#mcu ff

[amasterpieceofmadness]

I’m in charge – tony s.

Okay, I had this idea because this scene lives in my head rent free. And I think it's not getting enough recognition, because look at it! If this scene from Iron Man 3 doesn't give you some daydreams I don't know what does! So, I hope you enjoy this fic! Don't forget to like and share :))

pairings bf Tony Stark x reader

warnings 18+, smut without plot, unprotected sex, bondage, oral (male receiving), slightly begging

summary basically you tying Tony up

(here is the link to a fic where Tony ties you up ;))

wordcount 1.7k

You were stumbling into the bedroom, Tony guiding you without ever stopping the kiss. He had been on a dangerous mission for a couple of days and as soon as he came back home you two started making out. You just couldn’t keep your hands off of the other.

Tony pushes you onto the bed, crawling on top of you and starting to make out with you again. Greedy hands unbutton his shirt and Tony sits up to let it slide down his shoulders onto the floor. He pulls your shirt over your head and throws it to his on the floor before wrapping his arms around you and softly laying you back down on the bed. Tony unclasps your bra in the process and tosses it aside.

But then you put your hands on his chest and push him off of you. At first he looks like a lost puppy but you just smirk and push him down on the bed, straddling him. The smirk returns to his face and his hands wander up your body, admiring every curve, and finally landing on your breasts, kneading them softly.

A moan slips from your mouth and you lean down to kiss him once again. Then your own hands find his and cup them before pulling them away from your body and pinning them down on either side of his head. You look at him to see his reaction. Tony lets out a gasp, not expecting this but he clearly enjoys how you start to take control.

You smirk at him and lean down, brushing your lips up his neck all the way to his ear, whispering “Let me show you how much I missed you” Your words send a shiver down Tonys spine and he pushes his hip upwards to meet yours. But you quickly pull away and press down on his hands more, taunting him. “Ah, ah… You’re not in charge tonight”

With that you let go of his hands and lean towards the nightstand table, pulling out two silk ropes and starting to tie his hands to the bed frame. Tony grins like a child at Christmas and his other hand slaps your ass provokingly. You then start to tie up his other hand as well before kissing your way down his body to the hem of his jeans. You slowly start to unzip it while looking up at him. Tonys breath gets heavier as he looks down at you, taking things way to slow for his liking.

After a few minutes his jeans and boxers are finally gone but you don’t even think about giving him attention right now. Instead, you stand next to the bed, smirking down at him and starting to pull your own jeans down ever so slowly. Tony gets impatiently and he starts to slightly pull on the ropes at his hands. He wants you, but you are far from done playing with him.

Once you are completely naked you climb back onto the bed between his legs. Your hands start to rub up and down his thighs, and your face getting closer and closer to his cock. “Please, darling” Tony breaths out, wanting you to finally touch him.

“You want to feel my mouth around your cock?” You smirk at him as he nods quickly. First your tongue licks over his shaft, making him let out a soft moan. My hand wraps around his cock slowly and I start drag my tongue around his head a few times, making him tremble in anticipation. Then, I take the tip of his cock into my mouth, my lips sealed around it and Tony throws his head back into the pillow with a moan.

“That feels so good, baby” he whispers, making a wave of pride washing over you.

As you start to slightly bob your head another moan leaves Tonys lips and he bucks his hips, but you are quick to retrace your mouth from his member, making him whine at the loss. “That’s not how we are going to play tonight” you smirk and take his member in your mouth again. You let your tongue swirl around his head making Tony go wild. He starts to pull at the ropes around his wrists slightly but tries his best to contain his excitement, not wanting you to stop.

After a couple of minutes, you let go of his cock with a “plop” and smirk up at him. Tony is already a panting mess as you slowly crawl up his body. Your lips hover right over his as he opens his eyes to look at you. “Let me feel you pussy, baby” he asks softly, trying his best to not let his voice shake.

You sit up, straddling his cock perfectly with your pussy, your hands resting on his abs. “Beg for it”

Tony looks at you with pleading eyes. He doesn’t want to beg. In fact, he should be the one in charge right now, not you, not that he minds of course. But begging? Tony Stark doesn’t beg.

As he stays quiet you roll your hips on top of him, giving his cock some friction but not enough to satisfy him. His eyes roll back and he bites his lips. “Please…” he whispers, nearly inaudible.

“What was that?” you ask him again with a huge grin plastered all over your face, continuing to roll your hips.

“Please, please let me feel your pussy. Let me fill you up, baby, please”

That’s exactly what you wanted to hear and you finally give him what he wants, letting his cock slide into you inch after inch until he is completely buried inside your wet pussy. Your head falls back and you too let out a soft moan at the feeling of being stretched.

Tonys eyes roll back into his head as he is trying hard not to buck his hips up into you. “Oh god” He pants out, loving the feeling of your warm walls clenching around him.

After you are adjusted to his size you slowly start to rock your hips again, your hands still resting on his chest for support. The feeling of finally having him sends jolts of pleasure through your body and you start to moan softly. This makes Tony go crazy and all he wants is to pound into you right now. But all he can do is pulling at his restraints and starting to buck his hips up to meet yours. You are enjoying the feeling of his cock softly pounding into you way too much to stop him right now and so you just let him continue.

Soon you start to move a bit faster, in time with the movement of his hips. It feels perfect for the both of you. Your clit is rubbing over his groin, covering it with your juices. Tony lifts his head to watch where the two of you meet and he licks his lips. “So wet for me baby. And I didn’t even do a thing”

His smirk makes you chuckle slightly, but you don’t stop your movements. Instead, you clench around him as a respond, making his head fall back onto the pillow with a groan. “You like it when I ride your cock, don’t you?” You ask him between deep breaths.

Tony nods “God yes, I want to touch you. I want to touch you so bad”

You just shake his head. “I’m in charge tonight” And continue to ride him a little bit faster.

“Please… Please, I want to touch your perfect breasts, your skin, your pussy, please, baby” He whines out. You rarely see Tony like this, a panting, whining mess underneath you, pleading for you. But you enjoy this sight very much.

“You are touching me, Tony. Down here” As you say this you lean back slightly, taking his balls in your hand and rolling them softly, just as he likes it. The new angle makes both of you moan a little more, getting closer and closer to the sweet release.

“Yeah, and you feel so good” Tony whines out, bucking his hips up with a bit more force this time, making you jolt in pleasure. As he sees your reaction Tony does it again. “You like that?”

You nod frantically, feeling a knot in your stomach growing. “Yes, yes! Tony…” You moaning out his name makes him pull harder at the restraints, continuing his movements and chasing his own high. You can feel that he is close too and you look right at him. “Cum. Cum for me” You say with shaky voice, feeling the knot in your stomach is about to explode.

Your words are everything he needs and after three more thrusts he feels hot ropes spilling into you, as he groans heavily. His release sends you over the edge as well, clenching around him and milking every single drop from his cock, while your movements slowly dye down.

As you both come down from your high you open your eyes to look at him again, a soft smile playing around your lips. Tony looks up at you too, still feeling your walls clenching around his cocks slightly, hot cum dripping out of you. He softly pulls at the silk ropes around his wrists and looks up at you with pleading eyes, wanting to finally touch you and hold you in his arms.

“I don’t know, kinda like you like that” you chuckle a bit which makes him whine a bit.

“Please. Don’t you want me to cuddle you?” He looks at you with puppy eyes, and you can’t resist this looks anymore. You lean over to free him from his chains and he immediately wraps his arms around your waist, pulling you down against his chest. “This was amazing, baby” He softly whispers into your ear as your head rests on his shoulder.

“I may do it again” you respond.

“Oh, no way. Next round, I’m in charge” you can hear the smirk in his voice and you giggle.

