to work with me right now, that’s– that’s okay. I’ll do solo missions. Whatever they want. I just need to get back out there.” He was pleading by the end of it. He could hear it in his voice. But this was important. He needed you to understand.

You just sat there for a moment, staring at him, your brow furrowed. “I–” you started. “I think there may have been a misunderstanding, Captain Rogers.”

“Steve,” he corrected, “please.”

“Steve, I–” you paused, your lips pursed. “I’m sorry, whether or not you eventually get back on the team, that doesn’t have anything to do with me. I don’t work for SHIELD. I can’t make that decision.”

“What? No. Yes, you do. You can tell Fury that I’m fit for duty.”

“Steve. I work for a support omega agency. I’ve helped a few agents before, but I don’t know Commander Fury. I’m not here to report back to anyone. I’m just here to help you.”

All he could do was shake his head. No, this wasn’t right. There had to be a way to get back to work. You had to be the key.

“I’ve been contracted for a three month period, with the option to extend as needed. I thought this had all been explained to you. I–” You looked at him, pained, like you were willing him to understand

‘Three months to start’ had been said to him at some point in this whole process, but he hadn’t thought that’d been serious. He’d been sure there was a way around it. Sure that you were the way.

He wouldn’t be able to survive three months. That he was sure of. Not without something to do. Not without a purpose. Not without something to fight. The room was getting smaller again. Closing in on him. All of that time stretching out ahead of him, without any purpose, without any point to him. It was all closing in on him.

He tried to take a deep breath, but it didn’t do any good. It didn’t do anything. Didn’t get him any air. There wasn’t any air. He was pinned down. Under all the water. Under all that ice. He was so cold and he couldn’t breathe.

“Steve!”

He was distantly aware of someone calling his name, but no one would be able to get to him. He was too far under. There was too much ice. He’d done too much.

“Steve. Hey, Steve! I’m here with you. I’m right here, okay? I’m right here.”

No, that couldn’t be right. He was alone. All alone and–

Lilacs. How was he smelling lilacs? And oranges. Fresh and bright. Spring.

He blinked his eyes open. He didn’t know when he’d shut them. He was huddled on the floor in front of the couch. In the living room. You were kneeling in front of him, your hands held out in front of you, not making contact, but one of your wrists was extended. Right under his nose.

When he made eye contact with you, you exhaled, like maybe you’d been holding your breath. “Hi,” you said, relieved. “You back with me?”

All he could do was blink at you, at first. Then he looked around. The blank walls. The prefab furniture. The apartment. He hated this place. He looked back at you. “Yeah.” It came out in a croak. “I– Yeah.”

“Is it alright if I touch you?” you asked, inching closer. “You can say no.”

He shook his head without even thinking. “Please.”

As you reached out to touch him, hug him, maybe, he collapsed into you. You let out a little “oof” but didn’t pull away. You just wrapped your arms around him. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been touched, really touched, like this. Not just in passing. Not in battle. Before the ice. Decades. Everything had been decades.

His eyes were wet and he was so so tired. He felt wrenched open. Emptied out like there was nothing left. He exhaled in your arms and with it came a whisper, completely out of his control. “I just want to go home.”

You didn't say anything, but your grip on him tightened.

Tag list is open

@stargazingfangirl18 @yenzys-lucky-charm @thezombieprostitute @jaqui-has-a-conspiracy-theory @bval-1 @km-ffluv @texmexdarling @ladyvenera @roxyfan14-blog @darkserenity24 @midnightramyeoncravings @whiskeytangofoxtrot555 @ronearoundblindly @brandycranby @steviebbboi @missaprilt23 @thiquefunlover63 @hisredheadedgoddess28 @stellar-solar-flare @alexakeyloveloki @kmc1989 @awkwardgiraffe726 @watermelontidewater

#all things go #steve rogers x reader #steve rogers x female reader #steve rogers x f!reader #steve rogers x you #alpha steve rogers #omega reader #omegaverse #steve rogers fanfiction #steve rogers angst #captain america #chris evans fanfiction #kris wrote something

616 notes · View notes

darkficsyouneveraskedfor · 3 months ago

Text

Doing Time 7

No tag lists. Do not send asks or DMs about updates. Review my pinned post for guidelines, masterlist, etc.

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as noncon/dubcon, threats, age gap, and possible untagged elements. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: you try to keep your brother safe in jail but put yourself in danger along the way.

Characters: con/ex-con!Steve Rogers

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me.

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!) Please do not just put ‘more’. I will block you.

I love you all immensely. Take care. 💖

You wade up to the surface of consciousness with a bubbling groan. Your skin tingles and your head swirls. You blink away the dregs as the world comes back into focus. A low drone tickles your ears.

You turn your head towards the voice. Steve's deep timbre sends a shiver through you. You bring your hand above the blankets and rub your forehead. His words are hard to decipher as he keeps his tone low and measured.

"Yeah," he comes down the hall and peeks in at you. He grins. "I'll let her know. Oh, yep. She's been working hard. Oh, ho, I'll make sure of that." He leans on the door frame as he watches you. You slowly sit up, perplexed as his hand frames one hip. "I'll talk to you later, Harriet. Yeah, can't wait to meet."

He pulls your phone away from his cheek and taps with his thumb. You furrow your brow and turn your legs over the edge of the bed, clinging to the blanket to keep yourself hidden.

"Was that--"

"Mom's doing well. She was checking in." He nears and puts your phone on the nightstand. "I didn't want to overstep, baby. In due time. But she kept calling and then I didn't want her to worry. She's already got one kid in trouble, huh?"

"You were talking to my mom?" You croak.

"Well, sweetheart, only a matter of time before I meet the family. Already got Vaughn off the list so...:" he shrugs casually. "She's doing well. Asked about you, I assured her, you're good." He turns and sits next to you. He grips your knee through the blanket. "Don't worry, I don't got much family. A good buddy but.. mom went a while ago. Strong lady but not physically."

"Oh, I'm..."

"Spilled milk," he waves away the condolences. "She said your brother called. Got in a fight or something. She said she couldn't understand him."

You grimace, "A fight?"

"Yeah, it's too bad, 'cause I had my guys looking out for him." He looks at the wall and clucks. "I told him to keep himself straight." He shakes his head and turns his focus to you. "You know what, sweetheart, he takes you for granted. They all do. I'm not stupid. I sat in the pen long enough and you were the only person kind enough to check on me. Your mom won't even come up for her own son, she sends you..." his expression hardens. "It's about time you start doing stuff for yourself."

"It's... complicated," you cross your arms over the blanket.

"Not anymore. You got me now. We're gonna do this together." He insists.

"It's fine, I'll call tonight. I'm sure she misheard," you assure him.

"We'll call," he counters.

You flinch. You stare at him. The lines around his eyes deepen. His age only adds to his stature.

"Okay," you agree. What else can you do?

"We're gonna go out," he proclaims. "I'm gonna buy you something nice."

"Steve, you don't-- I don't want to spend your money--"

"My money's mine to spend and you don't need to worry about it. I got more than enough." He stands and rolls his shoulders. "Got myself a suit delivered while you were resting too." He faces you and puffs out his chest. "I take care of mine and you're my girl so you deserve only the best."

You blink then make yourself smile. The sentiment is sweet, it's only him that's terrifying. At least you don't see the truly scary part of him. The part that saw him through prison.

"You wanna know something silly, baby?" He purrs as he tilts his head.

"Um, sure," you gulp as you shiver beneath the blanket.

"You know, the appeal was taking a while. I was getting impatient," he drawls. "That place will drive you mad but you got me through. I just kept thinking of you and I figured, they draw this thing out another year, maybe you could... arrange for a conjugal." He snickers. "I mean, I wouldn't wanna do it like that but you know how to torture a man with those sweet eyes."

He winks and bites his lip. You squirm as your brows lift. You don't know how to respond.

"The more I thought about it though. You wouldn't believe how worked up you had me." He scoffs again. "And now I got you right in front of me, I wanna do all those things I thought of but I don't wanna spoil it. I want it to be perfect. For both of us."

He crosses the room and lets out a deep breath. He stops before you and pets your cheek.

"So I'm gonna buy you something sexy and then we're gonna come back here and I'm gonna fuck you in it," he growls as he grabs your chin firmly. "And I don't know if I'll ever stop."

⛓️‍💥

"Nah, I don't think black's your colour," Steve takes the teddy out of your hands. It's the only thing in the shop that won't show everything. You suppose it doesn't matter but your instinct is to hide. "How about this?"

He pulls out a light purple bodice. It only goes halfway down the torso. It's embroidered with little flowers but otherwise transparent. It's not the choice you expect; of either of you.

"If that's what you like," you shift awkwardly.

You stick to basic cottons. You're not really a lingerie person. You never felt sexy enough and your track record hadn't given you many opportunities to dress up. Most of the time, you kept your shirt on.

"It's about what you like, sweetheart," he puts the hanger back. "I mean, I'll take you in nothing at all. You know that."

You look around. You're not the only customers in the store. He doesn't care at all.

"You got everything I like built right in," he steps closer and runs his hand down your side. "You got a nice shape, you know that? And those thighs--"

"Steve," you whisper as your eyes dart back and forth.

"I like that about you. You're shy. You wanna keep this between us. I respect it," he pulls away. "Well, let's see..." he turns back to the racks. "This?"

He pulls out the pink polka dot teddy with the open front. It's trimmed in black with a bow under the chest, and is long enough to keep your stomach mostly covered, except for that slit down the middle.

"Pair of pink panties..." he growls. "I mean, I'll ruin them but it'll be fun."

Your lips part. You nod. It's not so bad. Not like the bras with no cups and the thongs made of little more than strings.

"It's nice," you say, trying not to look too long at it.

He lowers the hanger. His eyes pierce you. You meet their stunning blue.

"You know you're gorgeous regardless of what you got on," he affirms. "You got me thinking of finding a restroom and just..." he chuckles. "A man in the pen is like man in the desert."

You fidget and distract yourself in a search for matching panties in your size. He stays close.

"Have I let you down so far?" He nudges you. "Think I've left you... purring."

"Steve, I just..." you grab panties and face him again. "It's... I'm still surprised, is all."

"Oh, well, you know I won't ever lie to you again. Not that that's what I did," he says, "I just wanted it to be... well, the look on your face was worth it."

You hold out the panties, "these go."

He takes them and arches a brow, "getting impatient, huh?"

You chew your lip and nod. Sure, that's what the tremor in your stomach is. It isn't fear. It's anticipation. Maybe if you can make yourself believe it, he will too.

⛓️‍💥

Your apartment is not your own anymore. Neither is your body. Or your life.

Steve has infected every part of it. Your home, your family, your very being. Your only reprieve is the short time he gives you to 'get ready'; ready for him to take what's left.

You close yourself in the bathroom and stare at the teddy hanging on the back of the door. A shell of numbness spreads over you and yet your heart is hammering, shaking every part of you. There's a finality that pits in your stomach.

Soft music rises from the other side of the wall. He's ready. He's fearless. He's in control.

You won't waste any more of his time. Funny, how you feel guilty. After what he told you, about waiting on you, you feel like you're wasting his time. He spent enough behind bars for a crime, he claims, he didn't do. That the courts decided he didn't.

It's all so confusing. And scary.

You get up. You undress and change into the skimpy panties and the teddy. You feel exposed. You are. There's nothing left between you and him.

You rinse your face and do your best to tidy up your hair. You don't know why you're trying. The hollowness makes you clumsy.

You face the door. You make yourself leave that room. You're not brave, you're just used to doing what needs to be done. It'll keep Vaughn safe. Your mom too, now he knows about her.

You peek into the bedroom. The walls flicker with the candlelight, a tinge of red in the air as a scarf hangs over the lamp. There are petals all over the floor. The bed has been remade in red silk. He did all this. For you?

"Sweetheart," he startles you as he turns away from the curtains.

He wears only a pair of white boxers, his thick thighs exposed, his muscular middle clenching with tension. You shift your weight and hug your chest. He bites his lip as he comes up to the bed.

Choked to silence, you near the other side. You stare at him and he stares back. His eyes reflect the small flames lit around the space. The music glosses through the air and raises bumps on your skin.

"Come here," he puts a knee up on the bed and reaches across.

You take his large hand and let him pull you onto the mattress. He's deceptively gentle as he guides you down onto your back. He reclines with you, snaking his arm beneath you. He holds you as he traces your jawline and admires you. You look away shyly.

"You really are the most beautiful creature," he growls.

Your cheeks pinch and you look at him. You press your hand softly to his chest. You push your fingertips into him, feeling the firmness, the strength. You remind yourself that if he wants to, he can hurt you. He hasn't so you'll go along.

His fingers flutter down your neck. You shiver. He purrs and leans in. He kisses you. His warmth seeps through the shell frozen around you. Your hand slips up to his shoulder.

He feels along your chest and squeezes you through the thin cup of the lingerie. He swirls around your nipple as he dips his tongue through your lips. You moan as his touch stirs inside you. Your fear mingles with the fire lit by his diligent tending. He growls into you, hooking his leg around yours.

"You really do fill this out perfect," he runs his hand down the sheer fabric of the teddy, the knuckle of his thumb grazing your stomach. He pulls your leg away from the other with his. "All of you is... made for me."

Your lip trembles. You don't want him to know how afraid you really are. He has enough power.

