#steve grant rogers x reader

[theshamelesssimp]

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

[luffyssa]

[urdreamydoodles]

Hi hi!! Hope your day’s going well!!

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

MCU CHARACTERS X FEM!READER

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

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

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

Tony Stark

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

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

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

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

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

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

Steve Rogers

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

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

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

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

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

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

Natasha Romanoff

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

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

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

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

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

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

Bruce Banner

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

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

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

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

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

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

Clint Barton

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

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

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

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

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

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

Bucky Barnes

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sam Wilson

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

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

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

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

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

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

Peter Parker (Tom Holland)

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

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

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

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

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

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

Stephen Strange

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

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

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

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

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

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

Thor Odinson

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

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

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

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

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

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

Loki Laufeyson

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

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

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

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

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

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

T’Challa

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

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

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

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

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

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

Marc Spector

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

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

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

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

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

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

Steven Grant

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

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

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

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

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

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

Jake Lockley

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

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

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

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

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

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

Scott Lang

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

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

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

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

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

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

Wade Wilson (Fox)

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

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

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

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

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

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

Logan Howlett (Fox)

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

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

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

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

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

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

Matt Murdock

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

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

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

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

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

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

Frank Castle

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

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

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

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

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

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

Benjamin "Dex" Poindexter

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

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

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

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

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

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

Wanda Maximoff

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

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

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

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

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

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

Pietro Maximoff

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

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

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

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

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

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

Erik Lehnsherr (Fox)

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

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

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

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

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

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

[lostalioth]

☆ hi my loves here we go with a what 3rd or 4th i don’t even know attempt at doing kinktober lmaoo. now as always i can never seem to finish kinktobers which is why i lower how many days i do as well as i pick a variety of characters to write for so i don’t get bored writing all month for the same 3-4. the same as last year i will plan on posting a fic sort of every other day so (sun, tue, thur, sat) which is why it’ll be 18 days and not 31. if you recognize any as repeats in last years kinktober prompt lists, yes i carried some over from past lists that i didn’t get to.

☆ i do not do taglists on any of my fics and kinktober is no expection however you can follow my library acc → @aliothslibrary i reblog all my fics on that account seconds after i post it, and only my fics so if you wanna be notified of my posts for kinktober follow that acc and put notifications on :) you can also search up the tag #lostalioth kinktober for all my past kinktober fics etc.

☆ MY BLOG IS 18+ MEANING MINORS PLEASE DO NOT INTERACT!! ALL OF THESE FICS INCLUDE SMUT AND EACH WILL HAVE THEIR OWN INDIVIDUAL WARNINGS.

day one → body worship + love marks w/ roommate!stucky

day two → dry humping + handcuffs w/ steve harrington 

day three → high sex + bribery w/ eddie munson

day four → bondage + fingering w/ tasm!peter parker

day five → creampie + master kink w/ loki laufeyson

day six → face sitting + thigh biting w/ marc spector

day seven → piercing + cock worship w/ bucky barnes

day eight → pain kink + praise w/ dean winchester

day nine → obsession + belly bulge w/ logan howlett

day ten → overstimulation + hand job w/ sub!miguel o hara

day eleven → semi-public sex + against a wall w/ steven grant

day twelve → dacryphilia + corruption w/ perv!bsf!eddie munson

day thirteen → cock warming + begging w/ steve harrington

day fourteen → free use + primal play w/ logan howlett

day fifteen → lap dance + choking w/ mob!bucky barnes

day sixteen → edging + sir kink w/ steve rogers

day seventeen → caught masturbating + anal w/ sam winchester

day eighteen → double peneration + drunk sex w/ steddie

☆ hope you enjoy my babes!! please send me feedback, don’t be shy to comment or reblog your reactions to the days as i love seeing how you guys feel about my fics :) thankk you so much for reading and supporting my writing if you do and if you don’t for whatever reason that is perfectly fine as well!!

[bi-n-evil]

Me seeing a fictional character be portrayed as a dom when they're literally such a sub:

[buckyssugarchick]

You know, I always try to convince myself that I’m not a slut.

But then comes a man in his 40’s+ that makes me switch up just like this-

[sergeantbarnessdoll]

okokok… what abt neighbors to lovers smut w/ Steve Rogers 🤤🤤🤤

like, he finds the reader so cute and she’s harboring a mini crush on him too and he keeps trying to win her affection and somehow they end up yano… 🤭

Maybe a MASSIVE little size kink on Steve’s behalf too?

no pressure tho hon 🫶🫶🫶

Won Over With Affection » Steve Rogers/Captain America

Pairings: Neighbor!Steve Rogers x Neighbor!Female Reader

Summary: Steve thinks you’re cute and tries to win you over with your affection, but little does he know that you have a crush on him too.