“I’m not going to complain about that”

[bloodyrook]

Vanessa kirby and pedro pascal are being real cute while i never had faith in mcu writers and it has now been completely obliterated they could have be so good as reedsue i see the vision but not in the mcu the best we can hope for out of this is some good fan edits with them

[bebx]

me reading smut and calculating in my head the positions the characters are in

[thenon-binaryone]

we had one good day as Marvel fans

[thesuperheroesnetwork]

Texts From Superheroes

Facebook | Threads | Patreon | Instagram | BlueSky

[buildoblivion]

no shut up you have a type

[gyugraphy]

May I request a Bob Reynolds x Villain!Reader who -despite being a villain and doing villain things- they treat Bob really well,?

Like- if they heard about how Walker treats Bob, they'd already be planning to go after him first or smthng,?? Idek,,, just food for thoughts()

ferra (r.r.)

synopsis : You’re a weapon, feared, used, and long past redemption. The jobs don’t feel like victories anymore, just noise between silences. Then you meet Bob Reynolds. Too quiet, too powerful, and far too familiar. You should have walked away. Instead, you saved him, and now you’re in deeper than you meant to be.

pairing : bob reynolds x reader

content : slight angst, action, villain!reader (?),

warning/s : violence, swearing, mentions of past trauma

word count : 3.5k

A/N: thank you sm for the request! @d3adbr3inc3lls teehee i hope u like this one !!

You weren’t born a weapon.

But metal always loved you more than people did.

You learned that early, maybe too early. When your mother screamed and the bullet bent before it hit her, twisting midair like it had changed its mind. You remember her terrified face more than anything else. Not the blood. Not the man who ran. Just her, backing away from you like you’d grown claws.

You were seven.

That’s how it started.

Your power didn’t manifest gently. There was no warm glow, no magical accident. It wasn’t kind. It was messy and sharp and loud. You were loud. You cried for days afterward, not because you hurt someone—but because no one ever held you again.

By nine, you stopped flinching at sirens.

By eleven, you stopped waiting for help.

By thirteen, you were untraceable. Gone like smoke through every foster file, every underground program that wanted to “train” kids like you. The labs wanted you. The recruiters whispered your name like it was prophecy. The mercenary networks put a price on your head before they even met you.

Not because you were dangerous.

Because you were useful.

You learned quick that the world didn’t care if you were scared. Only if you were strong.

So you became strong.

By sixteen, you stopped caring about names altogether. You didn’t need one when they called you “the Iron Witch,” “the ferromancer,” “the girl with the gods-damned mind-magnet hands.” You didn’t care what they thought, as long as they feared you. Fear was safe. Fear made people back off. Fear paid the bills.

And the bills were always coming.

You’ve twisted steel into chains and walls and coffins. You’ve stopped bullets mid-flight, melted guns into slag while still in their owner’s grip, crushed skulls inside helmets without lifting a finger. You’ve dropped tanks from the sky. You’ve walked through warzones and left no survivors. You’ve been paid in gold, blood, and silence.

Because someone asked you to.

And that’s the thing about power. Once people know you have it, they stop asking if you want anything else.

No one ever asked what you wanted.

Not peace. Not forgiveness.

Certainly not love.

For a while, you thought you didn’t want anything else. You made a home out of silence. Built your bones out of iron and called it evolution. You convinced yourself that this—this mercenary, steel-skinned, blood-washed life—was freedom.

But freedom starts to rot when it’s just isolation in a prettier cage.

Then came the nights where even metal couldn’t drown out the silence. The weight of your own armor started to feel like a coffin. The kills got too easy. The jobs got too clean. You stopped sleeping well. Stopped laughing. Stopped pretending you liked the person you saw in the mirror. All you saw were sharp edges. All you heard was the sound of your own breath and the hum of weaponized walls.

You started to wonder if you’d always feel this alone.

And now?

Now you’re standing in a half-collapsed weapons facility in the Balkans, chasing something that might be worse than all the other jobs you’ve done put together. A “graviton pulse stabilizer” with phase-bending capabilities—something the wrong buyer could use to rewrite physics. To erase the laws of reality like a chalkboard. You don’t even want it. You told yourself you took the job because it was dangerous, and because if you didn’t get there first, someone worse would.

That’s the excuse you gave yourself.

But really?

You came because the Thunderbolts were coming too.

Because he was coming.

You wanted to see what second chances looked like.

You wanted to see him.

Bob Reynolds. The golden boy turned nuclear ghost. You’d read about him. Watched the footage.Somehow both the strongest and the most unstable of the bunch. You heard the whispers. The rumors. The fear that trembled behind closed doors.

He wasn’t what they called him.

Not just “The Void.” Not just a bomb in human skin.

No. You’d seen his file.

You saw the way he disappeared from fights more than he started them. The way he volunteered for backline duty, always carrying what the others needed. The way he stood slightly behind the rest, as if afraid of taking up space. The way he looked down in every surveillance clip, like the camera might flay him open if he met its gaze.

Someone like that… you understood.

Power that big didn’t come without breaking something first.

You wonder what broke in him. And whether it was the same thing that broke in you.

You move silently through the rusted remains of the upper floor, your boots gliding over warped steel catwalks. The old facility breathes around you—metal pipes groaning, floor beams shifting beneath the weight of history. The air is heavy with the scent of damp concrete, rust, and something darker beneath it—gunpowder, old smoke, dried blood trapped in stone.

Your fingers ghost along the wall. The pipes hum beneath your skin. There’s iron in the paint, copper in the wire, fragments of old blood in the dust. It listens when you touch it. The whole building does. The girders shiver at your passing. The screws twist a little looser, as if happy to see you.

This broken, half-dead ruin of a war machine. And for now, you’re the only god it worships.

But you didn’t come to rule, you came to watch.

You came to find the one man who might understand what it feels like to be a weapon no one asked to make.

You came to see if there’s still something in this world that doesn’t turn to steel when you reach for it.

And if there isn’t?

Then at least you’ll know.

Far below, across the fractured ribcage of the facility, something shifts.

Not the team. You’d recognize their weight—too heavy, too clumsy, too loud in the way soldiers always are. This is something else. Quieter. Hesitant.

You pause at the edge of a collapsed stairwell and feel the breath of metal shift through your lungs. It tells you before your eyes do.

He’s close.

Bob doesn’t hear her at first.

He feels her.

The echo of something magnetic. Not literal magnetism—he’s immune to that. But something more primal, like a thread tugging at the corners of his awareness. His skin prickles beneath the sleeves of his black tactical shirt, the borrowed Thunderbolts insignia feeling suddenly too snug across his shoulder blades. The weight of the portable containment unit slung across his back should ground him, but it doesn’t.

Something’s off.

He’s not one to say that aloud—he’s already the weird one, the twitchy one, the backliner with a temperamental nuclear god curled up in his ribcage—but he knows what it means when his instincts twist like this.

He’s being watched.

He adjusts the strap on his shoulder and slows his steps. His boots scuff against the concrete, careful and measured. The corridors here are tight, long-abandoned, gutted of anything valuable decades ago. Walls of peeling paint, corroded metal, broken signage in Cyrillic. The lights on his suit flicker faint blue against rust and shadow.

He doesn’t call for the others.

If something’s waiting for him, it’s not for them.

He rounds the corner. And there she is.

Propped casually against the metal frame of a broken doorway, arms crossed, a lazy smirk blooming like a bruise across her mouth.

She’s not dressed like the mercs they were briefed on. No heavy gear, no visible weapons. Just combat boots scuffed silver at the soles, black utility pants cinched with magnetic buckles, and a dark fitted jacket with plates of reinforced alloy glinting faintly beneath the fabric. She looks like she built her own armor and made it look good doing it.

Her eyes are lit with something half-feral, half-amused.

“Hey, cutie,” she says, voice silk-wrapped iron. “Bob, isn’t it?”

His mouth opens. Closes.