You slide your hand up behind his head and pull him down. You kiss him, desperately. Desperate to hide, to forget, to survive. Grasping at whatever control you can have over this.

His fingers trail along the edge of the panties; across the top then along the creases of your thighs. He spreads a hand over your thigh and kneads the flesh. You quiver and gasp into his mouth.

His breath plumes out hotly as he drags his fingertips along the narrow crotch of the panties. He rubs you through them. He pushes along your clit, the friction hot against the lace. You moan again, your mouth slipping from his as you loop your arm around his neck.

You squeeze your thighs around his hand as he teases you. He buries his face in your neck and nips you as he slowly builds his tempo. Twisting your nerves around his touch until you're writhing and whining. You his and clasp onto his bulging bicep. He snarls and puffs into the crook of your neck.

You cum in a series of spasming waves. You soak through panties as he hums and chuckles along your throat. He pushes beneath the fabric and starts again, unwinding you as he flicks up and down.

The second orgasm has you clutching at the pillow. You dig your heel into the mattress and arch your pelvis, quaking as you ride out the thrill. His fingers slip through your juices and he pokes at your entrance.

He lifts his head, his silvery blonde hair drooping forward. His blue eyes bore into you as yours roll back. He growls as he prods at you.

"Look at me, sweetheart,"

You gasp. He drags his finger across your entrance.

"What'd I tell you?" His voice turns gritty.

You bat your lashes and look at him. His pupils are large and dark. They swallow you up as he pushes two fingers against you, slowly parting your cunt around their breadth. Your lips form and O and you gasp again. You clasp onto his wrist as he delves down to his bottom knuckles.

"Gotta get you ready for me," he leans in to nuzzle your cheek. "Once I'm on ya, I don't know if I'll be able to stop."

#steve rogers #dark steve rogers #dark!steve rogers #steve rogers x reader #series #doing time #fic #dark fic #dark!fic #marvel #mcu #avengers #captain america

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aurumacadicus · 3 months ago

Text

I had a thought. Hmmmm. Bear with me.

"Rogers," someone barked, and Steve almost choked on his champagne. He turned, bewildered, to find Carol Danvers charging toward him like she was on a mission. A group of partygoers even scattered out of her way. He cast around for anything he could have said that would insult the air force. He couldn't think of anything that would have insulted her anymore than her playful ribs about the army, though.

"Barnes says you're a sad-sack," Carol said, coming to a stop right in front of him.

"...Ouch?" Steve spluttered after a moment. "He said that about me?"

Carol winced, seeming to realize she'd basically just insulted him. "No, I mean, uh--" She coughed, cleared her throat, then took a step backward to give him some space. "Barnes says you don't dance. At all."

Steve blinked, wondering what that had to do with anything. "No, I don't."

"And you came stag," she added, gaze intense.

Steve glanced around for an escape. That seemed ominous. He didn't even want to come to this stupid party, but the brass had basically told him it was mandatory after a few successful (and very high profile) missions. They hadn't served dinner yet. While he would miss the steak, he could probably make it out through the kitchen. Or a bathroom window.

"Will you stop looking like I'm asking you to volunteer for a firing squad?" Carol hissed between her teeth. "I just need you to sit with a friend while Jim and I dance."

"...Oh," Steve said after some thought. "Maybe if you hadn't charged up to me like you were asking me to volunteer for a firing squad, I wouldn't look like this. I thought Maria couldn't come?"

"Different friend," Carol answered, voice clipped. When he only raised an eyebrow at her in response, she huffed, blowing a piece of hair out of her face. "Jim doesn't want to leave him alone right now, but I didn't want to pull anyone away from their date."

Well, Steve supposed he could understand that. He threw back the last gulp of his champagne, then set the empty glass on the bar. "Okay. Don't approach me like we're about to get into a fistfight anymore."

"Sorry," she sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose, then turned to lead him over to her table. "Also, does Barnes's date have a gun on her? She reached for something when I went to ask him if he knew anyone who wouldn't mind sitting for a song."

"No, it's a knife," Steve answered helpfully.

Carol almost stumbled, but she caught herself on the next step. "She would have stabbed me?!"

Steve paused, considering, then answered, "I dunno, maybe. She's never stabbed me."

"I can see why Barnes likes her," Carol grumbled reluctantly. She grabbed his sleeve before he could say anything else and yanked him up beside her. "Tony! I've found someone to sit with you. This is Steve."

Tony, Steve assumed, blinked up at both of them in confusion. His mouth was still open with a forkful of cheesecake halfway toward it. His eyes darted back and forth between them before he finally set is fork back down. "Um?"

Steve couldn't help but gawk. How had he gotten dessert already? The hors d'oeuvres were still out on the main table. Steve had just nervously demolished the last of the crostini. He was still thinking about the steak he'd ordered.

"Jim and I are going to go have a dance," Carol continued, reaching out to grab Jim by the collar and drag him up out of his seat. "I promise we'll be back after three songs."

"Um," Tony said again, and Jim spluttered something about his own dessert, but Carol dragged him away before he could get his feet under him. He and Steve watched them disappear into the crowd milling about the dance floor. Steve almost felt sorry for him.

But then he saw that Jim's dessert was a beautiful piece of chocolate cake with soft pink layers of frosting. "Well, best not to let Jim's plate go to waste," Steve said cheerfully, sitting down in Jim's seat, and pulled the tiny dessert plate closer. He could probably get himself another slice later, after dinner. He had this one, after all.

"Um," Tony said again, frowning in confusion. "You don't. Have to sit with me? I can take care of myself for fifteen minutes."

Steve shrugged. "No offense, but I'm more scared of Carol than I am of you."

Tony swiveled to stare in the direction Carol had disappeared to, then looked back up at him, huffing. "I guess that makes sense." He shifted in his seat awkwardly. "Maybe you can actually get me out of here without drawing attention when you're done with Rhodey's cake."

Steve wondered what that meant, but he'd shoved a huge bite of cake into his mouth at the same time, and by the time he'd chewed and swallowed, Tony was focused on making sure he got the perfect cheese-to-crust ratio in each bite, and waved him away when he tried to ask. He gave off kind of the same vibe Natasha did, and he had several knives nearby for the oncoming dinner service, so Steve focused on his cake.

Tony finished just as Steve was scraping the last of the icing from his plate, and he dabbed at his mouth with his cloth napkin, set it on the table, then clasped his hands in his lap and turned to bat his eyelashes at Steve. "If you can get me onto the balcony without letting anyone talk to me, I will give you a million dollars."

Steve blinked back at him. "That's it?"

"If you can get me to my limo without Rhodey noticing, I'll even make sure he doesn't kill you," Tony offered.

Steve stood, then narrowed his eyes, slowly sinking back into his seat. "I dunno, this is a lieutenant colonel we're talking about."

Tony blinked at him slowly, then simply stated, "Coward."

"Okay," Steve said, lurching back to his feet. He scowled when Tony smirked at him, irritated that he was apparently so readable. He offered Tony his hand.

At that, Tony looked surprised. He glanced back and forth between Steve's hand and face, shoulders drawing in nervously when he slanted a look around them, as if to see who might be watching them. He looked back up at Steve with a frown. "Carol didn't tell you why Rhodey didn't want me alone, did she?"

Steve hesitated, then let his hand drop back to his side, feeling like an idiot. "She barely told me who you were."

Tony looked away, shoulders rising and falling with a heavy sigh. "Oh. Well." He shook his head, then lifted both of his hands from his lap, letting them drop to his sides--

Steve couldn't help the sick feeling forming in his gut as Tony rolled himself back, wheelchair appearing from under the tablecloth. It looked like he still had his legs, but Steve knew looks could be deceiving. And it would be rude to ask, of course. He swallowed thickly. Why would this mean Tony needed to be babysat, though? Unless he was talking about leaving before dinner was even served. He felt like he should have asked Carol more questions, been more assertive, if only to save himself the embarrassment he felt now.

"It's okay," Tony sighed, pushing his chair back under the table so he could hide it with the tablecloth again.

"...I can take you out onto the balcony," Steve said after a brief pause.

Tony shot him an amused smile. "That million just too much to pass up?"

"What? No, I wasn't going to expect it anyway," Steve scoffed. He reached out, wrapping his hands around the handles of Tony's wheelchair. "It would feel like stealing, anyway. It's not gonna be hard."

Tony tipped his head back to raise an eyebrow at him. "Oh yeah? Lots of people have been coming by to talk to me since I got here. I'm sure tons of them will stop us, and--"

"Hold on," Steve said, then braced his feet against the floor.

Tony let out a startled little 'meep' as the chair lurched forward, hands slamming down on the armrests as Steve quickly gained speed. His alarm quickly gave way to delight, though, because then he was throwing his head back, laughing, as Steve sprinted toward the balcony. Most people jumped out of the way, but Steve did end up mowing over a few long skirts. He'd probably get chewed out by Colonel Phillips tomorrow.

But with the genuine delight on Tony's face, he couldn't find it in himself to care that much.

"Oh! Oh," Tony laughed as Steve slowed to a stop next the railing. He put a hand over his chest, lifting the other to wipe a tear away from his eye. "Oh my god. I'm gonna have to pay so many dry cleaning bills."

"Take it outta that million you owe me," Steve replied, leaning back against the railing with a smug smile. "And then give the rest to charity."

"You're crazy," Tony told him, grinning, and he sounded happy still. "Rhodey always told me military guys were crazy, but I never really believed him."

Steve shrugged. "Well. I allegedly once threw myself off a helicopter without a parachute once."

"Allegedly," Tony repeated, shaking his head with what looked like genuine admiration. "How high up was it?"

"Well, I spent a lot of last year pulling off a real good mimicry of Jimmy Stewart from Rear Window," Steve answered, still smiling.

Tony's mouth dropped open into an 'o' of shock. "Are you crazy, or stupid?"

Steve shrugged again. "Yeah." Tony laughed again, from deep in his belly. It was a good look on him, Steve thought, letting his hands drop back to brace on the balcony railing. "So why did Carol think you needed to be babysat?"

He regretted asking immediately. Tony's smile dimmed, and his eyes dropped to his lap. He wrung his hands a couple times, then looked back up at Steve with a sad smile. "Dancing was my favorite part of these events before the accident. I am--I... was good at it. My mother had me in dancing classes since I was six. This is my first big event since..." He motioned at his legs. "I didn't realize how much I would miss it. And Rhodey's such a good friend, he was gonna sit with me the entire time, even though I knew he wanted to dance with Carol."

"That's nice of him," Steve answered carefully. He offered Tony a rueful smile. "I guess it's a good thing she chose me, huh? I can't dance at all."

Tony's expression turned wistful. "I could have taught you. I've taught a lot of people to dance." He looked Steve up and down, gaze turning speculative. "Mostly debutantes. But I was always up for a challenge." His eyes lingered on Steve's feet, then he squinted up at his face. "Those might have hurt my toes more than their stilettos."

Steve blinked, surprised, then couldn't help a bark of laughter. "Wow! Saying I have big feet and calling me fat at the same time."

"You're built like a tank," Tony huffed petulantly. "I'm pretty sure that's why so many people jumped out of the way. A collision with me, oh, well, ouch, but what a great story for the papers. Getting hit by you would have killed them instantly."

"I was probably going too fast," Steve allowed, but he decided he didn't really care. Maybe it would keep him from getting sent to these shindigs. He let his eyes trail over Tony's legs, considering, then dragged his gaze up his body. Tony looked... pretty slight. He wondered how long it had been since his accident. It would be rude to ask though. "Are you ambulatory at all?"

Tony frowned, brows furrowing together in confusion. "Yeah? I mean. I'm still in physical therapy, so. Hopefully I'll. Get more use out of my legs again." He sighed. "Maybe I'll dance again someday. But probably not."

"So it won't hurt you to get out of the chair?" Steve asked, just to be sure.

Tony tipped his head. "...No," he finally answered. "The pain is... secondary to the neurological component."

"Cool," Steve said, standing up from leaning on the railing, and reached out to scoop Tony up into his arms.

Tony yelped, flailing, and threw his arms around Steve's shoulders. "Fuck! Steve! You can't just go around picking disabled people out of their fucking wheelchairs-!"

Steve took a moment to make sure Tony wouldn't squirm out of his grip, carefully adjusting his arms under his knees and behind his shoulders. Once he was certain he had Tony safely in his arms, he straightened his back, then carefully turned in a circle on one heel.

"Did you--" Tony choked out, and he buried his face in Steve's neck. "Did you just twirl me?"

"It's the only dance move I know," Steve answered. He rocked from side to side, then carefully twirled him in another circle. "You could teach me some other moves, if you don't like the twirling."

"No," Tony whispered, and Steve didn't comment on the fact that he could feel him beginning to tremble. "I mean--yes. I can teach you. But I don't... dislike the twirling."

Steve nodded, giving him another spin. "So, are you leaving the party with Colonel Rhodes?"

Tony couldn't quite bite back a laugh, leaning back to smile at Steve. It almost hid how bright his eyes were, how much he blinked to keep tears at bay. "You are about as subtle as a bull in a china shop, Steve."

Steve couldn't help but grin back. "I wasn't trying to be subtle. I just used you as a battering ram."