Warnings: Fluff, Smut (18+), language, neighbors to lovers, flirting, kissing, hickeys, fingering, female receiving, unprotected sex, praise kink, size kink, Steve’s dog tags, pet names

A/N: Thank you for the request, nonnie🩵

Written on my phone. My apologies for any mistakes.

Header made by @buck-star

GIF IS NOT MINE! Gif credit goes to the creator.

MINORS DO NOT INTERACT!!🔞

“Good morning, neighbor!” You greeted Steve as you walked out of your apartment and he was walking to his. “How was your morning run?” You asked.

“It was good.” Steve replies with a smile. “How are you?” He asks.

“Other than having to go to work, I’m good.” You answered.

You couldn’t help but admire the way Steve looks in his tight grey t-shirt. His biceps threatened to rip the fabric.

“Anyways, you’re probably busy. I’ll see you later.” You say.

“You too.” He says with a smile.

You don’t know what it is when you’re around Steve, but you always feel nervous around him. You have a crush on him and you aren’t sure how to tell him. So you’re keeping it to yourself for now.

When Steve walked inside of his apartment, he thought of ways of trying to win you over with your affection. Luckily for him, he already knows how to start with his plan.

The following morning, Steve started his plan off with something basic and nice. He got you coffee from the coffee shop down the street from the apartment complex you two live him on his way home from his morning run. He knocked on the door to your apartment.

“Good morning, Steve!” You greeted. “What brings you by this early?” You asked curiously.

“I got you coffee on my way home from my run.” Steve says, handing you a coffee.

“You’re so sweet. Thank you!” You smiled.

“You’re welcome! It’s the least I can do for my favorite neighbor. Plus I would like to get to know you if that’s ok with you.” He says.

“I’m more than ok with that.” You say with a smile.

You could feel yourself blushing more by the second.

“Do you want to come in and hangout?” You asked. “I have the day off today.” You tell him.

“I wish I could, but I have to take a rain check on that. I have to go to work.” He says.

“Oh ok.” You playfully pouted. “See you later.” You smiled.

Steve gave you a smile before going to his own apartment. He sighs happily after he closed the door. His plan to win you over with your affection is working.

The next time you and Steve saw each other was when you were holding a bunch of groceries in your arms and tried to unlock your apartment at the same time. Steve saw you struggling and decided to help you.

“Let me help you with that.” Steve says, walking up to you.

Steve, being the gentleman he is, took the grocery bags out of your arms so you could unlock the door. You opened the door and walked inside. Steve followed behind you. You closed the door after he came inside.

“Thank you, Steve.” You smiled, walking to the kitchen. “You didn’t have to do this.” You say, putting the groceries on the counter.

“It’s ok. I don’t mind.” Steve replies, putting the rest of the groceries on the counter.

Steve put his hands on his hip, taking in the scenery of your apartment. You couldn’t help but look down below his belt. You licked your lips and bit your bottom lip.

“Nice apartment.” He compliments, snapping you out of your thoughts.

“Huh?” You asked, blinking a couple times and looked up at him.

“I was telling you that you have a nice apartment.” He repeats.

“O-Oh, thanks.” You stuttered.

Steve didn’t missed the blush creep up on your cheeks. He smirks to himself.

“Well, I should get going.” He says.

“Oh ok.” You said. “You’re welcome here anytime.” You tell him.

“I’ll keep that in mind, sweetheart.” He smiles and winks.

You watched as he walked to the door and walked out the door.

Sweetheart… he called you sweetheart! You felt yourself blushing like a teenage girl talking to her crush for the first time.

Later that same day, you went across the hall to Steve’s apartment. You knocked on the door and patiently waited for him to open the door.

“Y/N…” Steve smiles after he opens the door. “Come in.” He says, stepping aside.

You gave him a smile and walked inside of his apartment.

“I came over here to thank you for helping me with my groceries and for the coffee.” You say, nervously fiddling with your fingers.

“You don’t have to thank me, sweetheart. It’s what neighbors are for.” He says with a smile.

You stood there and continued to nervously fiddle with your fingers. You looked around Steve’s apartment to avoid awkward eye contact with him.

“Your apartment looks bigger than mine.” You say.