He blinks like a man short-circuiting.

“You have something I want.”

The containment unit on his back suddenly feels very, very heavy.

He shifts slightly, posture tightening. “We can’t just give it to you.”

“I figured you’d say that.” She shrugs, lazy and unbothered, like she’s got all the time in the world to toy with him. “But I thought it’d be polite to ask first. You seemed like the polite one.”

“How do you know who I am?” he asks, quiet but direct.

She grins wider. “Oh, Bob. You don’t know how many people watch you. Most of them are scared.” Her gaze rakes him—slow, analytical, amused. “I’m just… curious.”

He swallows hard. The hallway is too narrow. The air too thick. And her presence is loud without raising her voice—metal curls toward her like ivy to sunlight. The rusted screws in the wall vibrate when she shifts her weight. Even the broken pipes seem to listen.

Then—

“Bob?” Yelena’s voice cracks through his comm. Distant, somewhere on the west wing. “Do you copy? Got movement near Sector C.”

His head turns slightly, just for a second. But when he looks back—

She’s gone.

Just a faint vibration in the walls. A memory left in the air.

He breathes out slowly.

And for some reason, it almost feels like disappointment.

Bob stands frozen, his chest heaving slightly, still staring at the empty space where she stood a second ago. His ears ring from the silence she left behind, sharper than any explosion. Then the comms crackle again—Yelena’s voice cutting in, crisp and impatient.

“Bob? You’re lagging. Talk to me.”

He forces a breath out, fingers tapping his earpiece.

“Yeah. I’m here.”

“You sound weird.”

He hesitates, gaze still searching the shadows.

“Just… thought I saw someone.”

There’s a pause on the line. Then, with the unmistakable smirk in her tone:

“Was she hot?”

He doesn’t reply. Because yes. She was. But it wasn’t just that.

She felt like an unfinished sentence—both unsettling and magnetic. Something about her clung to the edges of his thoughts, even after she’d slipped back into the dark like she’d never been.

He breathes out through his nose, tension tightening between his shoulders.

That’s when the first shot cracks through the air.

Far off at first. Then closer.

It’s followed by another. And another—until the air is vibrating with it. A shuddering percussion of automatic gunfire rattling through the steel skeleton of the building.

“Contact! Third floor west—twelve targets, at least!” Ava’s voice bursts through the comms, loud over the staccato gunfire. “Unknown affiliation. They’re not on our list.”

“Copy that.” Bucky, already moving.

Bob spins toward the source of the noise, his boots scuffing over cracked concrete. His grip tightens on the sleek black pack strapped to his chest—the one carrying the weapon they were sent to retrieve. He can feel it pulsing faintly beneath the reinforced layers, like something alive is trying to wake up.

The hallway stretches ahead in ruin, flickering lights casting erratic shadows across warped steel beams. Dust filters down like ash from the upper levels, stirred by the footfalls of something heavy. Bob breaks into a run, rounding the corner—

And freezes.

Dozens of them.

They move like a hive— dark armored figures flooding into the space from a breached service door, their weapons raised. No symbols. No identifiers. No hesitation. They aren’t part of any team he’s briefed on. These guys don’t want the weapon for a mission, they want it for power.

Bucky is already engaged, trading blows with two attackers. Ava blinks in and out of visibility, phasing through solid walls and reappearing behind enemies with knives drawn. Yelena throws a flashbomb that sends sparks scattering. Alexei grabs a man by the torso and slams him into the ceiling like he’s swatting a fly.

Bob ducks behind a crumbling pillar, heart pounding, trying not to crush the pack as stray bullets ricochet dangerously close.

Another burst of gunfire—closer now—sends debris raining over his head. He risks a glance toward Ava, just in time to see a sniper lining her up in their sights.

And then the bullet stops.

Not misses.

Stops.

Frozen in midair like it hit a wall made of thought.

Time doesn’t stop. But for a moment, the air feels thick with static—every sound distorted, every motion just a fraction too slow. Bob’s eyes snap to the origin.

And there she is again. Unannounced. Unbothered.

Standing in the chaos like she belongs to it.

The bullets hover around her like planets orbiting a sun. She doesn’t even flinch. Her hand is raised lazily, her fingers poised like she’s playing a piano only she can hear. Her coat—black leather, long and battle-worn—flares around her knees. Dust settles in her hair like a crown.

She turns her wrist. The bullets drop.

One by one. A clattering rainfall of lead hitting the floor.

Bob stares. Not just at what she can do, but at the way she chooses to do it.

She stopped them.

She didn’t retaliate. Didn’t redirect. Just… stopped it all.

“She’s not with them!” Bob shouts, rising from cover. His voice is loud, cutting through the gunfire—but whether the others hear him or not, they’re too deep into the fight to pause.

Walker’s already mid-charge. His shield slices the air in a clean arc, sailing toward her like a buzzsaw.

She doesn’t move.

She doesn’t need to.

The shield twists midflight—snatched from its path and slammed down at her feet with a sharp clatter, controlled like it never belonged to him in the first place.

She doesn’t speak.

But her expression shifts—irritation blooming across her face like a storm cloud.

Her eyes flick to Bob.

Walker doesn’t back down. He lunges again, faster this time, less thinking, more brute force.

And that’s when she lifts her hand, just two fingers, and the metal beneath Walker’s boots rises.

A spike of iron twists out of the floor like a fang. It slices through his tactical vest and cuts a shallow line across his ribs, stopping just short of real damage.

He stumbles back, wide-eyed.

“Enough!” Bob’s voice breaks through again. He pushes forward, hand out, trying to reach her before this gets worse.

She doesn’t raise another weapon. Doesn’t retreat.

She turns to face him fully for the first time.

And in that moment, Bob sees the truth that the rest of the team is missing.

The set of her shoulders. The control in her stance. The restraint on her face.

She’s helping them.

She’s choosing not to kill them.

Before he can say anything else, the wall behind her explodes—mercs breaching from the south wing. Three of them, armed with heavy artillery, firing wildly.

She doesn’t flinch.

Instead, she yanks an entire sheet of ceiling metal down with a sweep of her arm, twisting it into a makeshift shield that curves around Bob, Yelena, and Ava before the bullets can make contact.

The noise is deafening. Rounds hitting steel like a drumline.

And she holds it.

One hand. Breathing steady. Eyes locked on Bob the entire time.l

He watches the metal glow faintly red from the heat of impact, then cool beneath her control. When the storm dies down, she lets it fall with a thunderous slam.

She’s covered in dust now. Smudges of soot on her jaw, blood on her sleeve—someone else’s, he thinks.

She takes a single step forward.

Bob does too.

Then Walker, furious, yells from behind them, “She’s right here and you let her go? What the hell do you even do, Reynolds?!”

And before Bob can answer—before he can even breathe—

The shield twitches.

Lifts.

Spins in the air like it remembers who really listens to metal.

And flies straight back at Walker.

But it stops—midair—hovering just an inch from his sternum.

Held there by invisible strings.

She’s glaring now, shoulders tight, mouth hard with fury.

“You want to try that again, asshole?” she snaps.

Bob doesn’t think. He moves—crossing the few feet between them and grabbing her wrist before she can hurl the shield with lethal force.

Her pulse thrums under his hand.

Her gaze flicks to his.

And just like that—the metal drops.

The air stills.

And in that space between violence and choice, something clicks.

They’re the same kind of dangerous, but maybe not to each other.

The moment her fingers leave the edge of Bob’s wrist, she’s moving again.

No words. No thanks. Just a flick of her eyes toward the scattered remains of the facility and the sharp metallic whine of something rising.

Bob whirls around just in time to see the security vault breach open—twisted apart like a peeled tin can. The weapon they were sent to retrieve, the one tucked behind five layers of biometric locks and reinforced alloys, floats to her open hand.