Tony laughed again, leaning back in. His arms squeezed around Steve's shoulders as his laugh ended in a sort of hiccup. Steve didn't mention it, instead going back to his slow, gentle circles. He was kind of surprised that no one had come after them, but he decided not to think too much on it. Jim would come find them after he and Carol finished dancing. It wasn't as if Steve hadn't left a noticeable trail of scandalized rich people behind him to follow.

#ideas #stony #disabled tony

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ericshoney · 1 month ago

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Stark's Wit~ Tony Stark

Summary: You're not the best at hand-to-hand combat, but your the second best Stark with sarcastic responses.

Warnings: Platonic nicknames, possible swearing, sarcastic humour.

Reader's Age: 18

The biting wind whipped around Y/n as she stood on the training platform, a scowl etched on her face. Sparring with super soldiers in January was not her idea of a fun Friday afternoon. Especially when all she had to defend herself was the Stark family arsenal of sarcasm.

“Alright, kid, you ready?” Steve, radiating earnest encouragement, adjusted his gloves. Beside him, Bucky simply stared, his metal arm gleaming dully in the overcast light. Sam hovered behind them, a wry grin on his face. He knew how this usually went.

"Born ready, Captain Rogers," Y/n quipped, her voice dripping with irony. "Just try not to break anything too important. Dad would have a conniption if his precious lab assistant came back in pieces."

Steve winced. He still wasn't entirely used to Y/n's… bluntness. "We'll be careful, Y/n. This is just for practice."

"Practice for what? The Super Soldier Olympics?" She rolled her eyes. "Last time I checked, my skill set leaned more towards coding and caffeine addiction, not hand-to-hand combat."

Bucky finally spoke, his voice gruff. "Everyone needs to know how to defend themselves, Stark. Especially with your… family history."

That hit a little too close to home. Y/n tightened her jaw. "Right, because I specifically asked to be born into a world of interdimensional travel, rogue AI, and sentient purple grapefruits. My bad."

Steve sighed and stepped forward. "Alright, enough talking. Let's see what you've got."

The next few minutes were, to put it mildly, humiliating. Steve, ever the gentleman, pulled his punches, but even he couldn't help but land a few glancing blows. Bucky, predictably, was less restrained. His metal arm was like a battering ram, and Y/n found herself mostly dodging and weaving, her reflexes surprisingly sharp despite her lack of formal training.

"Having fun yet?" Sam called out, leaning against the railing.

"Oh, I'm having a ball, Sam," Y/n gasped, narrowly avoiding Bucky's fist. "This is exactly how I pictured spending my Friday: getting pummeled by a century-old assassin. Living the dream, really."

She managed to duck under Steve’s arm and deliver a swift kick to his shin. It wasn’t exactly a knockout blow, but it was enough to make him stumble.

"Not bad, Y/n," Steve said, rubbing his leg. "You're getting faster."

"Years of dodging Dad's bad science puns have honed my reflexes," she retorted, then spun to face Bucky, who was advancing with a predatory gleam in his eye. "Alright, Tin Man, let's dance!"

Bucky lunged. This time, Y/n tried a different tactic. As he swung his metal arm, she sidestepped and grabbed a handful of his long hair, yanking him off balance.

"Whoa! Hey!" Bucky sputtered, momentarily disoriented.

"Sorry, Barnes! Didn't know you were so sensitive about your 'vintage chic' hairstyle," Y/n said, releasing him and darting away.

Sam burst out laughing. Even Steve cracked a smile. Bucky, however, wasn't amused. He charged again, his movements less precise, fueled by irritation.

Y/n knew she couldn't keep this up forever. She was already winded, and her sarcasm reserves were starting to run dry. As Bucky cornered her near the edge of the platform, she knew she was out of options.

"Okay, okay, I surrender!" she yelled, throwing her hands up in the air. "Uncle! Mercy! I admit defeat! You win, metal arm! You’re the best at… uh… arming metal-ly! Yeah, that’s the one.”

Bucky stopped, his expression a mixture of annoyance and begrudging amusement. “You’re impossible, Stark.”

“That’s what my therapist keeps telling me,” Y/n said, panting. She collapsed onto a nearby bench, gathering her breath.

Steve clapped her on the shoulder. "You did well, Y/n. You're quick, and you think on your feet. You just need to work on your… offensive capabilities."

"My offense is impeccable," Y/n said, gesturing to Bucky. "Just ask him. I practically incapacitated him with my devastating wit."

Sam snorted. "Yeah, well, wit doesn't exactly stop a bullet."

"True," Y/n conceded. "But it can annoy someone enough that they forget what they were going to do in the first place. That's a defense mechanism in itself, right?"

She looked up at their faces, a hopeful glimmer in her eyes. They were her dad’s friends, family even. And despite the inherent strangeness of having super soldiers trying to turn her into a miniature Avenger, she knew they cared.

Steve, ever the optimist, gave her a reassuring smile. "It's a start, Y/n. We'll keep working on it."

"Great," Y/n said, her sarcasm returning full force. "Just promise me one thing: next time, can we at least do this in a heated environment? And maybe with a pizza? I'm pretty sure I can weaponize pepperoni."

Bucky rolled his eyes, but there was a hint of a smile playing on his lips. Even he had to admit, Y/n Stark, with her sharp tongue and Stark-brand stubbornness, was growing on him. Even if she did almost pull his hair out. He smirked, “I’d pay to see that.”

As the three men began to pack up, Y/n pulled out her phone. Time to order that pizza. And maybe send Dad a text. Something along the lines of: 'Almost got murdered by Bucky today. Send backup (and maybe a new shield design. Sarcasm-proof, preferably).

Tags:

@parkjihoonsnudes @riowritesitall @mandmilovehim @onelesslonelygirlbieber6 @lgbtq-girl

Dividers by: @issysh3ll

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nicolejones412 · 1 month ago

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Out of Sync

Bucky Barnes x fem!reader

Summary: You've found yourself with the 107th fighting Hydra, where you meet a handsome Sergeant. But something just isn't right.

A/N: Thunderbolts* really just has me going back to my roots, just now I'm more of a Bucky girl than a Steve one. Enjoy this first semi-fluffy chapter! (No Thunderbolts spoilers for quiiiite a few chapters).

FIC:

You couldn't wait for Agent Carter to join you in Italy.

You had been sent ahead with a small SSR outfit to prep for more of the Strategic Scientific Reserve to join you once you had confirmed the intel you'd received about Hydra's base.

You were pretty sure you were only sent because Colonel Phillips could only deal with having both you and Peggy around so much.

You sighed as you dismissed a soldier you'd been interviewing.

If you heard one more man ask-

"Now what's a beautiful dame doing out here?"

You looked up at the dark haired man that had entered your tent, completing your thought for you.

"My job, Sergeant...?"

"Barnes, ma'am. Sergeant James Buchannan Barnes." He took a seat.

"Nice to meet you Sergeant Barnes, I am Agent Grace with the Strategic Scientific Reserve. I understand you may have noticed something strange on assignment?"

"Well ma'am I am a sniper. It's my job to notice things."

You sighed. If these soldiers would get over the fact that you were wearing a skirt for 2 seconds you might actually get some good information today. Unfortunately it seemed like this was about to be another waste of your time.

"The soldiers we faced last week, they weren't wearing normal uniforms. They had a different symbol. Some kind of octopus."

"That would be the symbol of Hydra. Hitler's rogue science division."

"Well they must have some kind of mad genius working for them. Their weapons aren't normal guns. They weren't firing bullets. More like just blue beams."

"Blue beams?"

"Check with medical. Not nearly enough bullet wounds for what went down."

"I will check on that. Anything else that might be helpful?"

"They retreated west. There weren't very many of them, but they were quick."

You wrote down what he'd told you.

"Thank you for your time Sergeant Barnes."

"Of course." He stood and held out his hand to shake yours.

You looked his hand for a moment before standing to shake his hand. As you looked at his eyes, something felt familiar.

He nodded to you and went to exit the tent, pausing before leaving.

"Sorry if I offended you ma'am, when I first came in. I meant it as a compliment."

You shook your head. "None taken Sergeant. Stay safe out there."

He chuckled. "I will do my best."

The next day the 107th went after Schmidt's men.

Two days later, Peggy and the rest of the SSR that was coming arrived, and you'd reported your findings from the interviews.

"Magic blue weapons? That's what you have for me?" Colonel Phillips asked.

"That's about all the men reported back. Other than confirming that it was Hydra who carried them."

Phillips shook his head. "It's not a lot to go on."

"I think we might be able to triangulate the position of their base, sir."

"We'll see what we here from the 107th. There's got to be a way to-"

A soldier ran into the tent.

"Colonel, the 107th is back. At least, what's left of it."

You looked out into the rain, listening to Captain America's show in the distance.

"What's got you so down?" Peggy asked behind her.

You shook your head as you turned to get back to work. "So many soldiers. I just can't believe he-they are gone."

"He?" She raised an eyebrow.

"Forget it. A slip of the tongue."

"I see."

She could see right through you, but wouldn't push the issue as she walked away to speak with Captain Rogers. You were grateful.

You'd had one conversation with the man. Why did the fact that he was most likely dead feel so...wrong? Soldiers die every day in war. He wasn't even that nice to you.

He wasn't dead. You knew it. You felt it. But why did it matter?

A few minutes later, you watched as Captain America ran through the mud to Colonel Phillips tent. You followed as quickly as you could.

"Please tell me if he's alive, sir. B-A-R-"

"I can spell." Colonel Phillips paused before standing. He looked at you, then down at the papers he was holding.

"I've signed more of these condolence letters today than I care to count. But the name does sound familiar." He looked up at the captain.

"I'm sorry."

"What about the others?" Rogers asked. "Are you planning a rescue mission?"

"Yeah it's called winning the war."

"But if you know where they are why not at least-"

"They're 30 miles behind the lines. Through some of the most heavily fortified territory in Europe. We'd lose more men than we'd save, but I don't expect you to understand that because you're a chorus girl."

Rogers set his jaw.

"I think I understand just fine."

"Then understand it somewhere else." Colonel Phillips began to walk away. "If I read the posters correctly you've got some place to be in 30 minutes."

You followed the captain's eyes to the map on the wall.

"Yes sir. I do."

You and Peggy locked eyes before following Steve out of the tent.

Sending the one successful super soldier you had behind enemy lines probably was not the best idea, but there was no stopping Steve.

And someone had to cause a distraction to cover their exit.

"Are you insane?!" Colonel Phillips lectured.

"Captain Rogers was going with or without-"

He scoffed. "Captain Rogers? He's a barely trained circus monkey and the most expensive asset the United States army has created and you helped him go against my orders."

He slammed his fist on the desk as Agent Carter walked into the tent.

"You're both going straight back to the typing pool after this stunt."

"Colonel-"

"Not another word. Or would you like to explain to the Secretary of Defense why Captain America - the only super soldier we have is gone?"

There was a commotion outside as soldiers ran to the gate. You and Peggy looked at each other before following the Colonel.

You reached the gate just in time to see Captain America lead the 107th back into camp.

"Sir," Steve addressed the colonel. "I turn myself over for disciplinary action."

Phillips looked around at the men who he'd frankly assumed were dead.

"That won't be necessary."

Your gaze wandered from Steve to the man next to him. Who was already looking at you. You nodded to him, and he nodded back before turning to look at Steve.

"Let's hear it for Captain America!"

You joined in as the crowd cheered.

"Knock, knock?"

You looked up from your desk. "Sergeant Barnes. I assumed you'd be at the celebration."

"I was, but something just didn't feel right."

"Oh?"

"Yeah." He looked around at the otherwise empty tent.

"You weren't there."

You looked up from your notes and maps for the first time. "I am flattered Sergeant-"

"Bucky," he corrected.

You smiled. "Bucky. I am flattered but I didn't do much, and there is plenty still to be done."

"Yes, yes of course, Agent Grace." He turned to leave but then turned back around.

"Come on, let me buy you a drink."

"Sergeant-"

"Bucky."

"Right, Bucky, that really isn't-"

"Steve wouldn't have made it out of camp without your help. Come on, one drink."

You shook your head. "I just-"

"It can wait. A drink, some food, and some sleep will do you good."

You sighed. "Fine."

Bucky's grin grew from ear to ear. "Perfect."

Read Part 2 here.

A/N: All will make sense eventually. I hope. 😊 This will not be an entirely 1940s era fic, so if you're here for that, heads up that I'm only planning another chapter or 2 of this vibe.

#thunderbolts #bucky barnes #mcu #bucky barnes x reader #marvel #imagine #captain america #xmen #avengers #new avengers #the first avenger #captain america civil war #multiverse saga #the winter soldier

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spaceycat · 2 months ago

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⋆★⋆ dating bartender!steve rogers ⋆★⋆ (headcanon list)

♫ ᴘʟᴀʏɪɴɢ: hard times by paramore (3:03)

✰ mixes you drinks all the time, literally will let you try the whole menu free of charge and likes to see what you think of every single one but gets yelled at to go back to work LOLL

✰ practically has a crate full of glacé cherries (or your favourite drink condiment) for you at ALL. TIMES.

✰ oml, the bar gets so pissed off at him for defying the set button up, tie, sleeves thing but he NEVER wears a tie, rolls up his sleeves and unbuttons a few from the top.....