Steve smirks to himself. He knows something else that’s big.

There it was again… the awkward silence.

Steve walked closer to you. You looked up at him due to the height difference.

“It is, isn’t it?” He says, bringing a hand up to gently caress your cheek.

You stared in his icy blue eyes and nodded your head. You looked down at his lips. Steve’s lips look so soft and kissable. His lips were inches away from yours. Steve decided to close the rest of the distance between you two and kissed you. You were caught by surprise, but kissed him back. The kiss went from sweet and passionate to heated quickly. You softly moaned against his lips.

Steve’s hips got a good grip on your hips and he picked you up. You instinctively wrapped your legs around his waist. He carried you to his bedroom. He gently laid you down on his bed and pulled away from the kiss to look deep in your eyes. His eyes that were once blue are now clouded with lust.

His hands found the bottom of your shirt. He looked at you, waiting for permission, which you gave him. Steve took your shirt off and threw it somewhere in the room, revealing your lace bra to him. His hands then found the waistband of your leggings, hooking his fingers in the waistband and looked at you for permission. You gave him permission by lifting your hips so he can take them off. Your matching panties were now revealed to him.

Steve took a short moment to take in your beauty. His thumbs rubbed the fabric of your panties. He then leaned his head down, kissing along your neck and down to your collarbone, nipping at your skin hard enough for hickeys. His hands pushed the straps of your bra off your shoulders before he kissed along your shoulders. You arched your back, pressing your breasts against his chest. Steve’s hand went behind your back to unclasp your bra, letting it fall from your chest.

“Beautiful.” Steve mutters softly.

Steve hooked his fingers in the waistband of your panties and looked up at you, waiting for permission. You lifted your hips, giving him permission. He took your panties off, leaving you completely bare to him now. You pouted up at him.

“What’s with the pouty face, sweetheart?” He asks softly, rubbing his thumb across your pouty lips.

“You’re still fully clothed.” You muttered softly.

Steve chuckles softly before taking his clothes off. Your eyes ogled his perfectly sculpted body. You bit your bottom lip and reached your hands out, rubbing them against his abdomen and feeling the indents of his abs. He gently took hands away, making you whine softly.

“As much as I want your hands on me, I have to taste you.” He says, giving you a soft kiss.

Steve kissed down your body, leaving hickeys here and there. You shivered when you felt his breath on your wet pussy. He took in how wet you are. He smirks proudly, knowing he’s the one who made you that wet.

His thumb slowly circled your clit, making your pussy squeeze around nothing. He couldn’t help but lick a stripe from your entrance to your clit. He moaned at your taste.

“You taste better than I imagined.” Steve says lowly.

Steve dove in, latching his lips on your pussy and are you out like a starved man. He put one of his arms across your stomach to prevent you from moving. Your mouth fell open, moans and his name leaving your mouth. One of your hands clutched the sheet beneath you and your other hand found its way to his hair, tugging on it.

“Oh my god! Yes, Steve!” You moaned loudly, throwing your head back against the pillow in pleasure.

The sound of your moans was music to his ears and went straight to his cock. His cock felt uncomfortably hard against his abdomen. Precum leaked against his skin and the sheets. He didn’t care one bit. He wanted to take care of your needs first.

Steve’s eyes flickered up at you, his eyes looking at your breasts. He also watched your chest rise and fall every time you took a breath. He couldn’t help but reach his hands up and cup your breasts as he ate you out. His thumbs rubbed against your nipples before pinching them at the same time. A new sensation shot through your body. You gasped at the feeling. He smirks against your pussy and didn’t it again, getting the same reaction out of you again.

Your grip on his hair tightened. Steve’s tongue prodded your entrance, catching you off guard and making you moan loudly. His tongue focused on your clit for a few seconds, circling it with the tip of his tongue.

You looked down at him at the same time he looked up at you. His blue eyes are now clouded with lust. He winked at you. You bit your bottom lip.

“Fuck, Steve!” You moaned. “Your tongue feels so good!” You say.

“Wait till you feel my cock.” Steve says, taking his mouth off of your pussy momentarily.

You moaned at his dirty words. That only made you want Steve more.

Steve slid two fingers in your pussy. His tongue began to lick your clit in flicking motions. Your grip on his hair tightened, giving it a tug. You threw your head back in pleasure. Your thighs closed around his head. Steve pushed them open with his shoulders.

“Leave these pretty legs open, sweetheart.” Steve says.