It’s not what he expected.

No glowing core, no sleek casing. It looks almost ancient—cylindrical, faintly humming, etched with equations even he can’t parse in the second he glimpses it. Like it doesn’t belong in any timeline.

“Wait—!” Bob starts.

But she’s already backing away, the weapon cradled against her hip like it was always meant for her. She gives him a look—equal parts regret and something warmer, softer, like she had considered staying.

Then she vanishes.

Metal peels back from the ceiling above her, forming a narrow escape tunnel. She rises with it—her shadow trailing like smoke—until the darkness swallows her whole.

This time, she doesn’t leave a bullet behind to stop.

Two hours later. Thunderbolts debrief room.

Val paces in front of the team like a drill sergeant with a caffeine addiction, tablet in one hand and sarcasm in the other.

“So let me get this straight,” she begins, boots clicking sharply across the metal floor. “You all fought off an unknown mercenary group, nearly died, and then let some goth scrapheap Barbie steal the very weapon we were sent to secure?”

Yelena slouches in her seat. “Technically, she helped.”

“She robbed us.”

“She saved us, then robbed us,” Ava offers flatly. “Important difference.”

Alexei grunts. “She was… very fast.”

John scoffs, arms crossed. “She made me bleed.”

“Good. You’re overdue.” Yelena doesn’t even look at him.

Val pinches the bridge of her nose. “You guys are unbelievable.”

Her eyes dart to Bob. He’s seated at the far end, hands folded too neatly, staring at the dark smear of dried blood on his boot like it’s got answers.

“And you,” Val barks. “Our backpack boy. The hell were you doing while she made off with the prize?"

Bob looks up. Quiet. “Trying not to get anyone killed.”

“Oh, well, round of applause,” she snaps. “Maybe next time you try a little harder not to help the enemy.”

“She’s not the enemy,” Bob says without thinking.

Val freezes. “Oh no?”

“She didn’t shoot us. She stopped them from killing us. She had our backs.”

“She had our weapon.”

Val’s voice rises. “For all we know, she’s going to sell it to the highest bidder or crack open a wormhole in her living room. We don’t know anything about her—”

A door hisses open behind them.

They all turn as a figure steps through the threshold, calm as a gunshot in the dark.

Long coat. One eye.

Nick Fury.

He doesn’t say anything at first. Just strolls in, takes in the chaos, and raises a brow.

Val gestures wildly toward the screens behind her, which are replaying grainy footage of you stopping bullets mid-air and folding a blast door like paper. “Do you know what this is? Who the hell helped who out there?!”

Fury doesn’t flinch. He steps forward, tilts his chin at the paused screen.

“We call the subject: Ferra,” he says evenly. “Real name: unknown. Age: estimated early twenties. First surfaced in Moscow when she was around thirteen, leveling a black market tech ring in under five minutes. SHIELD’s been tracking her ever since.”

Yelena blinks. “You mean you knew she existed this whole time?”

Fury nods. “She’s a ghost with a kill record that puts most of your dossiers to shame. She doesn’t work for anyone. She doesn’t like anyone. Which means if she showed up, it wasn’t for the money.”

Bob straightens. “Then why?”

Fury glances at him. There’s something unreadable in his expression.

“That’s what we’re going to find out.”

Val sighs, dragging a hand down her face. “You’re telling me SHIELD’s Most Wanted just walked into our mission, saved your asses, stole the target, and now we’re just—what—gonna go look for her like a goddamn scavenger hunt?”

Fury just turns to the team, hands behind his back.

“Next mission’s simple. You find her. You figure out what she wants. And if there’s even a chance she’s planning to use that thing—”

He meets Bob’s eyes again.

“—you stop her.”

Silence settles again.

Bob exhales slowly.

And for the first time since she vanished, something flickers behind his sternum.

She didn’t hurt them. She chose not to.

And whatever came next…

He wasn’t going to let her face it alone.

A/N : first request! :>>> lmk what u think!

A/N 2 : not proofread yet ik im sorry

[pinkiebieberpie]

tattoo artist!bucky and his favorite customer - can you imagine??? you are just a sweet, soft girl who loves tattoos and he flirts with you everytime you visit his studio; he would do anything you want, any design you can think of... "of course, sweetheart, where do you want it?" DAMN HIS VOICE... when he calls you "sweetheart" you are just melting--- and his touch, so gentle but firm 🫠🫠 when one day he finally asked you out that was like a dream come true, cause after so many tattoos he finally took a hint! (also alpine cameo, his sweet little kitty is always with him at work) this tough guy being a cat dad??? can he just rail me already????

masterlists

[reed-victor]

Someone says Victor’s definitely and canonically Reed’s sugar daddy because when Reed wants something and he needs the money for it, he goes to Victor. And Victor actually ends up giving Reed what he wants. And it’s literally canon. Like????? OMG????!! I !!!! LOVE THEM !!!!!!

[cactus-cuddler]

𝐓𝐨𝐮𝐜𝐡 𝐌𝐞 𝐖𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐝𝐬

˗ˏˋ ♡ ˎˊ˗ Pairing: Professor!Bucky Barnes × Female!Student

˗ˏˋ ♡ ˎˊ˗ Plot: You challenged his authority. He challenged your mind. But neither of you expected words to turn into desire

˗ˏˋ ♡ ˎˊ˗ Warnings: 🔞 Explicit content ★ Student/Professor dynamic ★ Power play ★ Oral sex ★ Fingering ★ Dirty talk ★ Age gap ★

˗ˏˋ ♡ ˎˊ˗ Word count: 4,6 (sorry)

The new academic year is just around the corner, and as always, you already know what you're signing up for: every history and literature course you can fit into your schedule.

It’s your comfort zone—familiar subjects, familiar structure.

But then, scrolling through the updated course catalog, something catches your eye. A title that reads less like a class and more like a dare:

“Europe in Conflict: Truths They Won’t Teach You in History Books”

You roll your eyes.

It sounds like pure academic clickbait—designed to provoke, to stand out, to spark controversy.

You’ve always believed that history is history. It’s written, it’s documented, it’s taught.

There are no “hidden truths.” No conspiracies buried between the lines of a textbook.

Still… you hesitate.

Something about that course nags at you. Maybe it’s the arrogance in the title.

Maybe it’s curiosity.

Or maybe it’s the quiet voice in the back of your mind that wants to prove it wrong.

Whatever it is, you find yourself doing something you didn’t expect: You enroll.

Not because you’re convinced.

But because you want to see what this so-called “truth” really is.

«Are you sure about the title of your course? No one’s going to sign up,» said Sam Wilson, arms crossed, looking at his best friend — James Buchanan Barnes. Bucky to his friends. Buck, only to Sam.

«Too late. I changed my mind. Why didn’t you stop me from thinking it was a good idea to become a university professor instead of an ambassador?» Professor Barnes shot back, fussing with the collar of a shirt that didn’t feel quite right.

He had never been one for fancy clothes, and spending hundreds of dollars on suits wasn’t exactly his thing. That’s why he borrowed one from Sam, even though they were clearly not the same size. In Sam’s clothes, he looked more like a badly dressed clown than a respectable professor — but that didn’t seem to bother him.

Despite appearances, Bucky was nervous. He tried not to show it, but this was his first class, his first time teaching. He didn’t have the degrees, the credentials, or even the confidence. But there was one thing he did have: the past. And he hoped that would be enough. All he had to do was tell his story — or at least, parts of it.

The other professors weren’t exactly thrilled about him joining the faculty. He’d seen the way they looked at him — with doubt, with mistrust. He’d heard the whispers in the halls:

«An assassin, teaching our students?»

«We're putting their education in the hands of that monster?»