✰ whenever you stay behind at the bar he works at he likes to take you behind the bar and let you try to mix a cocktail without any instructions "whoa-- whoa, baby, you're gonna break something then we'll both be in trouble."

✰ likes to sit you on the bar counter and kiss you senseless, until you broke a bottle of pretty expensive champagne and he sticks to bar tables.

✰ does a bunch of cool tricks at the bar and you're like.. whoa

✰ like flipping the bottles onto his hands, throwing and catching the shaker pieces, pouring liquor into the shaker from really high up you GET THE GIST.

✰ he's the kinda dickhead that has drinks that have too much liquor in it or is literally just pure spirits

✰ he's good with his hands

✰ like really fucking good

✰ like you imagine him fully putting you onto the bar and fingering you like WHATTT

✰ also plays the darts in the bar? and is lowkey the reigning champ which adds to the whole good with his hands thing

✰ does NOT get hungover cuz this man knows every single secret on a hangover cure...

✰ alot of late nights and early mornings, but you're not against it cuz this man is hella needy in the evening (and fucks like it too)

✰ awe hell he just kisses and touches everywhere he can when he's tired and needy, fucking up into you - gripping onto your hips for life.

✰ kisses your cheek, nose or forehead when he has to leave and spends his entire breaks with you.

✰ im inlove with him oh god

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crowsofdarkness · 5 months ago

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Soldat: Chapter Four

-gif not mine. credit to owner-

Pairings: Bucky Barnes x Female Agent! Reader. Slight Steve Rogers x Female Agent! Reader

Content Warnings: language, 18 + implied smut, angst, fluff, kidnapping, violence.

Summary: Agent Y/N has worked alongside Steve Rogers at SHIELD for some time all while keeping a dark secret from everyone. Until one day that darkness faces her head on and she's forced to make a choice. Continue fighting along side Captain America? Or find her home once again with Soldat?

Authors Note: This was originally published on my old blog as a trilogy so I will be in the slow process of adding it to this blog. This is the first of the trilogy and will take place during The Winter Soldier. If anyone is interested in being tagged, let me know!

Tags: @globetrotter28 @sakuracyberhex @chinggay85-blog @bookofriverr @misatxox

Soldat Masterlist

“Steve told me you were a pilot,” I scoffed towards Sam.

We were sitting at a table outside of a restaurant, waiting for our target to walk out. Steve and Nat were a few blocks over, waiting for word from us when we would be moving.

Sam laughed, “I never said pilot.”

“Is it hard to fly?” I questioned with curiosity.

“You get the hang of it after a while. And no, I will not teach you how to fly it,” Sam said.

I faked pouted while I crossed my arms. “You’re no fun.”

He went silent only for a moment before he spoke, all jokes aside. “I know we just met and my opinions don’t matter but we’re bound to see him again. I just want to make sure you’re one hundred percent on taking him down. Like Steve said, he killed someone you all looked up to.”

I nodded. “Can I be honest with you?”

When Sam nodded, I continued. “I don’t know if it was because of how dark it was on the roof but when we saw each other, he acted like he didn’t even know me.”

“How long has it been?”

“Uh-a few years. Maybe I look different or something?” I muttered.

Our attention snapped towards the restaurant as our target walked out, Sam immediately dialing a number on his phone. I sat in silence, placing my sunglasses over my eyes and sat back in the chair.

Maybe that was the reason why he didn’t recognize me that night. It was dark and had been a few years since we saw each other but yet, my heart still dropped when the realization hit that he didn’t recognize me. Was I that easy to forget?

“Let’s move,” Sam said while standing up.

“Steve, do we actually have a plan here or are we just kidnapping this guy?” I questioned from a spot in the middle of the back seat.

We were driving along the highway, trying to make it to Shield Headquarters in time to stop the helicarriers. We had learned from Jasper Sitwell that Project Insight would be launching in less than twenty four hours and we suddenly found ourselves with a change of plans.

Hydra’s plan for the helicarriers was to use them to eliminate millions of people who were any sort of threat to them. All thanks to Zola’s algorithm.

“I’m thinking,” Steve said, not turning his attention towards me.

His eyes were trained to the road ahead of us as Sam continued to drive.

I had tried talking to Steve but he had ignored me; only saying that we would talk about this later.

“Hydra doesn’t like leaks,” Sitwell informed us.

“Then why don’t you try sticking a cork in it,” Sam snapped before changing lanes.

“Insight is launching in sixteen hours,” Natasha pointed out leaning towards Steve, “We’re cutting it a little close here.”

“I know. We’ll use him to bypass the DNA scans and access the helicarriers directly,” Steve directed to us.

He finally looked over his shoulder to me, only briefly, and I gave him a small smile. The thought of my past with Soldat was still bothering him, I could tell by the way his jaw was clenched tight as he returned the smile.

We'll talk later, I mouthed, promising that I would indulge more about my past to him.

All he did was nod before looking out the front windshield again and I leaned against my seat noticing that Sitwell had an exasperated look on his face.

“Are you crazy? That is a terrible, terrible idea.”

Suddenly, a loud thud from the top of the car sounded and I couldn’t help the small scream that left my throat as I watched Sitwell being pulled from the car window and tossed to the other side of the highway, immediately being hit by a semi.

My eyes grew with horror as the quick flash of metal glimmered in front of me causing Natasha and I to jump towards the front of the car, her landing on Sam’s lap while I landed on Steve’s. Gunshots echoed through the small car and Steve wrapped his arms around my waist in a tight grip as he hastily put the car in park, causing the man to roll off the car. His metal fingers dragged along the pavement before coming to a stop a few feet away from us.

“That’s him?” Steve whispered in my ear.

My throat went dry, no words being able to come out so all I did was nod.

A car slammed into the back of ours, pushing it towards him. The Winter Soldier jumped over the hood of our car landing on top with a thud. Sam slammed on the brakes as my hand reached around for my gun and smiled in victory when I pulled it free. Aiming it to the roof of the car, I shot a few rounds.

“Shit!” Sam screamed when the metal arm busted through the front windshield and ripped the wheel off with ease.

It was Natasha’s turn to fire a few rounds and I looked over Steve’s shoulder as the soldier was riding on the hood of the car behind us. They slammed into us a few more times before Steve busted open the door, pulling us to safety as the car hit the median, rolling a few times and coming to a stop.

“Nat!” I bellowed as I watched her and Sam roll away from us while Steve and I were safely sitting on his shield that protected our fall.

She gave me a small wave, indicating that they were alright, and Steve helped me to my feet and I watched his face distort in pain.

“Are you hurt?” I asked.

“I’m fine. You’re bleeding, though,” His fingers gently grazed over my forehead before showing me the blood that covered his hand.

“I’ll live,” I shrugged and turned towards Sam and Nat who had caught up to us.

We all watched as someone handed the soldier a grenade launcher and without a second thought, Steve pushed me out of the way, blocking the shot with his shield.

“STEVE!” I screamed as I watched him fly off the bridge and straight through a bus.

Suddenly, hundreds of bullets cascaded around us, Sam and Nat taking cover behind a van while I hid on the side of another car across the median. The bullets ricochet against the metal of cars and my body shivered when one flew past my face, my hair flowing with the wind.

My eyes scanned my surroundings, trying to avoid any of the flying bullets, and after fighting with my consciousness, I ran out from behind the car and jumped over the median to the opposite way of traffic. Thankfully with everything going on, cars had decided to exit the freeway long before reaching us.

Weaving my way in and out of the cars that were there, I dared to glance over my shoulder and watched in fear as he launched a grenade at the car in front of me. The heat of the fire engulfed me as the power of the blast sent me flying over the bridge, me landing somewhat safely on an abandoned car.

“Fuck,” I groaned, feeling the wind get knocked out of me.

I laid there for a split second as the pain slowly subsided, wondering why he still couldn’t recognize me. My heart was breaking, realizing that the memories of us might have meant nothing to him.

“Now’s not the time to be a little bitch, Y/N.” I cursed to myself before rolling off of the car.

I ran with a small limp, knife clenched tight in my hand, as I waved people away from the scene.

“Get away! Get back!” I ordered. “It’s not safe!”

Seeing his shadow from the bridge above me, I came to a halt, aiming my gun towards him. I breathed as the bullet hit exactly where I wanted; his goggles.

Not daring to stay back, I scurried over to a fallen bus as I fired a few more rounds behind me, not sure if it was a direct hit this time. I continued to run as fast as I could, hoping I would find Steve soon.

“Fuck!” I screamed out in pain when I felt a bullet rip through my thigh, sending me plummeting to the hard ground.

Biting back the tears, I slowly but hurriedly dragged my limp body over to the car in front of me. I leaned back against it, allowing the coldness of it to cool down my warm body. Glancing down to the wound in my leg, I let out a few large breaths before a guttural scream scratched its way out of my throat as I plunged my finger in the wound, fishing out the bullet with little to no ease.

“Damn it, Steve. Where are you?!” I sobbed, tears brimming my eyes.

If anyone saw me crying right now they would be appalled. Big, tough, Shield Agent, former FBI special ops, former swat member, was crying over a man? I wasn’t crying over a man, per say. I was crying at the thought that Steve was in fact right. If this truly was him, what I had known about Soldat was just a lie.

Without warning, more rapid gunfire sounded in front of me and I watched almost in defeat as someone jumped out of the bus, my spirits lifting only a tad.

“Steve!” I gasped slowly rising to my feet.

He looked over his shoulder after blocking the shots with his shield and ran over towards me, immediately throwing my arm over his broad shoulders.

“Are you alright?” He cooed.

“For now,” I admitted.

The bullets continued to bounce off the shield as Steve and I tried to find safety.

“Stay close,” Steve ordered.

Obeying, I gripped his shirt as we started making our way towards the men that were shooting at us. One of the men to my right fell to the ground, gun clattering away from him. Looking up to the overpass, I gave a small wave of thanks to Sam who had clearly been watching our backs. Steve knocked the last shooter to his feet before coming to my side again. We both looked up to Sam.

“Go! I got this!” He yelled.

Nodding, Steve wrapped an arm around my waist while mine snacked its way around his neck and I tried my best to hold the majority of my weight as we tried to gain our surroundings, looking for Natasha.

“Over there!” I pointed when I saw the soldier had his gun aim at Natasha and was about to pull the trigger.

Steve ran towards him and I watched as the two fought. Shield vs knife. My leg dragged behind me while I used the last bit of my strength to help Natasha off of the ground.

“You’re shot,” she observed.

“No shit,” I groaned, feeling the sudden rush of blood run down my leg.

We both watched Steve as he tried to land punch after punch to the soldier, always coming up empty. We watched in fear as they continued to fight, Steve throwing the soldier over his shoulder, the mask rolling a few yards away.

My body went rigid as he slowly turned around, his unmasked face meeting ours. Blood flooded in my ears while my mouth ran dry, trying to find the right words to say.

He stood a few feet in front of me and he looked exactly the same. Those eyes that haunted my dream for months were suddenly in front of me and everything around me vanished. I wanted nothing more than to walk into his arms.

“Soldat?” I breathed.

“Bucky?” Steve questioned at the same time.

I snapped my eyes over to him, my heart getting caught in my throat at the mention of that name. “Bucky? As in best friend who you thought fell off a train seventy years ago, Bucky?”

“Y/N, this is Soldat?” Steve croaked, realizing that the man who had saved my life years ago was his best friend.

“Who the hell is Bucky?” Soldat questioned Steve before his gaze softened on me. “How do you know me?”

“You don’t remember me?” I blinked, surprised. “Russia. 2009. Zola.”

Soldat’s eyes bounced back and forth between Steve and I.

“Y/N,” he whispered, “I know that name.”

I nodded, hoping he would remember, however, The Winter Soldier returned as fast as he had disappeared and raised his gun to shoot but Sam came flying in, literally, and knocked Bucky a few feet away from me.

He quickly stood and stared at Steve, something unreadable coming across his features. He lifted the gun again but was stopped when Nat got a hold of the grenade launcher, sending one off in our direction.

We all jumped out of the way in different directions, me rolling far away from Steve.

“Y/N, watch out!”

Hearing Steve’s voice, I looked behind me, my scream being muffled by a pair of leather gloves while my body was being dragged away from my friends. My wounded leg dragged along the ground as I tried to kick my captor with my good leg.

My efforts were useless as my body was spun around, eyes locked with one of the gunmen working with Soldat.

“Get in the van. Now.”

I continued to fight against him. “Let me go!”

“He wants you,” the gunmen struggled against my punches and kicks.

My fighting seized when I felt a blow to the back of my head causing my body to go limp against his chest.

#bucky barnes #bucky barnes x reader #sebastian stan #bucky barnes and reader #the winter soldier #marvel #the winter soldier x reader #the winter soldier smut #bucky barnes x agent!reader #james barnes smut #james barnes imagine #james bucky barnes #james barnes #james buchanan barnes #soldat bucky barnes

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talesofesther · 2 years ago

Text

make it taste like love

Loki x Reader

Summary: You felt him before you even met him. And despite the pain he carried around, his soul was one of the most beautiful you'd ever seen.

A/N: A spur-of-the-moment idea that I simply couldn't ignore. I really hope you guys enjoy it, and yes I'm working on part two of my series with Loki as well. <3

Word count: 6k

Masterlist

The battle had left its mark on everyone, both physically and mentally. All the lives that were lost wouldn't be brought back. But everyone took solace in the fact that Thanos and his army were no longer a threat. And now, it was a time for rebuilding.