Steve curled his fingers, hitting the one spot inside of you. You moaned loudly and bucked your hips against his face and hand. That was enough to tell him that you wanted more. He curled his fingers against the one spot inside of you again, earning the same reaction from you. He also sensed you were getting close to coming.

“You gonna cum, honey?” He coos.

“Yes!” You moaned. “Please let me cum! I’m being a good girl!” You begged desperately.

“Cum for me, good girl.” He says in a praising tone.

His name left your lips in a loud moan when you came, soaking his face and fingers. Steve’s fingers fucked you through your orgasm. He gave your clit one last flick with his tongue before pulling away and took his fingers out of your pussy. Steve sat back on his knees, licking your release off of his fingers, moaning at your taste.

“Holy shit…” You breathed. “A guy has never made me cum that hard before.” You admitted, feeling your cheeks heat up in embarrassment.

“I’m honored to be that guy.” Steve says with a small smirk.

Steve hovered over you, leaning down to kiss you passionately. His dog tags rested against your chest as he kissed you.

“Think you can cum for me again, sweetheart?” Steve asks, moving his lips down to your neck.

“Yes.” You answered softly.

Steve gave you one more kiss before sitting back on his knees again. He wrapped his hand around his hard cock, stroking it a couple times before line it at your pussy. He rubbed his cock in your slick, getting it wet. He then lined his cock at your entrance, slowly sliding it inside of you. You whimpered softly when his tip entered you. You knew Steve is big, but you didn’t know he was this big. Steve stopped his movements and looked at you.

“Are you ok, darling?” Steve asks softly.

“Y-Yes.” You answered in a stutter. “I just didn’t know you’re this big.” You say.

Steve reached a hand up to your cheek, gently caressing it and rubbing his thumb against your skin.

“I’ll go slow.” He whispers.

You gave him a smile and a nod after a moment, letting him know he can continue to slide his cock in your pussy. The stretch from his cock stung, but it also felt good. Steve gave you a moment to adjust to his size when his cock was fully inside of you. You gave him another nod, letting him know he can start thrusting.

Steve’s hands found their place on your hips and he started thrusting. His thrusts started at a slow and loving pace before speeding them up. Your hands held onto his biceps. Your nails dug in his skin.

“Holy shit!” You moaned loudly. “You’re so big!” You moaned again.

Your moans urged him on. Steve sped up his thrusts a little bit more. His cock was hitting all of the right spots inside of you.

Steve leaned back just enough to look down at his cock thrusting in and out of your pussy, his cock glistening in your slick.

“Fuck…” Steve moans at the sight. “Your pussy feels incredible.” He says, tilting his head back.

In the spur of the moment, you grabbed the chain of Steve’s Army dog tags, giving it a tug to pull him down for a kiss. The kiss was heated. Your lips moved in sync with his. Steve’s tongue licked across your bottom lip. You parted your lips just enough for him to slide his tongue in your mouth. His tongue explored every inch of your mouth.

You pulled away from the kiss, moaning loudly when Steve’s cock hit the one spot inside of you. You leaned your head against his shoulder, your face against the crook of his neck. You placed soft kisses against his neck. Your teeth nipped on his skin just enough to mark him up.

“I wanna try something.” Steve says.

Steve hooked his arms under your knees and leaned over you, fucking you faster. It felt like his cock reached impossibly deeper. Your mouth fell open and your head fell back against the pillow, moans of pleasure leaving your lips.

Steve dipped his head dip, kissing along your collarbones and the column of your throat. His teeth nipped at your skin. He licked every hickey he left on your neck and collarbones.

“Oh fuck, yes! Steve!” You moaned loudly.

Steve loves the sound of your moans and the way his name sounds coming from your lips. He reached his hand down to your clit and began rubbing it. You took a glance down at him fucking you before looking up at him. His eyes were full blown with lust.

You needed his lips on yours. You couldn’t help but kiss him again. This kiss was a bit sloppy, but also sweet and passionate. You moaned against his lips. You two pulled away from each other’s lips, looking at each other breathlessly.

“I can feel you getting close, sweetheart.” Steve’s fingers rubbed your clit faster. “You gonna cum?” He asks.

You moaned and nodded. You felt your orgasm building up even more. It felt like you were going to fall over the edge any second.

“Cum for me, honey.” He says.

Your toes curled and your eyes rolled to the back of your head, his name leaving your lips in a loud pornographic moan.

“That’s a good girl.” Steve praises. “Good fucking girl.” He praises again.