He ignored them. Smiled politely. "I’m going to be the best damn professor this place has ever seen," he told himself, scanning the crowd in the staff lounge. Deep down, he knew they were jealous. They had worked all their lives for their place here. He? He’d just been brainwashed by Hydra, fought in World War II, and committed unspeakable crimes.

When he walked into the classroom, the seats were already nearly full. That surprised him. Maybe not everyone thought it was a bad idea. Maybe someone really wanted to hear what he had to say.

When the bell rang, he walked up to the board and wrote his full name in block letters. Underneath, a few words — concepts, really — that he would come back to later.

Then he turned to the class.

«Nice to meet you. I’m Professor Barnes. First thing you need to know: I didn’t study history,» he said, letting the words hang in the air as he scanned the room full of young, curious eyes.

A wave of murmurs spread through the class. He let it build — he wanted the noise, the reaction.

«I lived it,» he added. And just like that, silence fell.

It felt good, the way those words hit. He wasn’t sure he liked teaching, but he definitely liked that feeling — making them think.

«What you read in history books,» he continued, «is always filtered. By whoever wrote it. Their bias, their experience, their agenda.»

But before he could go on, a voice interrupted him — sharp and challenging. Yours.

«And you’ve read them all to be so sure?» you asked, staring at him as if trying to peel away the layers and see what kind of man he really was.

«What do the books say about America during World War II?» he asked the room, shifting the focus.

A hand shot up. A student replied, «We were the saviors. Just like in the first war. Every conflict in Europe — we brought peace.»

Bucky let out a bitter laugh.

«Hiroshima and Nagasaki — mean anything to you? Or the ‘liberators’ who raped women and children in concentration camps? Did you know about that?»

Everyone went still. Except you. You didn’t flinch. Those facts, to you, were just the surface. History ran deeper. These things happened everywhere.

«You funded dictators in Latin America. And that’s just what we know. If you think you’re the heroes, remember — to many people around the world, you’re just the villains. It all depends on the lens you use. If a dictator wrote the history books, would they sound any different?»

Heads shook all around the room. Yours too.

By the end of the class, Professor Barnes gave them their first assignment: an essay, based on what they'd just discussed.

You liked the idea. It gave you space to write everything you were thinking — maybe even prove him wrong.

Still, he annoyed you. His attitude, the way he spoke — rough, blunt, even crude. His shirt was wrinkled, his pants too big, like he hadn’t even tried. Nothing about him said “professor.” And maybe that’s what bothered you the most.

“What do you mean by an ‘F’?” you ask, taking the essay back from Professor Barnes a week later.

It had been a week filled with subtle battles — you challenging everything he said in class, questioning his views, pushing back with sharp comments and a fierce determination to prove him wrong.

You weren’t just a passive student; you made sure he knew you wouldn’t be easily silenced.

So, seeing that failing grade felt like a challenge thrown back at you — and you weren’t about to accept it without a fight.

He doesn’t answer. He simply ignores you and continues returning papers to the rest of the class. You’re furious. Your essay has no corrections. It’s perfect—like everything you do—and yet, right there on the front page, is a bold red F.

«Today, we’re going to talk about the Cold War,» he announces from the front of the room, calm and collected. «But I won’t be the one leading the lecture. Today, we’ll hear Russia’s perspective. Please welcome a dear friend of mine—Yelena Belova.»

You don’t hear the rest. The anger churns in your chest. You’ve never received anything lower than a B- in your entire academic life, and now this man—this random man—is trying to ruin your GPA?

You make a decision. After class, you’re going to his office. You need answers.

The moment comes sooner than expected. Now you’re standing in front of a small golden nameplate that reads: “James B. Barnes.”

You take a breath, gather your nerve, and walk in—without knocking.

He doesn’t flinch. He’s grading more papers, wearing a pair of glasses that should honestly be illegal on a man like him.

«I’d tell you to make yourself at home, but it looks like you already have,» he says, nodding toward the chair across from him.

«Can you explain this to me?» you say, your voice sharp as you drop the essay onto his messy desk.

«It’s well written,» he replies without looking up. «But all you did was summarize the textbook. I expected more, to be honest.»

«I didn’t just summarize. I added my own thoughts.»

«Thoughts based entirely on the textbook,» he counters. «I want students who think outside the box. Not ones who just regurgitate material.»

«So your grades depend on your mood?» you snap.

«No,» he says calmly. «They depend on whether you make me think.»

«At least tell me how I can fix this. I can’t have this F on my record.»

He finally looks up. The corner of his mouth lifts in a knowing smirk. He’s read you like a book.

«Write something that actually makes me think. It doesn’t have to be related to class. Surprise me.»

He lingers on those last two words—surprise me—like a challenge.

You don’t thank him. You stand, chin high, and leave without another word. But deep down, you already know:

You’re going to make him regret that smirk.

After class, you head toward Professor Barnes’ office.

You wanted to hand him your new assignment away from prying eyes.

What you’ve written is pure fire—designed to provoke him, to make his knees weak.

And yet, the closer you get to his door, the more part of you wants to turn and run.

But no.

His arrogance can’t go unpunished.

He asked to be surprised—and you’re not the kind of girl who backs down. You’ve written about femmes fatales. Women who, with nothing more than charm and flesh, struck harder than any weapon ever could.

You knock softly. When he gives permission, you step in, place the paper on his desk, and slip out without saying a single word.

Mr. Barnes scans the pages with quiet focus.

The title burns red at the top, the text below laid out in perfect black. He doesn’t yet know what’s coming but he was sure you’d surprise him. He saw it in your eyes: That fire. That refusal to play safe.

How Desire Disarmed Europe

The most dangerous weapon has always been a wet mouth and a willing body.

They never needed armies. Just a gaze that lingered too long. A mouth slightly parted in pretend innocence. A hand trailing up a thigh—slow, teasing, dangerous.

Men went to war thinking they were in control,

But the moment we opened our legs their minds fell silent.

They'd step into our beds with the arrogance of conquerors, and leave with their egos shattered, begging for more.

We let them think they were taking us when really, we were wrapping ourselves around them, tight and wet and trembling. Just enough to make them think they were gods.

We whispered their names between gasps, scratched our nails down their backs, bit their lips until they moaned like beasts and all the while, we watched them fall apart.

They thought they were using us, but every groan they pulled from us was designed. Every movement, every cry, every shiver a calculated strike. Because the truth is, you can drop a man to his knees without ever touching a blade.

You just have to touch him where it matters, wrap your mouth around his thoughts, Ride his pride until it breaks, And leave him aching, ruined, and addicted.

So, Mr. Barnes tell me. When was the last time you truly lost control? Was it the heat of battle… Or the heat between her thighs?

Mr. Barnes was captivated by those words.

The deeper he read, the warmer his cheeks became, a flush creeping slowly across his skin.

His breath grew a little heavier, his pulse quickened.

Carefully, he picked up a green pen and began to write his comments—words that he would hand back to you the next day in class.

“So this is how you play, huh? You open your thighs on paper and expect me to keep my hands behind my back? You wrote this to make me sweat, to test how far you could push before I snapped. Careful, sweetheart—some men don't break. Some... bite back. Your metaphors are sharp, your rhythm tight. But it’s your mind that’s the real trap, not your body. And that? That’s what makes it dangerous. You wanted a reaction. Here's one: I haven’t stopped thinking about what you wrote. Not because it was brilliant—though it was. But because now, every time I look at you, I wonder if you moan the way you write: slow, deliberate... and just a little cruel.”

~ J. Barnes

Mr. Barnes handed your paper back in front of the whole class — so that everyone would know.

That you had rewritten it.

That he had noticed.

That it meant something.

You’d already read his comment three times. This was the fourth.

You knew you were pushing limits — but you hadn’t expected him to push back.

An A. And scribbled in the corner, his note: “Good girl.”

It made your cheeks flush hot, and he knew it.

Of course he knew.

Then, as if nothing had happened, he addressed the class.