Wakanda's grassland was a battlefield. Bodies of both friend and foe lay scattered on the ground. The mourning loomed heavy in the air, you could feel it weighing down on your chest, your throat, and lungs. It was suffocating, prickling into your skin like needles. Yet you still walked, your boots crushing the grass underneath while you avoided stepping on stretched arms and legs, you needed to make sure no one else remained left behind.

A few feet away, the mad titan who once threatened the entire universe lay lifeless on the ground, his head disconnected from his body. For him, you felt no pity.

King T'Challa was both happy and sad to see you and the others leave. Happy, because it meant the end of a war; sad, because of having to say farewell to dear friends. But you, Steve, Natasha, and Banner were needed back in town, back at the Avengers compound; to welcome Tony back on earth, and because Thanos' attack had reverberated in many other places. It seemed like the Avengers were back in the game.

─── ·❆· ───

This morning was a gloomy one. Grey skies peeked behind your curtains in the early hours of the day, maybe it would rain soon. It's been two weeks since the battle, and you were glad to see that most people were recovering; each in their own way, but recovering nonetheless.

You were already up when the clock hit 7:30 AM, holding a warm cup of coffee between your hands, and staring out into the compound's driveway and past the treeline through the big windows of the kitchen. Today would be the day that Thor came back, he'd been helping with the settling of his people in New Asgard until now, but you've heard about him not wanting to be king anymore. You were happy for him, you never did think that a ruler's life suited him anyway—and you missed your friend.

"He gets one chance, Rogers. One chance and that's it." Tony's voice suddenly caught your attention as he stepped into the kitchen, you turned your back to the window so you could watch as your resident Iron Man poured himself a cup of coffee without looking at his mug. Steve was right beside him, his hands on his hips as he sighed quietly, already all too used to Tony's moods.

"Yes, one chance, he proved himself enough by helping us fight against Thanos, I suppose we owe him the benefit of the doubt," Steve agreed, still holding his voice calm.

With a smirk on your lips, you approached your teammates. "What's going on, guys?" You leaned on the kitchen island, taking a sip of your coffee.

Tony ran his tongue over his bottom lip, his expression less than pleased as he took a sip of his own coffee before saying; "point break is bringing his beloved brother to our home." He shrugged, and said in a quieter tone, "Says he changed or something."

"Loki will be staying with us?" You raised an eyebrow. The attack on New York happened before you joined the team, but you were familiar enough with it to be wary of Thor's brother, even if Thor did speak more nicely of him recently. Still, you had never actually met Loki to form your own opinion.

"That's… to be decided," Tony grumbled, shooting a glance toward Steve. "But yes, pretty much. And, by the way, Strange wasn't happy about having reindeer games back in the city either."

"Wow, you guys finally agree on something," you snickered.

Tony mouthed a 'don't' to you, before Steve said; "Strange knows we'll handle it if anything happens, but Thor vouches for him, so…"

You gave Steve a soft smile, and as much as you understood Tony's wariness, you agreed with the Captain. Loki didn't have the best of pasts with the City, but his help in the recent battle was one of many game-changers. He deserved a second chance.

Strangely enough, you found yourself excited to meet the God of Mischief. It was in your nature to analyze people, watch them from afar, and learn about the things they'd rather not say out loud. And someone like Loki, who had both once tried to take over your planet and now helped in saving it, was bound to raise some curiosity.

No more than an hour passed before you heard Thor's strong voice all the way from the living room. A small smile instantly came to your lips as you discarded your book, got up from the couch, and put on your slippers, rushing to the main doors to greet him.

Before you could turn the last corner, however, you came to an abrupt halt. Your breath got caught up in your throat and you had to lean back on the wall for support. Clutching the fabric of your shirt right above your heart, you were glad that this particular hallway was currently empty.

You could hear Thor's voice just around the corner, Tony was there too, but their words were faint and far away. Your vision was suddenly a little blurry, and underneath your palm you could feel your heart beating frantically.

See, this was nothing that hadn't happened before, after all, you are an empath. But a feeling this heavy rarely comes unannounced, unwanted. It briefly reminded you of when you first discovered your power, when you had no control and could pick up on pain, anger, joy, and pleasure that were not your own even if you didn't want to. Yet now, after years of living with it, you had learned to dose your perception of the feelings around you; now, when you weren't willingly focusing, other people's emotions felt more like a gentle whisper, a gush of chilly wind on your skin—something you were able to ignore if you wanted to.

But this overwhelming sadness; this emptiness, and loss, and pain; it came to you with such force that you were not able to block out. Seconds felt like hours, until the surprise of the new feeling passed and you took back control. Whispers of it remained, lurking in your stomach and in the back of your throat, but with a bit of extra focus, you were able to handle it.

And once your mind was finally clear again, it hit you. Who did you catch these feelings from?

You took a step around the corner cautiously, hands buried in your pockets as your eyes roamed your surroundings. There was no one around besides Tony, Thor, and Loki.

You knew it right away. You were familiar with the emotions radiating from Tony and Thor; but him, the raven-haired trickster, he was new, and if you didn't feel empathy for him before, you did now.

Loki held himself immaculately, a straight posture and a serene expression on his face. You had no idea how he did it, how he was able to hold all of those feelings in and still look so well put together; because one glance into his soul and you already felt like crying.

There was a light drizzle falling outside, maybe that's why Loki's black blazer seemed to be shining under the bright lights of the entrance hall. His eyes—bright and ocean-green—were settled on you; the realization got you feeling hyperaware of each movement you made. Even his gaze was heavy.

Thor's booming voice calling your name captured your attention then, he had a big smile on his face and before you knew it he already had your feet off the floor as he held you in a hug.

You laughed against his shoulder, hugging him back just as tight and telling him all about how much you missed him. Still, when you let go, your eyes found Loki's again, he hadn't stopped looking at you once.

─── ·❆· ───

The opinions about Loki's presence in the compound were mixed, but most of your teammates seemed fine with it; truth be told, no one paid much attention to him. As you'd expected, Loki's room was on your floor, because that's where Thor stayed too; as well as Tony, Natasha, and Yelena.

It's been a few days since his arrival, yet you haven't had the opportunity to properly speak with him, alone. But you've been feeling him a lot. Whether it was you subconsciously focusing on him more, or something else, it seemed like your body was more in tune and connected with his than you've ever been with anyone else. You picked up on a few of his emotions even if you weren't actively trying to; you felt his bouts of uneasiness when someone would stare at him for too long, you felt his gentle serenity whenever he'd sit near the windows to read a book, you felt his sparks of joy when people greeted him with a good morning or asked if he'd want coffee; but most of all, you still felt that lingering sadness that followed him everywhere he went, a weight he seemed to be all too used to having around.

In some ways, you felt as if you were invading his privacy, and that bothered you. During the day you tried to keep your mind as busy as you could to keep yourself from feeling him; in the late hours of the night though, when you were trying to sleep, there wasn't much you could do.

You have been tossing and turning in bed for probably about two hours now, drifting in and out of sleep. The crescent moon just outside your window seemed to be taunting you, amused with your misfortune. You scoffed as you glared at the natural satellite—great, now you were arguing with the cosmos.

Loki was having a nightmare. You could tell by the rapid beating of his heart and the cold sweat running down his forehead—your abilities went way beyond simply feeling other people's emotions, but sometimes you wished they wouldn't. It's not the first time that you've felt Loki's restless sleep in the short time he's been here. Your heart ached for him; it got you wanting to alleviate his pain.

But you couldn't do that, so you got up from your bed, put on your fluffy slippers, and made a beeline for the kitchen. The air outside was chilly, biting at your warm skin and making you shiver. At this hour of the night, the compound was completely dark and quiet, a big contrast to how it was when the sun was up. You asked Friday to turn on one of the lights in the kitchen, giving the space a dim-lit look as the single light bled into the adjacent living room.

You rubbed the sleep from your eyes, humming the lyrics of the song stuck in your head as you reached for the upper cabinet to grab a mug so you could make yourself some tea. When you turned around again though, a gasp escaped your mouth and you nearly dropped the mug you were holding. You cursed quietly under your breath, placing a hand over your heart; if you weren't fully awake before, you sure were now. "You scared me," you muttered, trying a small smile.

The reason for your lack of sleep stood before you, with dark green slippers that matched his button-up pajama shirt, and his hair the messier you've ever seen it be. "Sorry, it was not my intention," Loki smirked back at you.

It hit you that this was finally the first time you were alone with him, and you'd been caught off guard. You tapped your mug, opening your lips but no words came out. Loki's eyes remained on you, unwavering, yet his gaze was so… soft, gentle even; his eyebrows weren't creased and he patiently waited for you with his hands in the pockets of his checkered pajama pants. He didn't look like the god you usually saw roaming the halls during the day.

"It's alright. I was just making tea," you said finally, gesturing to your mug, "would you like me to make one for you too?"

Loki's surprise at your offer was so great that you felt it in your bones. What was he expecting you to do?

His lips parted only slightly and he straightened his posture before saying; "I would- yes, I would like that."

You couldn't help the full smile that came to your lips and crinkled the side of your eyes, "great, sit down, it'll be ready in just a moment."

The warm mug between your hands warmed up your skin. It felt nice, sitting like this with Loki; in a quiet kitchen with only you and him, and just the lonely light to your left softly highlighting his features in front of you. It was a peaceful silence, and you couldn't help but check if he felt it too.

The rhythm of his heart was calm, his soul felt light and at ease; not completely, but the most you've ever felt from him.

"Why are you here?" His sultry voice snapped you back to reality.

"Uh- I'm sorry?" You frowned.

"Why are you here, if I may ask?" Loki tilted his head amusedly, his fingers tracing the brim of his mug. "Thor mentioned you had… abilities, but he never specified what they are."

Now it was your turn to be surprised by his curiosity for you. "Well, to put it simply, I'm an empath," you told him.

Loki blinked, once, twice, at your response. He looked at you for a moment before inquiring further; "and to put it completely?"

You smirked then, folding your arms over the table. "I can feel people's emotions, if I want to; their anger, happiness, hesitation, fear. But I can also feel their heartbeats, the blood cursing through their bodies. I can tell when they're lying or telling the truth, if they're tired or hurt. And sometimes, I can influence those emotions," you paused, hesitating for a beat, "bring fear, or… take away pain."

Loki grew tense after learning of what you could do. To be fair, most people did at first, you were used to it. Be he felt different, his heartbeat sped up and stayed that way. He'd put his guard up, and it brought a pang of hurt to your chest.

"Are you always feeling everything then?" He narrowed his eyes.

"Gods, no," you breathed, "at first I did, and it was awful. But with time, I learned to control it." You tried smiling at him, but his eyes were downcast, focused on his mug.

You bit your lower lip in nervousness. Looking past Loki and out the window, you could see the first signs of the sunrise peeking over the horizon, dark skies turning a soft lilac and blue; you'd been here longer than you realized.

When Loki glanced up at you again, his bright eyes still held sparks of that same softness from earlier. He pursed his lips in a smile; "thank you for the tea." And with that, he got up and left, leaving you in the company of the first birds who always sang in the mornings.

─── ·❆· ───

You made Loki nervous. It wasn't a bad kind of nervous, it was the kind that sped up his heart and made his cold hands feel clammy.

Out of everyone in the compound, you were the kindest. You'd always shoot him a smile whenever you'd pass by each other in the hallways; you'd always save a seat for him at the table; you always respected his silence whenever you came into the library and caught him reading his book, saying a quiet hello and nothing more, just sitting on one of the armchairs with your own book and allowing him to enjoy his moment, and more recently, your presence too.

When he'd finally learned of your abilities, he got apprehensive, worried even; that you'd pick up on whatever it was that he felt when he was near you, and it would drive you away.

So far, it hasn't happened yet.

The sun was out today, and with it, so was everyone else. In the spacious backyard of the compound, Steve was in charge of the barbecue, and Tony was in charge of the drinks. Natasha had sunglasses covering her eyes while she and Clint bickered over a game of cards; Yelena was sitting beside her sister at the lunch table, however, she seemed to be on Clint's side of the argument. Thor and Banner were laughing together as they made fun of Steve's cooking skills, who tried to defend himself by saying he wasn't actually done yet. Tony looked like he was trying to convince Bucky to drink a dubious-looking beverage, the latter didn't seem too keen on it.

And Loki watched them from afar, from the living room window of his floor. Thor had asked that he join them downstairs, saying something about how he should start trying to fit in and mingle, instead of just existing in the others' presence. Making friends wasn't Loki's forte; as much as he'd fight not to admit it, he was still working up the courage.

With a long sigh, Loki turned around and made his way to the place where he'd been spending most of his free time.

The compound's library was quite huge. One of the few rooms in the whole facility that had warm colors painting the walls and lacked the modern look; tall wooden shelves held thousands of books, a soft beige carpet covered the floor, and there were armchairs and sofas scattered in corners and in-between shelves creating comfortable, isolated nooks for reading. Loki's favorite spot was a worn armchair that stood near one of the big windows, it was surrounded by books that most people didn't read anymore, and the window itself overlooked the treeline in which the sun hid behind at the end of every day; sometimes as he sat there to read, it reminded him of his room back in Asgard.