Steve gave your clit one last rub before focusing on his own orgasm. His orgasm was building up fast as well. Grunts and moans left his lips the closer he was getting to coming.

“Cum inside of me.” You tell him, your voice sounding seductive.

“Fuck…” He moans at your dirty words.

He came inside of you shortly after you said that. His thrusts came to slow stop. Steve gently took your legs off of his shoulders and pulled out of you. He laid down next to you and covered the two of you up with a blanket. You moved closer to him, laying your head on his chest and played with his dog tags. Steve wrapped his arm around you.

“I won you over with affection, didn’t I?” Steve says after a moment.

You giggled and looked up at him. You leaned up a bit, kissing him softly.

“Take me on a date and I’ll show you more affection.” You murmured against his lips. “In the meantime…” You got on top of him. “I’ll show you a little preview of the affection.” You say seductively.

💙💙💙💙💙💙💙💙💙💙💙💙💙💙💙💙💙

-Bucky’s Doll

[zwartexxroos]

[🧸] Headcanons of Marvel Men react to you giving them a custom Build-A-Bear dressed like their superhero self:

(including Tony Stark, Steve Rogers, Bucky Barnes, Peter Parker, Loki Laufeyson, Logan Howlett, Charles Xavier, Erik Lehnsherr, and Steven Grant)

Tony Stark

"You... made me a plush Iron Man? Seriously?"

Acts all cocky at first, but you can see the soft smile creeping in.

Places it right on his workshop desk like a trophy.

Sometimes talks to it while working.

Lowkey proud and posts it on social media with the caption: "Someone special made this. Eat your heart out, world."

Steve Rogers

Stares at it for a long moment, heart swelling.

"You made this for me?"

Gets so flustered he can't stop smiling

Places it neatly on his nightstand, and if you tease him, he just clears his throat and says: "It's good to have reminders of people who care."

You'll catch him glancing at it more than once.

Bucky Barnes

Blinks at it like: "You got me a bear... with a metal arm?"

Picks it up, turning it around and poking the little plush arm with a smirk.

"Looks just like me, huh?"

Keeps it on his bed, and if anyone teases him, he'll straight-faced say: "My emotional support bear. You got a problem?"

Peter Parker

Absolutely loses it, pure sunshine grin.

"You built a Spider bear??? For me?? I'm framing this!"

Hugs it immediately and definitely shows it off to Ned and MJ like a proud dad.

Sleeps with it the first night

Probably names it something cute like Spider-Bear Jr.

Loki Laufeyson

Looks at the little horned plush and lets out a soft chuckle.

"A miniature version of myself? You've got good taste."

Pretends to scoff a first, but he's deeply touched.

The bear is always sitting on his bookshelf or desk like a tiny prince.

Use magic to make the bear nod or wave at you when you enter the room.

Logan Howlett

Holds it awkwardly, staring at the little bear with its tiny claws.

"…You made me a bear that looks like me?"

Grumbles about it, but you catch him resting it on his nightstand, where it stays forever.

When you’re not around, he probably mutters at it: “They got a weird way of showing they cares.”

Charles Xavier

His face lights up with genuine delight.

“You thought of this for me? That’s adorable.”

Places it somewhere close, like on his desk or the shelf in his study.

Will definitely tell others about the gift like a proud boyfriend: “They made me a little Xavier bear, can you believe that?”

Erik Lehnsherr

Raises a brow at the Magneto-themed bear.

“You’ve got a twisted sense of humor.”

But the way his fingers linger on the helmet and the small detail of the cape says it all — he loves it.

Keeps it somewhere safe, maybe in his study, and if you ever visit, he’ll always point at it with a soft smile: “I never thought I’d look good in fluff.”

Steven Grant

Literally gasps, wide-eyed: “Is that me? In plush form??”

Over the moon. Hugs it and even gives it a name like “Little Stevie”

Sleeps with it, puts it on his desk at work, and shows it off to anyone who will listen.

“I’ve never had anything this thoughtful before... I’m gonna treasure this forever, you know.”