«Today I want you to write an essay based on this prompt: Love in times of war.

Find some real examples online, but give me something you won’t find in textbooks.

If you want to write about the Times Square kiss, give me the truth — not the version polished by journalists to make the end of a war look romantic. Be original.»

You glanced around.

Everyone looked thrilled, inspired.

But to you, it felt like an invitation — or maybe a trap. Did he choose that topic for you? No. Probably not. But sooner or later, even Barnes — with all his bitterness toward history books — was bound to bring up what they never talk about: love.

You looked up.

He was watching you.

You turned away quickly.

But not before catching a faint smirk tugging at the edge of his mouth. So you wrote. Not about romance. Not about fairytales blooming in the ruins. But about women who wore lipstick and smiled wide as they married soldiers not for love, but for the hope they’d never come back. So they could inherit everything.

You wrote that love, in war, is like a seed thrown on frozen soil. Meant to be buried, never meant to grow. That most couples didn't live happily ever after — most didn’t even live together again.

You wrote about the postwar hunger. The need for freedom — even in desire. Because being tied to a man who might never return makes you crave passion even more. And when you do, they call it sin. And then, at the end, you added this — not loudly, but deliberately:

“Sex should be had before it’s too late. What was it like, not doing it for so long? Actually — Mr. Barnes — are we sure you’re not still a virgin?Back then, hardly anyone had sex before marriage, and as far as I know... you never got married.

Wouldn’t it be something if all that hard exterior of yours was just hiding the fact that you’ve never once heard a girl moan your name?”

Professor Barnes handed your essay back with the others, two classes later. His steps were steady, his tone calm — almost too calm. You weren’t prepared for what came next.

He stood at the front of the classroom, papers in hand, and began speaking about each student’s work — aloud, by name, with the same quiet sharpness as a blade drawn slowly from its sheath. You hadn’t expected this. If you had known he’d comment on them in front of everyone, you never would’ve written what you did. Not like that.

«Most of you approached the topic with romantic eyes. I found your work moving — some of it, almost touching. That doesn’t happen often, so… well done,» he said with a light, reserved applause. It grated on you — the way he pretended to be a qualified professor. A man who hadn’t studied for this role, hadn’t earned it.

He wore authority like a jacket that didn’t quite fit — too stiff on the shoulders, too new for the man inside. Your classmates beamed with pride. A few exchanged smiles. Others whispered excitedly, clearly thrilled by the unexpected praise. You sat still. Something cold fluttered in your chest.

Then: «The only one who didn’t take a romantic approach was y/n,» he added, voice cool, almost amused.

Every head turned.

A dozen curious stares met you like waves — some amused, some skeptical. One girl smirked. A boy raised his eyebrows, interested. You didn’t flinch.

«Would you mind sharing your thoughts with the class? Come up here.»

You rose slowly, uncertain but composed. Your fingers gripped the pages tightly as you made your way to the front.

Now you stood where he had stood — under the dull classroom lights, facing thirty pairs of eyes… and his comment, written in that now-familiar green ink that haunted your dreams like a secret.

“There aren’t only good girls and good boys in this world. Your piece felt more like an invitation than a provocation. I’ve heard plenty of women moan my name. Wanting me just for themselves. You're like that because you want to become one of them?”

Your throat tightened, but you kept your expression neutral. You held the page steady, then looked up — gaze level, voice calm.

«I wrote that love in wartime is a coin with two faces.

On one side, you find what the history books love — aching letters, kisses in train stations, poetic heartbreak.

On the other side, there are women who married men hoping they wouldn’t come back.

For a pension. An inheritance. A chance at owning something — maybe for the first time.

Because love isn’t always enough… when the world around you is falling apart.»

Your classmates sat still, uncertain whether to laugh or think harder. A few leaned forward. One boy looked visibly shaken; a girl whispered “damn” under her breath. Someone at the back coughed awkwardly.

From his desk, Barnes watched you — head tilted, eyes unreadable. There was something like a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. Not warm. Not cruel. But hungry. And patient. Like someone waiting for the next move in a game only the two of you were playing.

At the end of the class, everyone left.

A few paused to compliment you—sincerely, or maybe just out of curiosity—and you accepted their words with a pleased smile. If Barnes had meant to embarrass you, he’d failed. This game—you were the one playing it. And you knew exactly how far you could take it. You were just about to walk out when his voice stopped you.

«Close the door. Come here.»

You obeyed, calm, as if time itself was on your side. You had nowhere else to be. Neither did he. You stepped up to his desk.

He didn’t speak. Just watched you in silence, like he was trying to read something written on your skin. It annoyed you.

«Are you going to say something, or should I start?» you asked, sharp.

«I was hoping you would,» he replied.

His voice was low. The tone, unreadable.

«Since the first day, you’ve looked at me like you’re waiting for a reason to hate me.»

«It’s not hard,» you shot back.

«You don’t deserve to be here.»

He stood up—slowly—closing the space between you.

«Really? Tell me one thing you knew about this subject before I started teaching it.»

You stayed silent.

«Maybe it’s not that I don’t deserve this job…» he whispered, leaning in,

«…maybe you just can’t stand seeing me as only a professor. Can you?»

He curled a strand of your hair around his finger, deliberate.

«Tell me… You wouldn’t want to be one of them, would you?» His eyes were locked on yours.

Your breath caught—just slightly—but you didn’t flinch. You glanced at the door. Not because you wanted to leave, but because you wanted to remember: you could. You just didn’t want to.

His gaze slipped to your mouth. You smiled. Barely. And then—you kissed him. He didn’t pull away. Quite the opposite. He kissed you back, deeper. And when you finally broke apart, you were the one smiling.

You had known this would happen. And you liked the taste of his surrender. His gaze had changed. Darker. More resolute. And yet, he hesitated. As if still wondering whether this was a mistake—whether he should stop.

«I thought you were only good at writing provocations,» he finally said, voice rough. You stepped closer, just slightly, your tone calm—guiltless.

«Maybe I am. But you're the one who chose to read between the lines.»

He narrowed his eyes. He was a man used to control, and you were slowly stealing it from him. Not with shouting. Not with scandal. But with the ruthless logic of desire. Your fingers brushed the edge of his collar. Nothing more.

«Tell me to stop,» you whispered. And he didn’t. This time, it was him who leaned in. No rush. No remorse. He kissed you like he was trying to understand you. Like every touch was a question only your body could answer. Your back met the edge of the desk. Papers shifted slightly, disturbed. He pulled back for a moment, breath heavy, eyes searching yours—as if to ask: Are you sure? You nodded.

There were no more roles left to play. There was only the present. And an empty classroom, cut off from time.

«Not here. Come to my office in half an hour. You still have time to back out,» the professor says, trying to summon all the self-control he has left. You nod. After all, the classroom couldn’t be locked—and if you got caught, you'd both be in serious trouble.

You show up at his office prepared. Before leaving, you stopped by your dorm to change. Your roommate asked where you were going, knowing you had no more classes. You made up an excuse, but she didn’t fully believe you.

You walk in without knocking, locking the door behind you. You toss him a condom he catches effortlessly. He looks at you, amused, a grin curling his lips.

«Didn’t expect you to be so impatient. I figured you’d back out,» he says.

You chuckle. «And let you win? Never.»

You clear his desk of anything you find unnecessary and hop up onto it, sitting with purpose, making sure you’re fully on display for him.

«I’m at your mercy, Professor. How did I do on my assignments?» you ask playfully, letting him undress you piece by piece—without lifting a finger to help. You wanted to see if he was really as skilled as he claimed.

You hadn’t planned for this, so you weren’t wearing anything sexy—just a matching bra and panties in a subtle color. You’d deliberately chosen a bra that was tricky to remove, but he unhooks it with disarming ease. That surprises you.