Loki walked brushing his fingers over the spine of the old books, watching as dust particles danced in the sunlight. But as he rounded the shelf that led to his spot, he abruptly stopped in his tracks, feet glued to the carpet.

You sat cross-legged on the worn armchair, with a thick book lying in your lap that held all of your attention; the sun was shining right behind you, creating a halo above your head and bathing the strands of your hair in golden. You looked like something out of his favorite tale, more enchanting than all of the Midgard poetry books he's ever read.

It seemed like you two were making a habit of bumping into each other unexpectedly.

Loki gulped, squaring his shoulders. A beat passed, and then two, until you finally noticed him from the corner of your eyes. You looked up at him with your eyebrows softly raised in surprise, a gentle smile lifted the sides of your mouth; "Loki, hi."

"Hello," Loki greeted you slowly, his eyes shifting from the book in your lap to your eyes, "shouldn't you be out with the others, enjoying the sun?"

"Should I?" You narrowed your eyes, lazily closing your book and getting up from the armchair. "Shouldn't you?" You asked then, smirking as you raised an eyebrow and took a step towards him.

Loki's heart stumbled inside his chest, he breathed out a laugh. "I'm not big on hangouts."

You hummed, burying your hands in the pockets of your jeans. "Why is that?"

For a moment, Loki dwelled on whether to be honest or come up with an easy lie. But you were looking up at him with such delicacy, such attention, not a trace of hatred or judgment in your warm eyes. It almost looked as if you cared... about him.

Loki breathed in sharply through his nose, the words rolled off his tongue on their own; "I doubt many of your friends would enjoy my presence there."

You blinked up at him, lips parting before you told him quietly; "I would."

There was a distant burning behind Loki's eyes, his mouth felt dry. No one had ever rendered him completely speechless before, yet now, you had done just that. With his silence, you avoided his eyes and ran your tongue over your bottom lip in a motion that he couldn't help but follow.

"And..." You continued, voice sweet as honey, traveling between the bookshelves in the secluded library, "We'll never know if we don't try, right?"

The way you referred to you and him as 'we' got a foreign feeling blossoming inside Loki's chest, all warm and tingly. When you offered him your hand, so you could guide him downstairs to meet the others, he took it.

─── ·❆· ───

After a full week of taking care of the whole city, Saturday nights were a time for having fun and relaxing; aka movie nights with the team. Everyone sat together in the main living room of the compound, Tony had labeled it 'mandatory bonding day'. The room itself was pretty spacious, dimly lit, with two big comfortable couches and a TV that almost covered the whole wall, and a small kitchen right beside it for easy snacks and drinks.

"Right, I'm thinking... Terminator." Tony suggested as he came from the kitchen with an extra large bowl of popcorn in his arms.

"We saw that one already," Steve complained as he fumbled with the remote.

"There are multiple ones," Tony said, smugly, as he plopped himself on the couch and threw popcorn in his mouth.

Thor, who sat beside you, suddenly perked up with a giddy smile on his face; "oh I've always enjoyed that one who has the girl with the long, magic hair." The god gestured to his own hair.

Tony gaped at him, his fingers holding the popcorn were frozen midair. "Tangled?" He exclaimed then, eyebrows raised, "You wanna watch Tangled? in my house?"

You fought to hide a smile. "Technically it's our house," you quipped, after all, you were to blame for Thor's love for the Disney movie.

"Why don't we just watch both? The night is still young," Yelena finally suggested from her spot by the corner of the couch.

As they continued bickering, your eyes finally caught sight of the one you'd been waiting for.

Loki walked into the living room quietly, his socked feet barely making any noise on the expensive flooring. His gaze found yours before he saw anything else in the room, and a gentle, shy smile appeared on his lips.

You'd grown very close, very fast. Loki had started seeking your presence more and more each passing day; during the mornings he'd wait for you with an extra cup of coffee in hand, during the missions it was already routine that you two were a pair, and during the night you never parted ways without him planting a kiss on your forehead first.

Never in your life had you met someone quite like him, who carried such a bruised heart and still managed to be so loving. It made you wonder if anyone had ever bothered to see how beautiful his soul was, for you had fallen in love with it before you even touched his skin.

You gently patted the vacant seat on your left side, lifting the thin blanket covering your legs so Loki could sit down, and once he did you draped part of it over his legs as well.

"What's today's punishment?" Loki smirked, making himself comfortable beside you. His shoulder flush with yours.

"Stop it, movie nights are nice. I know you secretly enjoy them too," you chuckled, bumping his knee with yours. His proximity raised goosebumps all over your skin, and if you weren't so focused on your own feelings, you would've felt how much Loki's heart was racing as well.

"I only come to these because you do too," Loki mumbled, his eyes focused on the TV and a frown appearing on his eyebrows as the first scenes from Tangled played on the screen.

Your breath caught on your throat. He had said it so casually, so easily. You wondered if he had even realized the weight of his own words. "Right," you whispered, a little breathless.

It didn't take long for the only light in the room to be the one coming from the TV. When Tangled hit the 45-minute mark, Tony was already snoring and Thor had finished two bowls of popcorn. You, however, were wide awake and fully aware of Loki's arm resting on the back of the couch. What a cliche move, you thought to yourself, your cheeks burning hot and biting back a smile.

Loki's face as he watched the movie was nothing short of comical, one would think he was watching a period drama; his lips hovering ever so slightly before he'd scoff at a musical scene, his eyes softening as the romance between Rapunzel and Flynn blossomed, the way he mindlessly played with the ends of your hair. You watched him more than you watched the movie, and you didn't miss the way he froze and gulped when you finally rested your head on his shoulder.

─── ·❆· ───

The day had started out fine; a cold yet sunny morning, your fingers brushing Loki's when he handed you your cup of coffee, no eminent trouble in the city, everything was normal and fine; until it took a turn for the worse.

You didn't hear the fight, you didn't know exactly what caused it, but you felt it immediately. Anger, hurt, and pain were suddenly heavy in the air even through the closed door of your bedroom. As soon as a shiver ran up and down your spine you got up and all but ran outside to chase the somber feeling.

The elevator doors of your floor weren't even fully open yet when Loki busted his way through them, Thor hot on his heels.

"I knew it was a mistake coming here," Loki snapped, his steps fast as he put as much distance between himself and Thor as he could, nearly running straight into you in the process.

"You know what, brother," Thor began, he had stopped walking, standing in the middle of the living room, "Maybe it really was a mistake to bring you here, you don't care about anyone but yourself, it's almost as if you enjoy hurting people, you can't help it. It'll always be like this, that's why you're better off on your own." Thor wasn't shouting, but his words rang loudly in the room; his chest heaving when he stopped speaking.

You had held your breath the entire time, gripping the back of a kitchen stool until your knuckles turned white. Thor was angry, you could feel it even without being near him, but he didn't mean what he had said, not entirely. Thor's emotions were a passing wind on your skin though, for who you really felt, stood just a few feet behind you.

Loki had his back turned to his brother when he spoke, and he didn't turn around after. Even without looking at him, you could feel the way he trembled, unsteady hands closed into tight fists to mask his hurt; he gulped back a sob, and kept on walking to his bedroom without a word.

You could choke with the amount of pain radiating off of Loki; heavy, sickening, all-encompassing pain that you felt so vividly in your skin and bones. You only shot Thor an angry glance and muttered; "Damnit Thor," before turning around hastily. You thought you heard Thor calling after you, but you decided to ignore him, your priorities already set.

You ran after Loki, catching up just before his door slammed shut. Taking a deep breath, you walked into his bedroom and softly closed the door behind you with a click.

You'd never actually been in Loki's room before, so you took a single moment to glance around. The room itself was a little bare, with only the necessities such as a double bed, a dresser, a desk, a small bookshelf, and the door that led to his bathroom. You made a mental note to gift him something to liven up his space; maybe a plant.

Loki had his back turned to you still, both his hands resting on his waist as his head hung low. But you knew he knew it was you there with him, by the simple fact that he was allowing you to stay.

The silence was a heavy one, packed with the electricity of two souls tightly holding onto each other. Loki was trying so hard to keep all his pain in control, his shoulders shaking with each breath he took; but you could feel it as if it was your own.

"Loki," you said his name in nothing but breath, testing the waters. You took half a step toward him as you fidgeted with your hands.

He didn't answer. You weren't expecting him to.

You pursed your lips before saying; "he didn't mean it," your voice was choked and took effort to come out, the back of your eyes already burning, "what Thor said. He- he didn't mean it."

A few beats passed, and then; "doesn't matter if he did." Loki's words cracked in the middle, it was the most broken you'd ever heard him sound. "He's right."

"He's not," you told him in the same heartbeat, not a tint of hesitation in your tone.

Loki turned around, his gaze finally finding yours and there were tears pooling at the bottom lid of his bright eyes. "Yes, he is," he took a single big step toward you, nearly closing the distance between you and him. Loki's lips trembled as he struggled to keep talking; "and why is it that you care? What's in it for you?"

He was hurt, and he was frustrated, and he was angry; you knew that. Still, you couldn't help but be taken aback by his question. What could he even mean by that? Did he really believe that all this time that you'd been dancing around each other's feelings, it wasn't real?

"Loki, I-" you stuttered, not knowing how to say it without baring your heart in the process. Your hesitation got Loki avoiding his eyes from yours, and you forced yourself to go on. "There's nothing 'in it for me' I just... care about you."

Still waiting for the other shoe to drop, Loki softly shook his head, scoffing. His tears were a blink away from spilling, he felt as if barbed wire was wrapped around his throat, and his heart threatened to jump from his chest and straight into your hands.

It scared him. How easily you could make his walls crumble like paper in the rain. He flinched slightly when he felt the ghost of your touch on his cheek, blinking multiple times when your thumb brushed away a single tear rolling down his cheek. You touched him as if he were porcelain, and yet it still broke him.

"Is it that hard to believe that you're important to me?" You asked then, voice nothing but a whisper in the short space separating your bodies. With your hand still holding his cheek, you forced his eyes back on yours. "You have a good heart, Loki. I just wish you could see it the way I do. I wish everyone could see it."

The crooked smile he gave you nearly made your own tears fall. "You don't know what you're talking about, you don't know what I've done," he told you quietly, more than anything, he sounded utterly defeated.

"But I do know," your free hand found one of his then, and you tangled your fingers together loosely, "I might not have been with the Avengers when you attacked New York, but I was still in New York. And I still mean it, you could tell me every single bad thing you've ever done and I'd still tell you how good you are, because I see it. Every single day, Loki. I feel you every single day, and I can feel all this-" Your words caught in your throat and you tasted your tears on your lips. "-All this pain that you carry around and you still choose to be good."

Too many emotions swam behind his eyes for you to put a finger in any of them. But tears were running freely down Loki's cheeks now, pooling against your hand resting on his cheek.

"What did you-" he tried, gasping for air as if he was underwater. This was foreign territory. You had a place in his heart no one else could ever have, he realized, and his heart was beating faster than his mind knew what to do with. "You've been prying into my emotions without me knowing?" He sounded more desperate than annoyed.

"I didn't want to," You explained quickly, "I- I never meant to, but for some reason, I can't block you out." Shrugging weakly, you slowly dropped the hand resting on his cheek, missing the way he glanced down in search of your warmth. "I tried. I really tried."

There was a vulnerability in Loki's eyes you'd never seen before. He looked at you as if he'd just realized what love is. You wondered if you mimicked the same gaze—you sure felt it.

Loki shuffled in his stance. His hand, still holding onto yours, tightened its grip. "I'm-" He avoided your eyes, looking somewhere past your shoulder, "I'm sorry you had to feel all that."

You softened at his words, shaking your head and taking another step forward until your sneakers bumped his shoes. "Wasn't your fault," you whispered.

Loki gulped back a sob after you spoke, and that was the last straw for you to let go of his hand and pull his body to yours in an embrace.

He melted into you.

Loki's fingers dug into the fabric of your shirt and he buried his head against your shoulder—you soon felt it becoming damp, yet you only hugged him tighter. With the desperation he was holding you with, you wondered when was the last time someone had held him.

The soft sobs escaping him were muffled against you. And you couldn't help but stroke his back, the tips of your fingers burying into his very soul. "I'm sorry you had to go through all of this alone." You spoke near his ear, feeling the goosebumps that raised on his skin. "You never deserved it," you promised.

You weren't sure how much time passed, you stayed there for as long as Loki needed you to. When he eventually pulled away, he didn't go far, his hands kept holding your body close to him as if he was afraid you'd leave if he let go.

His bright eyes didn't hold a storm anymore, they were more like a calm sea. A soft frown etched itself into his eyebrows, "did you… take away my pain?"

You chuckled quietly, "No, I can't take away people's emotions." You lifted a hand until your fingertips could brush the skin on his forehead, "But I can make them lighter." You traced an invisible line over his eyebrow and until you reached his cheekbone, "Make the weight just a little bit easier to carry."

Loki leaned into your touch, almost closing his eyes. His hands that rested on your back traced your spine and pulled you closer. "Darling, you've been making it easier ever since the first day I met you."

⋆* ☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ

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buckets-and-trees · 2 months ago

Text

Red, White & True: Election Day in New York, Pt. 2 [16/17]

Characters/Pairings: Steve Rogers x curvy Millennial Female!Reader Word Count: 5.3k Summary: The polls start coming to a close on the East Coast, but Election Day is far from over.