[dilfluvrgirllxoxo]

dream lover - s.r ᥫ᭡

summary: steve finally musters up the courage to ask you to dance—with the help of buck.

pairing: 40s!steve rogers x reader

warnings: none, tooth rotting fluff, steve is a cutie and would do anything for his partner fr

‿‿‿‿‿‿‿‿‿‿‿‿‿‿‿‿‿‿‿‿‿‿

steve was head over heels for you the minute bucky introduced you to eachother. he was mesmerised by the way your pin curls sat perfectly on your shoulders and your dress, your heels matching the colour and just completing your whole look. you were stunning in his eyes, and he in yours.

it started off with innocent glances at each other, him draping his arm over your shoulder at howard's expo shows, the way his hand would brush against yours and stay there for longer than necessary. he finally got the courage to ask you out—with the help of bucky, dragging him over to you one night, saying "this punk's got somethin' to ask you, doll" and you thought steve was literally about to explode with how red he went. "uh, i, see...y'ur quite a, no! i mean, well..." you could practically hear the cogs turning in his head as he tried to not mess this up, to form any words, making you giggle softly.

"are y' trying to ask me on a date, rogers?" "yeah." he mumbled, rubbing the back of his neck, making both you and bucky laugh and shake your heads. "pick me up at 7." he wasn't sure he heard you right at first, you actually wanted to go on a date with him, at 7? he stared at you, wide eyed before nodding his head aggressively, checking the time on his watch. 5:30. he could get ready in less than two hours. totally.

when you got home, you redid your makeup and bunched your curls up a couple of times, wanting to look good. you must've checked yourself in the mirror about 50 times before you finally heard a knock on your door, so soft you almost didn't hear it. "coming!" you yelled, grabbing your purse and rushing to the door.

the sight that greeted you was one you could get used to. captain america, face hidden with a bouquet of lilac delphiniums that were in his hand, peeking to the side of them to give you a toothy smile. "oh my gosh, they're so pretty stevie!" you gasped, and he could've sworn he died when you called him that. "yeah, well, only the best f' my girl." he murmured, not failing to notice the faint blush on your cheeks, making a mental note to call you that every chance he got as you placed the bouquet on the table by the front door and pulled the door shut, letting steve take your hand in his as he led you to the dance hall.

[multiversediaries]

IT'S BEEN A LONG, LONG TIME.

⤷ STEVE ROGERS X READER

Summary: Steve, absolutely in love with the stranger he'd see every day on the train, had finally gained the courage to speak to you, and ask you out.

Warnings: GOD, HEART WRENCHING!!!!! but! incredibly soft and i mean, so extremely soft, in love steve! plottwist!

Part Count: 1/2? I originally intended this to be only one part, but i am open to writing a second part, if interested!

A/N: oh, you MUST listen to the song while reading! i adored writing this, it is an idea i have had for a while now! i wrote it listening to the song, and god, it was heartbreaking to write!!! english is not my first language, so if you find any grammatical mistakes, please do let me know! enjoy!

9:15AM. Jamaica Center Station.

This was Steve Rogers' favorite time of the day, and definitely his favorite stop during his train ride to the Avengers Compound. All because he got to see the most beautiful, and appealing stranger he had ever seen ever since he woke from his ages long sleep.

A small grin appeared in his face, his eyes following you into the train. You looked as good as always, wearing comfortable yet radiant clothing, still, your headphones were never to be left behind. They wrapped around your head, keeping your cold ears warm during the cold winter of New York. His eyes watched your pretty frame, as you chose to sit right across from him, allowing him the privilege of looking at you through this train ride of his. He found himself fixing his clothing, hoping to look as presentable as possible in your eyes. His expression softened as soon as you looked up to meet his gaze. You offered him a small smile, just enough to keep the hopeless romantic happy the entire day. He returned your smile, happy to see that you recognized him. After all, you both meet almost daily on the train.

He kept waiting for his favorite moment of train rides with you. His head turning to look out the window, hoping to distract his nervousness from your closeness to him. He watched as people got in and off the train, just awaiting for that special moment.

There it was.

It's been a long, long time by Harry James and His Orchestra being softly hummed by you.

He somehow felt all his worries being washed away by the peace your gentle hums brought him. It must be one of your favorite songs, or so he thought, as you would always hum and if he was lucky, you'd even sing it, every single time he met you at the train. Steve would even imagine himself dancing along the song wth you. His strong arms wrapped around you, holding you close as you both danced to the sweet sound of the trumpet. Steve bit his lip, to try and stop the smile that absolutely begged to leave his lips, as he continued to listen to you hum to his favorite song.

You simply watched out of the window, humming as quietly as possible, hating the thought of sounding like an obnoxiously loud person. You had grown up with the song, and you found it comforting, bringing you tranquility in this crazy life you were living, and in this insane world you lived in. You had made it a point to always listen to it, to start your day in calmness and overall happiness. You didn't know the happiness you were also bringing the soldier sitting across from you.