Now you’re fully exposed. You’re naked, with nothing to hide behind, and yet you don’t feel the least bit uncomfortable. You love the way he looks at you—how his eyes trace every line, every inch of your body like he’s seeing something rare.

He starts touching your thighs—soft, bare skin under his fingers—and then moves up, taking your breasts in his hands. He pinches your nipples between his fingers with confident pressure. You bite your lower lip, trying not to moan at these teasing touches. You wouldn’t give him that satisfaction.

But he notices.

He parts your legs wider, determined. He’s going to make you moan his name, one way or another. His fingers slide through your folds, spreading you open to see how wet you already are—how ready your body is for what’s coming. With his thumb, he begins to tease your clit, starting slow but quickly growing rougher, faster, watching your breath hitch and your composure begin to crack.

When you gasp, he pulls his thumb away and licks it clean right in front of you—tasting you deliberately.

He wants more.

He kneels between your legs, kissing your inner thighs with a teasing slowness before finally going where you need him most. He presses a wet kiss to your clit, then captures it between his lips, sucking with a rhythm that makes your eyes roll back. His tongue moves expertly, hitting all your sensitive spots, learning from every twitch of your body and flicker of your expression exactly where to press, where to circle, where to make you fall apart.

He slides his tongue inside you, one hand gripping your ass tightly, nails dragging just enough to leave light scratches behind.

«Mr. Barnes…» you sigh, breathless, no longer pretending to be in control.

He replaces his tongue with two long fingers—index and middle—sliding them deep inside you while watching your face twist in pleasure. Seeing you like this, overwhelmed and submissive to your own desire, gives him a surge of raw satisfaction.

«You’re even more beautiful when you let go,» he murmurs, continuing to thrust his fingers into you.

You're soaked—hot, wet, and so ready for him. He pulls his fingers out slowly, savoring the way your walls cling to them. He brings them to his lips first, then presses them against yours, forcing you to taste yourself. You open your mouth, sucking them until you can’t taste anything but yourself on his long, teasing fingers.

Then he unzips his jeans.

He takes out his thick, throbbing cock, stroking it from base to tip, his eyes locked on you. You stare, surprised.

«What a shame someone so inexperienced has something like that,» you mutter between gasps, provoking him.

«You must have high standards if ‘inexperienced’ means someone who almost made you come with just his tongue,» he shoots back, still slowly stroking himself, watching your reactions closely.

For now, he’s content just watching you—fisting his cock, savoring the view of your naked body spread out on his desk.

«I’ve been touching myself like this every night lately. Thinking about you,» he admits.

You bite the inside of your cheek. That caught you off guard. You’ve been fantasizing about this too—about fucking your professor—ever since that heated argument a few days ago that ended with unspoken tension crackling between you.

You wonder how much longer he’ll make you wait before finally filling you with that cock.

«If you want it,» he says, seeing the hunger in your eyes, «you have to ask me.»

But you won’t. He knows it. He’s testing your limits.

Instead, you take control.

You slide two fingers between your thighs and begin to fuck yourself—hard, fast, reckless. Your moans are louder now, bolder than before, almost like you want him to feel replaced. You watch his expression as your pleasure builds.

«Just so you know,» you pant, eyes locked on his, «if you don’t make me cum, I’ll do it myself.»

He can’t tell whether it’s a threat or an invitation. Either way, it pushes him over the edge.

He tears open the condom, rolls it on, and rubs the head of his cock against your clit—teasing you—before plunging inside with a single sharp thrust.

He fucks you with firm, deep, confident strokes, hitting all the right angles. It doesn’t take long before your body’s shaking uncontrollably, your orgasm ripping through you like a wave.

He follows seconds later, groaning your name against your skin.

You both finish together, trembling, moaning each other’s names—soft enough not to be heard outside the door, but loud enough to echo inside each other’s heads for a long time to come.

Thanks for reading!!!

[kelltonic]

When there’s no fanfiction for your favourite underrated character so you have to lock in and write it yourself 💔💔

[happy74827]

The Slowest Dance

[Bucky Barnes x Female!Reader]

Synopsis: You helped him heal, so now he's teaching you how to let go

WC: 2309

Category: Slow-Burn, First-Kiss, Mentions of Past Events {Bucky taking the lead ✨😏}

This was 100% inspired by a random song I discovered 💀

『••✎••』

You helped him learn how to stand again. How to live again.

It started in fragments — little things, small moments that almost felt like accidents. The way he started drinking his coffee without flinching at the silence. The way he’d walk alongside you on the sidewalk and not scan every rooftop. The way he stopped apologizing when he smiled, as though joy was something he didn’t quite earn.

You didn’t push. You never did. You let Bucky come to you, step by step, at a rhythm entirely his own. And somehow, somewhere along that fragile timeline, he’d begun to reach for you — a quiet presence in the doorway, a hand at your back when the world got too loud, his voice saying your name like a prayer at midnight.

And still, it took nearly a year before you two even spoke about the word "together."

It was slow. God, it was so slow. But it wasn’t stagnant. No, it was warm, steady — like a pot of tea steeping on the stove, growing stronger the longer it was left alone.

He never rushed you. And you never rushed him.

Because you were just as terrified.

You’d never had anything like this before. Not even close. No relationships. No first kiss. No fumbling hands in the dark. Your life had been a quiet one, filled with books and daydreams and the kind of affection that lived solely in fiction. You weren’t broken, but you were untouched. New to it all. And until Bucky, you’d always thought maybe you’d just missed the window for something real.

But then he showed up. Healing and hurting. Trying. Learning. Soft with you in a way that no one else had ever been. And when he asked you out — really asked — it was the only yes you’ve ever felt in your bones.

That was three months ago. You’ve been dating ever since.

And still, no significant change.

Only his hands in yours. His arms around you. His smile across a candlelit dinner. And it was enough. More than enough, most nights. Until something inside you started wanting more.

And tonight… tonight, he feels different.

You felt it when you answered the door to find him already holding a grocery bag, his metal fingers tapping softly against the handles. He’d brought over ingredients for dinner — simple, homemade pasta. You cooked together, laughed through the sauce splatters and garlic burns, and now…

Now, you’re standing at the kitchen sink, sleeves rolled up, warm water running over your wrists as you scrub the last of the dishes.

You don’t hear him move behind you.

You just feel a shift in the air, like gravity tilting ever so slightly toward something inevitable. The sound of his boots softly stopping a few feet behind you.

Then—hands. Gentle, careful, but deliberate.

One arm wraps around your waist, the other lifts your elbow. You squeak, caught off guard, but before you can spin, he does it for you.

His strength is effortless. With one smooth twist of your body, he lifts you onto the edge of the counter like you weigh nothing at all. Warm hands on your thighs, cool metal bracing your hip.

And then he slides in.

Not touching you anywhere he shouldn’t, not forcing a thing. But he's there, between your legs, close and watching you in that way only he can. Like you’re the only thing anchoring him to this earth.

"Buck?" you whisper.

He says nothing at first. Just looks at you — really looks at you — and you realize this is it.

His eyes soften.

"I’m ready," he says, voice low. Rough like smoke, tender like velvet. "If you are."

Your heart is pounding so hard it echoes in your ears.

You nod, unsure, your breath caught in your chest. "I— I think I am."

“You sure?” he asks, tilting his head. “Because once we start, I don’t want you second-guessing. I want this to feel right. For you.”

He’s so close now. His thumbs rest just above your knees. His dog tags peek out from beneath his shirt. You’ve never seen his face like this — not just open, but certain.

"I want this," you say, honestly. Your voice shakes. "I want you. I just never…"

He leans in. Not to kiss. Not yet.

Just enough to ghost his lips near the curve of your neck. Close enough to make your whole body shiver.

"I know," he whispers. His stubble grazes the line of your jaw. "I know."