Content/Warnings: political/campaign discussions, marriage of political convenience, slow burn, really the slowest burn, strangers to lovers, the longest story ever with a never ending amount of chapters

Notes: This takes place in a post-Endgame scenario where Steve stays and generally most of TFATWS happened.

Previous Chapter | Series

↠ Main Masterlist | Aspen's Ask Box | Field Guide to the Forest

[NOVEMBER 3 - 5:47PM - EN ROUTE TO THE PLAZA]

The black SUV weaves through Manhattan traffic with practiced precision, the tinted windows providing a shield from the curious gazes of passersby.

Agent Delaney, your lead Secret Service agent, sits behind the wheel with the stoic focus that has become familiar over these many months. Her eyes constantly scan the road ahead, hands steady at ten and two on the steering wheel. In the passenger seat is Agent Martinez, the man who has been head of Steve’s detail since the White House first sent the Secret Service to cover members of the Rogers-Young campaign. Martinez speaks quietly into his wrist mic, coordinating with the vehicles ahead and behind yours.

You're sitting comfortably next to Steve in the middle row of the SUV while Bucky rides solo in the backseat, having come with the motorcade to brief you and Steve on updates and get him going on afternoon radio show calls.

"Yes, that's exactly right," Steve says into the phone pressed to his ear, his voice measured and clear despite the chaos outside. "We're still focusing on our core message right through the finish line," Steve says, glancing at his notes while nodding. "Yes, that’s what we’re seeing. The polls are showing movement in Pennsylvania and Michigan, but we're not taking anything for granted. There aren’t swing states for us, there are fifty states who get to decide who their next president will be."

You watch Steve as he handles the radio interview with the same calm confidence he's shown throughout the campaign. This is the fourth back-to-back phone interview he’s taken on the drive, each targeted at commuter drive-times in different swing states. You know Steve means it when he says swing states aren’t more important than any other voices, but Jake knows that’s where some of the essential pieces on a path to any potential victory will be.

"The American people deserve leadership that puts their needs over parties because both parties exist to serve the people," Steve continues, his voice warm yet authoritative. "That's been our message from day one, and it's what we'll deliver if given the chance to serve."

While Steve focuses on the interview, you look at Bucky seated behind you in the rearview mirror. The Winter Soldier who signed on to be Steve’s personal aide through all of this has turned into a savvy campaign advisor as well. His involvement has been a constant, steadying presence throughout this journey, his strategic mind and unwavering loyalty proving invaluable time and again. Though the connection between the two of you had started off with wary and tenuous circling around each other as you crossed paths in Steve’s orbit, he’s become as dear and as trusted to you as Sam and Sophia.

He catches your eye and smirks. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

“Like what?” you laugh softly.

“You’re thinking something,” Bucky murmurs, mindful to keep the conversation low so Steve can continue his calls.

You turn and lean slightly toward the back seat. "Hypothetically," you begin in a hushed tone, "if someone were to need a chief of staff in the near future, would you hypothetically be interested in that position?"

Bucky's expression shifts from surprise to caution, his eyes narrowing slightly as he processes your question. "Hypothetically," he echoes, matching your tone, "are we talking about a First Lady's office?"

You give a small nod, watching his reaction carefully. "Hypothetically, yes."

Bucky leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees as he considers your proposition. The metal arm whirs almost imperceptibly as he adjusts his position. "That's not something I've considered," he admits, his voice thoughtful.

"You should," you reply. "You're organized, detail-oriented, efficient, strategic, and incredibly intelligent. I’ve watched as you’ve taken on more and more responsibility with this campaign. I think you’d be the perfect person to spearhead the infrastructure and initiatives I’ll hypothetically need.”

A hint of a smile plays at the corner of Bucky's mouth, though his eyes remain serious. "The public might have questions about having the Winter Soldier as a First Lady's chief of staff," he points out, his voice matter-of-fact rather than self-deprecating. “You think they’re ready for that? Hypothetically?”

"The public has questions about everything and they’re not ready for anything we’ve done," you counter. "But they adapt. Our numbers in the polls have shown that. Besides, you're not just the Winter Soldier anymore. You're James Buchanan Barnes, decorated war hero and key campaign strategist for potentially the next President of the United States."

The smile does break through now. "You've been practicing that line."

"Maybe," you admit. "But that doesn't make it any less true."

Before Bucky can respond, Steve ends his call with a polite "Thank you for your time" and turns toward you both.

"Are you actually poaching my best friend to be your chief of staff right in front of me?” he asks, half-shocked, half-amused. Or at least you hope you’re reading the amusement correctly.

"Hypothetically," you emphasize with a shrug.

Steve runs a hand through his hair, the gesture underscoring his disbelief, making you smile. "You're unbelievable, you know that? We haven't even gotten through today yet."

"I'm being proactive," you defend yourself, eyes sparkling with mischief. "Isn't that what you always say? 'Proper preparation prevents poor performance'?"

"I've literally never said that," Steve replies, shaking his head but unable to hide the smile tugging at his lips.

"It was in one of your war bonds PSAs," Bucky chimes in, betraying Steve with a smirk. "The one about saving scraps for the war effort. I've seen the footage."

"Et tu, Buck?" Steve groans, leaning back against the leather seat.

“It’s all hypothetical,” you repeat, nudging his knee with yours.

Steve's eyebrows shoot up, and he turns to face you fully, his expression a mixture of shock and betrayal. "You're plotting a staffing coup in my motorcade."

You shrug one shoulder, trying to maintain an innocent expression but failing as a smile tugs at your lips. "I'm simply planning ahead. We could hypothetically be in the White House in less than three months."

"And your first order of business is stealing my right-hand man?" Steve shakes his head, but there's a glimmer of amusement behind his mock outrage.

"I'm not stealing anything," you counter, placing a hand on his knee. "I'm reallocating resources to maximize efficiency."

"Hypothetically," Bucky echoes, a grin spreading across his face. "Besides," he adds, "I can't be your chief of staff, Steve. You need someone who actually knows how Washington works—a seasoned political executive with connections on the Hill and experience navigating the bureaucracy. I'm good at what I do, but I'd be learning on the job."

"And you think I won't be?" Steve challenges.

You take his hand. "The difference is, you'll be surrounded by the best people in the country to help you navigate it. The First Lady's office is smaller, more focused, and we won’t be trying to work with Congress the way you’ll need to on a consistent basis. And I need someone I can trust implicitly."

Bucky's eyes warm at your words, and he glances between you and Steve. "I'd be honored to consider it," he says finally, his voice sincere. "If the hypothetical becomes reality."

Steve looks between you and Bucky, his expression softening. "You've really thought about this."

"I've been thinking about a lot of things," you admit. "What my role would look like, what I could accomplish, how to be effective. I never want anyone to think I’m just a figurehead, Steve. I want to work for the people, too."

He leans over, tips your chin up, and plants a swift kiss on your mouth. “One of the reasons I love you.”

Steve's phone buzzes with a new call, and he checks the screen. "It's the next interview," he says, his expression shifting back to campaign mode. "But I don’t hate this idea, and I hear you.”

As Steve answers, you turn back to Bucky, lowering your voice again. "Think about it," you urge. "I'm serious."

"I will," he promises, and you can see he means it.

You bring your entwined hands up to your face and press a soft kiss on the back of Steve’s hand. He smiles and squeezes your hand in acknowledgment as he converses with the DJ on the other end of the call.

[5:56PM - THE PLAZA HOTEL, MANHATTAN]

The SUV slows as it approaches The Plaza, the iconic façade coming into view ahead. Outside, the streets are already filled with people are buzzing with energy, some holding signs with Steve's name. News vans line the street, their satellite dishes extending skyward like mechanical trees. The media presence has grown exponentially as the day has progressed, each network vying for the best position to capture what could be a historic night.

"We're arriving at The Plaza in two minutes," Agent Martinez announces from the front seat. "Security perimeter is established and the path to the private entrance is clear."

You take a deep breath, mentally preparing yourself for the transition from the private cocoon of the SUV back into the public eye. Steve concludes his interview with practiced efficiency, thanking the host and ending the call just as the vehicle slows to a complete stop.

"Ready?" he asks, his eyes finding yours.

"Let’s do this," you reply with a smile, squeezing his hand once more before releasing it to gather your things.

The Plaza's side entrance has been secured for your arrival, allowing you to bypass the crowd gathering at the main doors. As you step out of the SUV, the November air hits your face, brisk and energizing after the warmth of the vehicle. Steve’s hand finds the small of your back in that protective gesture that's become second nature to him.

The Plaza staff have created a secure corridor for your entrance, lined with Secret Service agents and hotel security. Campaign staffers wait just inside, tablets and phones in hand, ready to brief you on the latest developments. Sophia stands at the front, her professional demeanor in place but unable to hide the excitement dancing in her eyes.

"Welcome back," she says, falling into step beside you as you enter the lobby. "Everything's set upstairs. The core team is assembled with Jake in a suite on the fifteenth floor, and the on-site campaign command center has been hard at work all day in the Edwardian Room. After we meet upstairs, we’ll stop in at the Edwardian Room before heading to Central Park for the public event.”

"Any major developments since we've been off the grid?" Steve asks, his tone shifting subtly into what you've come to recognize as his command voice—focused, strategic, ready to absorb information and make decisions.

"Nothing earth-shattering," Sophia replies as you all step into the private elevator. "Exit polls are starting to come in from the East Coast states. Early indicators show stronger-than-expected turnout in urban centers, which could be good for us. Charlie's plane just landed at LaGuardia—he'll be here within the hour."

"And social media?" you ask, thinking about the brief digital detox you've just experienced.

"Trending positively," Sophia says with a small smile. "Peter's content has been rolling out all afternoon. The 'Five Boroughs in Five Hours' hashtag is getting significant engagement. People are responding to the ground-level approach."

The elevator doors open with a ding, and the lot of you file in.

"And how's the crowd at Central Park?" Steve asks, his voice calm but you can hear the underlying tension—the same tension that's been building all day.

"Growing by the minute," Sophia replies, checking her tablet. "NYPD estimates we're already at capacity with over 50,000 people, and they've started setting up overflow areas. The energy is... incredible." Her professional demeanor slips momentarily, revealing genuine awe. "Nothing like this has happened in any campaigns I’ve seen before."

"The networks?" you ask, adjusting your pace to match Steve's longer stride.

"All major networks have crews on site. Coverage is wall-to-wall," Sophia confirms. "CNN has a reporter dedicated to the Central Park coverage and one here at the hotel. Even international press—BBC, Al Jazeera, NHK from Japan—they're all covering this as if it's—"

"History in the making," Bucky finishes for her, his voice low as he steps out of the elevator behind you.

Sophia nods, her eyes bright. "Exactly."

The group of you follow Sophia down the corridor toward the suite where the core team awaits. You've been living this campaign for months, every day a whirlwind of speeches, strategy sessions, and connecting with voters. With just hours until the first results are announced, the magnitude of what you and Steve have undertaken hits you with renewed force. There was never a point at which you didn’t want to win, but now that it’s all coming to an end, you feel in your bones how much you want this - for Steve and for you. You’ve spoken with so many people, made so many plans, dreamed so many dreams of what you could do…

And you know that these last moments before you enter the suite are the final breath before the organized chaos that the rest of the night will be.

Steve must sense your thoughts because his hand finds yours, giving it a reassuring squeeze. When you glance up at him, his expression is steady, grounding, softness in his blue eyes, and a tight-lipped smile.

Your heart warms and expands, filling your chest with the confidence that you’re doing this with him, the man you respected and admired and now have come to love and adore and trust implicitly.

Sophia opens the door to the suite, and a wave of conversation washes over you. The room buzzes with energy—laptops open on every surface, phones ringing, screens displaying electoral maps and polling data from across the country. The campaign's nerve center is alive with purpose and anticipation.

"There they are!" Sam's voice cuts through the din as he strides across the room, arms outstretched. He pulls Steve into a quick, firm embrace before turning to you. "How was that little break?" Sam asks, his voice warm with genuine concern beneath the teasing tone. "You two look significantly less like zombies."

"We're good," Steve confirms. "Ready for the final stretch."

You continue into the suite, taking in the familiar faces of your campaign team. Jake stands by a large tactical map of the United States, deep in conversation with Gavin, the campaign's polling director. "Welcome back," he says, handing your phones back to you and Steve. "Hope you enjoyed your forced relaxation."

"It was exactly what we needed," you admit, pocketing your phone without immediately checking it.

Lisa approaches with a sealed folder. "Here's the latest polling aggregate from the last three hours. We're seeing significant movement in Pennsylvania, Michigan, and Wisconsin. All three could be in play."

You continue to scan the room, taking in all the activity. Maria Hill and Agent Calloway are in the corner, and over by the window are two faces conversing with Pepper Potts that you were not expecting to see - your parents!

"Mom? Dad?" you manage, crossing the room in quick strides. "What are you doing here? I thought you were watching from home."

Your mother pulls you into a tight embrace, the scent of her perfume—the same one she's worn since you were a child—momentarily transporting you away from the high-stakes political arena to simpler times.

"And miss potentially the most important night of our daughter's life?"

“We voted this morning, then hopped on a plane to get here for our girl,” your dad says, pulling you in for a bear hug of his own once your mom has released you.