"Kiss me once, then kiss me twice..." You softly sang under your breath, thinking no one could hear you. But Steve did, and God, he was thankful he did. A bigger smile left his lips, now looking down to his lap, just enjoying this moment, the moment he didn't even see himself looking forward to every single day.

St. George Station said the speaker. This was the very moment Steve dreaded. Leaving you. He stood from his seat, you looked up at him, watching him collect his belongings. You moved one of your headphones to the side, smiling up at him.

"See you tomorrow!" You sweetly said between grins. Oh, God. Steve almost melted to the ground right then and there. He chuckled softly, nodding his head at you.

"Take care 'till then." He replied, his eyes not wanting to leave yours. It was such a sweet view, Steve's tall figure looking down at yours, big smiles on both your faces. You nodded up at him, before readjusting your headphones.

Steve got off the train, a huge grin on his face. He was walking on sunshine. This had been the first time you two had even spoken. You had ridden the train together for a few months now, only exchanging a few smiles, glares and sometimes a few 'Thank you's or 'Excuse me's, never full phrases directed to one another. The hero walked towards the Avengers Compound, humming the sweet song, mimicking the way you softly hummed along as you looked out the window.

"Something's got you all happy." Natasha spoke in smiles as the Captain America walked into the foyer. Steve shook his head, smiling at her. "Oh, it was definitely the train girl!" She squealed, walking up to Steve, covering her mouth in excitement.

"How did you know?" Steve laughed. "Could've been Sharon from Accounting." He said, chuckling, mocking Natasha, who had once tried to set them up.

"Do not mock me, Rogers. Tell me about it!" Natasha excitedly asked, as they both walked towards the living space of the compound. Steve mostly chuckled.

"We spoke to each other."

"...Right. Yes, that is how you meet people." Natasha said, motioning Steve to continue on. He looked at her, a bit puzzled. "That's it? Steve, come on, you can't be this rusty.”

"I am not-"

"Did you ask her name? Her number, even better?" Natasha asked, now stopping her walk to look up at Steve. He sighed softly, shaking his head cautiously. "Okay, you can't go on like this." She mumbled, shaking her head.

"Well, what do you want me to do, Nat?" Steve asked, one of his hands running to massage his forehead.

"Steve, time is precious, you of all people should know this." Natasha started, earning a nod from Steve. "Tomorrow, you ask the girl out." She stated.

"Nat—”

"You ask her out. Got it?" Natasha reaffirmed, nodding her head at him, who breathlessly chuckled.

"Got it." Steve nodded along her, snickering a bit at her. Natasha was absolutely the best dating couch known to men.

Steve stood, waiting for the long awaited train to arrive. Today was the day. The day Steve Rogers would ask you out. He bit his lip in nervousness as he waited for the train, just wondering how you'd look, if you'd sing or just hum the song today. His thoughts were interrupted by the arrival of the train. He walked in, choosing the seat he always sat at. His hands rested on his thighs, casually wiping the sweat into his jeans. His heart kept beating faster and faster than before by every single stop, every station closer to you.

9:15AM, Jamaica Center Station.

It was clock work, by the second. And here you came in, looking more beautiful than yesterday. He wondered how that could be possible. You wore a long dress, those headphones of yours resting by your neck, as you made your way through the now moving train. You soon sat by the empty hair across from the super soldier, like always. Your eyes met, and instantly, you offered each other a smile. You had even blessed him by giggling so early on. His heart probably skipped a beat.

"Long time no see." You decided to joke, now getting comfortable in your seat, placing the book you were currently reading on your lap. You heard the handsome man chuckle softly.

"A long, long time." You saw the man smirk gently, earning a shocked smile from you. You understood his pun.

"You know that song?"

"Know it? Of course. Every soldier does." Steve spoke, smiling at you. You nodded your head, understanding him. Of course, the song was very well known during World War 2, as it speaks and reflects on the reunion of two lovers. You knew the story behind the song, you knew everything about it. You smiled widely at him.

"Of course." You simply replied, your eyes traveling to his army dog tags, hanging from his neck. Steve felt your eyes, looking down to look at them himself. He then looked back at you, wanting to continue this conversation of yours.

"What about you? How do you know of it?" He asked, so genuinely interested. You tilted your head, trying your hardest to remember. He watched, his heart warm and just happy to be speaking to such a lovely woman.