Your breath hitches. It’s not fear that makes you freeze — not anymore. It’s the weight of this moment. The fact that you’ve imagined it a thousand different ways and still… none of them prepared you for this.

The way he holds you steady, even when your hands start to tremble. The way your whole body pulls tight like a wire at the quiet promise in his voice.

"I just don’t know how," you say suddenly, breathless and vulnerable. It slips out before you can catch it. "I mean, I’ve never… I don’t even know where to put my hands, or how to tilt, or if I’m supposed to—"

"Hey," Bucky murmurs, cutting in before your spiral can finish. His metal fingers come up, tucking gently beneath your chin. His touch is impossibly soft. "That’s okay."

You meet his eyes, wide and uncertain, and he smiles. Not teasing. Not amused. Just kind.

"You know how I said it’s like a dance?" he asks.

You nod, lips slightly parted, trying to breathe through the storm in your chest.

"Well… it kinda is. There’s a rhythm to it. A give and take. Sometimes you lead, sometimes you follow. But either way, you’re not doing it alone."

He brushes a thumb along your cheekbone, and you lean into it before you even realize.

"You don’t have to know how," he says softly. "You just have to let go."

Let go.

God, if only it were that simple.

"But what if I mess it up?" you ask, voice small.

His smile deepens — that gentle crinkle at the corners of his eyes.

"Then we laugh about it," he says. "And do it again. As many times as it takes."

You breathe out, the smallest huff of a laugh escaping through your nerves.

And then he leans in again — not to kiss, not quite yet. His lips find your neck, a whisper of a touch, softer than a sigh. His breath trails down the hollow of your throat, his nose nuzzling gently against your skin like he’s grounding himself in you.

"Just follow my lead," he murmurs, and his voice is lower now, wrapped in heat. "Like a slow dance."

Your hands, still unsure, find the hem of his shirt. Fingers twist into the cotton, anchoring yourself to him as his lips slowly work their way up your jawline, the curve of your cheek, your temple.

He’s patient.

He’s so patient.

And when his mouth finally brushes yours, it’s not a collision.

It’s a question.

You answer it the only way you know how: by leaning in.

It’s awkward at first. A little stiff. You’re trying too hard, your lips too tense. But Bucky’s hands never leave you. One cradles the back of your head. The other stays steady on your waist. He doesn’t deepen it right away. He lets it be clumsy. Lets it be yours.

"Easy," he whispers, pulling back just enough to breathe you in. "Don’t think so much. Feel it."

He kisses you again, slower this time. His mouth moves with yours, coaxing. You try to mimic the way he tilts, the way he lingers a little longer than you’d expect. You exhale shakily through your nose, and when your lips part for him, his tongue barely grazes yours.

Your whole body melts.

Your fingers tighten in his shirt. Your knees fall open just slightly. And something warm and electric flickers in your chest.

He deepens the kiss — not demanding, but inviting — and it’s like your heart is on fire. Everything in you lights up, nerve endings tingling, lungs gasping for air you didn’t realize you were losing. It takes a minute, but slowly, your hands find his shoulders. And then they slide up his neck, the nape of his hair, his scalp, until your fingers tangle in his messy strands.

He makes a noise—not a moan, not quite a groan, but something caught in the middle. His grip tightens at your hip, and when his teeth scrape gently at your bottom lip, it pulls a whimper from your throat.

It shocks you.

Not the noise, but the feeling that follows — the heat that rushes through your body, pooling deep between your legs. Your knees press together automatically, thighs clenching as your hips start to rock.

You want. God, you want.

And the second you realize, the moment you feel it, everything changes.

"Buck—"

Your words catch, lost beneath his mouth. You don't even know what you want to say. What words would even describe the sensation, the feeling, the overwhelming, burning desire that starts in your toes and travels up.

"Bucky," you try again, and this time, his hands move.

They slip around to the backs of your thighs. Metal and skin, both gripping, both lifting, as he slides you off the counter. He holds you easily — effortlessly, like he was made for this — and then his arms are wrapping around you, caging you in, and when his back hits the fridge, the cool metal is nothing compared to the heat of his body against yours.

He breaks the kiss just long enough to look at you. To make sure you're still okay.

And when you are — when your lips find his again, a little more confident, a little more sure — that's when his fingers curl into your hair. That's when his mouth opens against yours, his tongue dipping in to taste you, to tease you, to make you whimper and squirm against him.

You've never felt like this before.

Never in your life. Not once.

It's all-consuming. Like a wildfire. Like a star collapsing. Everything in you is burning and yearning and needing and wanting, and it's almost too much, almost more than you can stand, until his hands leave your hair.

Until he cups your face instead. Until he pulls back, just an inch, just enough to let you breathe.

"You alright?"

The words are husky and heavy. The sound of his voice makes you shudder, and suddenly, it's not his hands or his body or his lips that make your skin flush — it's the way he's looking at you. The way he's always looked at you.

Safe. Wanted.

Like you're the one thing he can't live without.

You're not scared. Not anymore. But that doesn't mean it's easy.

"You’re… a really good kisser," you whisper, and even saying it is enough to make you blush.

Bucky grins — slow and lopsided and so damn handsome it makes your heart stutter.

"Well, when you get to be a hundred years old, you have a lot of time to practice."

"I hope you haven't been practicing," you say, without thinking.

Bucky chuckles.

"Oh, doll," he murmurs, leaning in to brush his lips across yours. "In my mind, I've been practicing with you for years."

And just like that, the world tilts again.

Not from the heat of his mouth or the way his body holds yours so perfectly, but from the truth in his voice. The way he says it like it's the most natural thing, like it's been written into his bones from the start. Like every lonely night, every haunted dream, every quiet morning he ever endured before you was just rehearsal.

You press your forehead to his, and you’re still breathless, still trembling, but it's not fear that holds you anymore.

It’s wonder.

“You really mean that?” you whisper.

His metal hand comes up to cradle your jaw, thumb brushing the corner of your mouth. His blue eyes search yours — unguarded, open.

"Every word."

You knew then, deep in the marrow of your bones, you’d never forget this moment.

Not because of the kiss, though God, you’d never forget that either, but because of the way he looked at you when he said it.

Like there was no one else in the world.

Like there never had been.

Your fingers relaxed in his hair, your body still tucked so tightly against his, and for the first time in your life, it didn’t matter that you didn’t have a map for any of this.

You didn’t need one. You had him.

And maybe that was the point — maybe love wasn’t something you learned ahead of time, rehearsed behind closed doors, mastered before anyone could see you stumble.

Maybe it was something you built together, step by awkward step, just like a dance.

The music didn’t matter. The rhythm didn’t matter. Only the hands holding yours. Only the arms that caught you when you missed a beat. Only the voice, warm and steady, reminding you through every slip and tremble—

"You don’t have to know how. You just have to let go."

And so you did. You let go.

And when he kissed you again, slower this time, deeper — you kissed him back.

Not perfectly. Not expertly. But fully.

Because this time, you weren’t thinking.

You were feeling. You were falling. You were his.

And somewhere — between the warmth of his lips, the strength of his hands, and the quiet rasp of your name from his mouth — you knew, without a doubt, that you’d never been more alive.

You helped him learn how to stand again. And now, he was showing you how to fall.

[bloodyrook]

They're talking mcu fantastic four again and i want to die, its going to be so bad the rumoured casting headlines are jumpscares, well except for vanessa kirby but like they wont write sue well so...

[bebx]

hear me out…. vampire Victor and werewolf Reed

[depp-1963]

Robert Downey Jr visiting Johnny Depp’s art exhibition “A Bunch of Stuff” as well as showing his support on Instagram ♡. Love their friendship

[thenotoriousscuttlecliff]

We never saw him use his powers in the trailer, but having an extra long, extendable blackboard so he can do even more calculations is Reed Richards at his purest.