"Pepper called us, actually," your mother explains, beaming with pride. "Said we shouldn't miss this."

Pepper smiles at you with that serene, knowing expression that somehow communicates both warmth and absolute authority. "Moments like this require family. Consider it my final act as campaign chair," Pepper says with a wink. "After tonight, I'm back to running a company full-time."

"Thank you," you say, squeezing her hand gratefully.

Your eyes mist slightly, the emotional weight of their presence hitting you unexpectedly. These last months have been a whirlwind, with barely enough time for weekly phone calls, and initially even those had been tenuous given the tension after they learned the truth of your wedding. Having them here now grounds you, reminding you of who you were before all this began.

"I'm so glad you came," you say, your voice thick with emotion.

Your father clears his throat, his own eyes suspiciously bright. "We wouldn't be anywhere else."

His gaze shifts to Steve, who has appeared at your side. "Sir, it's good to see you again."

Your father bypasses the handshake and pulls Steve into a strong hug of his own. Your dad is a giant of a man, and has maybe two or three inches over Steve. He releases him from the hug, but braces his shoulders. “Son, regardless of what happens tonight, I want you to know we are proud of you. Both of you," he adds, meeting Steve's eyes with sincere respect. "You've run one hell of a campaign."

"Thank you, sir," Steve replies, his voice steady but you can hear the emotion in it. "That means a lot."

Your mother takes your hand, her eyes scanning your face with that maternal scrutiny that misses nothing. "You look tired, but... happy. Really happy." It's not a question, but you hear what she's really asking.

"I am, Mom," you confirm softly. "Happier than I've ever been." The truth of it rings in your chest like a bell.

She nods, satisfied, then addresses Steve. "You better keep taking good care of my daughter, Captain."

"Yes, ma'am," Steve responds with solemn sincerity. “For the rest of my life.”

The moment is interrupted by Jake clapping his hands to draw everyone's attention. "Alright, team. Five minutes until we need to head down to the command center."

The room shifts into final preparations—last-minute briefings, schedule confirmations, communication checks. You look between your parents. “Um, I guess you could…”

“I’ll be their VIP guide tonight,” Pepper assures you. “We’ll come down and see the speech in Central Park, and then we’re all back up here for a late dinner while some of the precincts start to report.”

You nod, assured by Pepper’s care, but your insides squirm when you realize you’ll start seeing genuine and final numbers come in mere hours.

Steve has already been pulled away and is conferring furtively with Bucky and Sam. Sophia goes over your role for the next hour with you, and though you’re paying attention to her, you can’t take your eyes off of Steve. Whatever he’s discussing across the room with his two best friends seems to be something significant. They all glance at you at the same moment, then swiftly turn back to their conversation.

That’s suspicious, you think.

A few moments later, Sam leaves, and Bucky and Steve remain in close conversation. Jake joins them, and then after another two minutes, you’re all making your way as a collective downstairs to the Edwardian Room.

“If you get Bucky,” Steve says, easily sidling up next to you in the elevator, “I get Sophia as my Executive Assistant.”

You scoff, rolling your eyes. "Not happening, Rogers."

"She's the most qualified person in our inner circle," Steve counters, his voice low enough that only you can hear. "And she already knows how I work."

"She's also the most qualified person in my inner circle," you point out, giving him a sidelong glance. "And I found her first."

Steve's lips quirk upward. "Is this going to be our first marital dispute as potential First Couple?"

"Maybe," you murmur, unable to suppress your own smile. "You can't have Sophia. She's been my right hand since the beginning."

"And Bucky's been mine for nearly a century," Steve counters with that grin that always makes your heart skip a beat. "Fair's fair."

The elevator doors open and you make your way down the hall, ultimately reaching the bustling Edwardian Room, now transformed into campaign headquarters. Dozens of staffers who’ve clearly been there most of the day work at makeshift stations, tracking real-time data from across the country. The elegant crystal chandeliers cast a warm glow over the scene, an incongruous backdrop to the high-tech operation below.

Jake steps forward, clapping his hands. "Listen up, everyone! The candidate is here."

There’s a cheer and applause, and Steve holds up his hands, both acknowledging the support and trying to quiet the room. The staff's excitement is palpable, their faces flushed with anticipation and the shared camaraderie that comes from months of working toward this single day.

"Thank you all," Steve begins, his voice carrying easily through the space. "I know most of you have been here since dawn, working tirelessly to bring us to this moment. I want you to know that whatever happens tonight, what we've accomplished together is nothing short of extraordinary."

You watch him from a few steps away, pride swelling in your chest. This is the Steve Rogers the public has come to know during this campaign—earnest, inspiring, a natural leader who elevates those around him. But you also see the man behind the candidate, the one who spent the quiet moments in your brownstone questioning if he was doing the right thing, if he was worthy of the trust being placed in him.

"Now," Steve continues as the applause dies down, "we still have work to do. Polls are still open across most of the country. Keep making those calls, keep the social media engagement going, and let's bring this night to a strong finish!”

Another round of applause erupts, and you watch as Steve moves through the room, shaking hands, offering words of encouragement, and thanking volunteers by name. His ability to connect with people on an individual level, to make each person feel seen and valued, is part of what has made this campaign so unique.

You follow his lead, working your way through the opposite side of the room. Many of these staffers have been with you since the beginning, from those early, uncertain days when the idea of an independent presidential run seemed like a beautiful but impossible dream. Now, they're part of what could become one of the most surprising political victories in American history.

"Five minutes until we need to head to Central Park," Sophia says, appearing at your elbow with practiced timing.

You nod, finishing your conversation with a young volunteer who's been running the phone bank operations. "You're doing incredible work, Ellie," you tell her.

“It wouldn’t be worth it for any other candidate,” she says, and you nod, wholeheartedly agreeing with her as you’re swept away.

"The crowd is at maximum capacity, and the energy is incredible. Peter just sent these."

Sophia shows you several photos on her tablet—a sea of faces stretching across the Great Lawn, American flags waving alongside homemade signs bearing slogans like "A New Way Forward" and the standard campaign lines of "Rogers-Young 2024" and “Rogers for America.” The aerial shot takes your breath away; you've seen crowds throughout the campaign, but nothing like this.

"That's a lot of people," you manage, feeling a flutter of nerves.

"Over fifty thousand," Sophia confirms. "And more in the overflow areas, current estimations of seventy thousand altogether. They've been there for hours, some since early morning."

You exhale slowly, the reality of those numbers sinking in. Fifty thousand people, gathered in the heart of New York City, waiting to hear from Steve—waiting for results with Steve.

The journey from The Plaza to the secured entrance of Central Park takes only minutes, but it feels both eternal and fleeting. The motorcade glides through streets that have been cleared for your passage, though crowds line the sidewalks, their phones held up to capture a glimpse of Captain America if they can.

When your fingers intertwine with Steve’s, you feel that familiar current of energy pass between you.

"Nervous?" he asks quietly.

"A little," you admit. "You?"

"Terrified," he says with a small smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes. "But in a good way."

"This is the biggest crowd we've had yet."

"We've come a long way from that first town hall in upstate New York," he says with a soft smile, referencing the modest gathering of curious voters who'd come to see Captain America announce his run for president from the Avengers Compound.

"A lifetime ago," you agree, thinking of how much has changed—not just in the campaign, but between the two of you.

The SUV slows as you approach the secured area near the park entrance. Secret Service agents talk into their earpieces outside, preparing for your arrival. You're about to say something more when Steve turns more toward you, and his hand comes to rest on your thigh. As you continue waiting, it drifts somewhat dangerously up your skirt.

"Steve," you whisper, surprised by his boldness with Agents Delaney and Martinez just feet away in the front seats.

His eyes darken slightly. "Just making sure you know how much I appreciate you," he murmurs, voice pitched low enough that only you can hear. "How much I love you."

The warmth of his palm against your skin sends a delicious shiver up your spine, a distraction from the nervous energy in your stomach.

"Not exactly the time or place for this," you whisper back, but you don't move his hand away. Instead, you lean closer, drawn to him despite the circumstances—or perhaps because of them. The heightened emotions of the day have left you both more raw, more vulnerable to each other.

You bite your lip, feeling heat warming your cheeks. "Steven Grant Rogers, are you trying to distract me right before we address fifty thousand people?"

He leans in closer, his lips ghosting over yours, his fingers a breath away from your core. "Is it working?"

"Yes," you admit, placing your hand at the crook of his elbow to stop his teasing journey. "But we have about thirty seconds before those doors open and we need to be presidential candidates again."

Steve's expression shifts subtly, a flicker of something unreadable passing across his face. "What if—" he begins, then stops himself.

"What if what?" you prompt, curious about his sudden hesitation.

Before he can answer, the SUV comes to a complete stop. Steve withdraws his hand only a beat before Agent Martinez turns in his seat. "We're here, sir, ma'am. The stage entrance is secured and ready for your arrival."

Steve nods, his expression shifting back to Captain Rogers, presidential candidate, while you’re still feeling flustered and fluttery.

Agent Delaney opens the door and the sounds of the crowd filter in—distant cheers and music—his eyes lock with yours one more time, transmitting a private message that makes your pulse quicken.

"To be continued," he promises in a whisper.

[6:52PM - CENTRAL PARK]

Secret Service agents flank you on all sides as you follow the path toward the stage, their vigilance heightened in this open setting. Campaign staff hurry alongside, making last-minute adjustments to your appearance—smoothing an errant strand of hair, checking that your microphone pack is secure.

As you approach the stage, the roar of the crowd becomes more distinct—a living, breathing force of energy washing over you in waves. You can feel it resonating in your chest, the collective anticipation of thousands. The November air carries their voices, their hopes, their expectations.

"Ready?" Sophia asks, handing you a bottle of water.

You take a sip, suddenly aware of how dry your mouth has become. "As I'll ever be."

Through a gap in the temporary barriers, you catch your first glimpse of the Great Lawn transformed. The stage stands at one end, draped with bunting and campaign signs, while the massive crowd stretches out like a human sea before it. Massive screens flank either side of the stage, ensuring that even those at the back can see. News helicopters hover overhead, their distant thrum adding to the soundtrack of this moment.

The backstage area is a flurry of activity, staffers with clipboards and earpieces moving with practiced efficiency, sound technicians making final adjustments, and the campaign's advance team confirming every detail of the event.

And as intimidating as this is - this crowd, this day, this campaign - over the months of this journey you recognize in this moment that you’ve grown the gumption to be able to tackle a night as immense as this. Even a year ago, you wondered about the listlessness of your life, yearning for more direction after floundering in the post-blip reality of your interrupted life.

And now you are here.

Jake appears, tablet in hand, his expression a mixture of excitement and focused intensity.

"We've got CNN projecting higher-than-expected turnout in Michigan," he says without preamble. "And early exit polls in New York are showing us with a slight edge. Nothing definitive yet, but the trends are good."

Steve nods, absorbing the information with the calm focus you've come to recognize as his battle-ready demeanor. "What about Florida?"

"Too close to call," Jake admits. "But we're seeing strong numbers from Miami-Dade County, which could make the difference."

You stand slightly apart, watching this exchange while Sophia reviews the speech notes with you one last time. Your eyes scan the crowd, finding additional strength in their attentive faces. These aren't just voters or supporters—they're people with hopes, fears, families. People looking for something real.

A stagehand approaches with two minutes to go. Through the wings, you can see Sam already on stage, his charismatic presence warming up the crowd. His voice carries through the speakers as he talks about his friendship with Steve, about witnessing firsthand the integrity that has defined Steve's every action since they first met.

"There’s our cue," Steve says, appearing at your side. He offers his hand, and you take it without hesitation.

“Ready?” you ask.

He nods. “Let’s do this.”

Sam spots you approaching in the wings and his voice rises with enthusiasm. "Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome to the stage, the next President and First Lady of the United States, Steve and—"

The crowd erupts before he can finish, a thunderous wall of sound that hits you physically as you step onto the stage. The lights are blinding, momentarily disorienting as they flash against the darkening November sky. The sea of faces stretches farther than you can comprehend, phones held aloft like a galaxy of stars, American flags waving enthusiastically.

Sam steps back with a grin, giving Steve a quick shoulder clasp before moving to stand with Bucky backstage. Steve raises your joined hands, and somehow the cheering intensifies. You're stunned by the power of it, by the sheer number of people who have come to hear what Steve has to say, to stand together for this unbelievable campaign.

Steve steps toward the podium, your hand still firmly in his, and the crowd quiets just enough for him to speak. The sound system projects Steve’s voice across the Great Lawn, strong and clear. You know you say your few lines at the appropriate moments during this brief appearance together, but you’re so in awe of the diversity of faces you can make out in the front rows of the crowd, the power of so many gathered together, that you soak up the moment, focusing on that. There are young couples, elderly veterans wearing their service caps, college students. The diversity of the crowd mirrors the coalition you've built—people from all walks of life united by a shared vision. Even if Steve doesn’t win, so many different hearts and minds coming together to support this dream is something you will never forget.

next part: Election Night, Pt. 3

welllll

Running gag of this series seems to be that it has an infinite amount of chapters. I'd like to tell you there's only one more chapter and an epilogue, but who are we kidding? That's what I said last weekend, and here we are with me splitting things up again.

(we're avoiding a 10k chapter this way)

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