"Mhm... I guess I've always known it." You started after thinking about it for a while. "I've been listening to it since forever, it seems. I'm sure you've noticed." You laughed softly. A laugh he reciprocated. He smiled fondly at you, before reaching out to gently shake your hand.

"Steve. Steve Rogers." He introduced himself. You shook his hand, smiling a bit. His breath almost hitched at how soft your skin was, and at how warm you felt. You nodded your head, knowing already. You knew who he was. Of course you did, everybody did.

"Y/N." You simply replied, smiling at him. He repeated your name under his breath, smiling at you, nodding his head. Pretty name for a pretty human, he thought. He now had a name to attach to the person. He watched as you looked out the window, following your eyes, he also stared out the window, trying his hardest to find a theme interesting enough to hold a conversation with you. However, you spoke before him.

"Would you like to... listen to it together... Steve?" You shyly spoke, now holding cable earphones in your hands. Steve couldn't smile bigger even if he tried. His heart melted by your sweet voice, absolutely covered in nervousness. It was nice to know you were as nervous as he was. He nodded, now moving to sit next to you. You took off your headphones, putting them away in your purse, now plugging the new set in. Steve waited patiently, mostly thinking of how nice his name sounded when said by you.

You handed him one of the earbuds, soon placing yours on. You both looked at one another, as soon as the commonly loved song started to play. The orchestra and trumpet lovingly speaking to you both, who simply stared at each other. You shyly placed strands of your hair behind your ear, exposing your flushed cheeks. You must be trying to make his heart stop. You were a dream come true to the hero.

Never thought that you would be standing here so close to me.

The song almost perfectly described how the soldier felt. He felt as if he had been looking for someone like you, for you. And here you were, at last. His thoughts were soon interrupted by the sound of gunshots. His eyes searched around the train, soon landing on the threat, only a few feet away from you. You jumped by the sudden noise, unconsciously nudging a bit closer to Steve, who kept his eyes on the armed man feet away from you both. Screams filled what used to be the silent train, panicked people running away, towards the other end of the train.

Steve's breath hitched as he watched the man, his eyebrows furrowed in confusion. A confusion that soon was dissolved, only by the sight of the HYDRA logo plastered on the man's cap. Steve cursed under his breath, knowing instantly this man's purpose, and what seemed to be his mission. Before he could even begin to comprehend the situation, or even attempt to stop it, you gasped besides him, your hands holding your stomach, as to prevent blood from gushing out.

You had been shot. You. The woman of his dreams. Y/N.

Steve gasped as he took in what had happened. He looked down at your wound, mostly in shock. His senses had kicked in, it seems, as he had grabbed that book you were reading and had tried to shield you with it. He had been too slow, and the bullet had reached you.

"No." The words left his mouth in a whisper, his hands running to lay on top of yours in your stomach. His eyes returned to the man, who had now began to run towards one of the many exits of the train, intending to take off on the following station. Not that Steve would ever let that happen. Within an instant, the HYDRA agent was unconscious, hitting the ground only after a few punches from the super soldier. People continued to scream in fear, watching the scene unfold.

You, on the other hand, cried desperately in your seat, looking down at how the blood now leaked from your seat. You hissed in pain, trying your hardest to calm down and get your breathing under control. In your ears, the sweet, nostalgic song continued to play.

You'll never know how many dreams I dreamed about you, or how empty they all seem without you. Said the song, as you watched Steve Rogers run back towards you. You watched his worried eyes and how they roamed your body. It was almost as if you were watching from outside your own body.

"It's alright. Eyes on me, sweetheart." Steve spoke, your now muffled hearing making it hard to understand him. You tried nodding, your breath shuttering, in so much pain and terrified for your life. His hands applied pressure to your bleeding wound. You watched as he loudly instructed the scared civilians, having a few call the authorities.

"Just look at me, Y/N, alright?" Steve spoke tenderly to you, as he had caught you looking down at your injury, your fear increasing at the sight. He couldn't believe his eyes. He couldn't believe this was happening. To you of all people, and today of all days. His heart was beating out of his chest, scared out of his mind. He hated how one of his first touches of you was of your bleeding wound, and that the very first time he had embraced you was this very moment, you bleeding out in his strong arms.

Everything soon went black. You could still hear Steve's soft voice from afar, and that commonly adored song as well.

It's been a long, long time.

[theshamelesssimp]

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

[luffyssa]

i got bored so here's a meme

[captainwans]

── BUZZFEED THIRST TWEETS. ( featuring sebastian stan, anthony mackie. )

▹ pairing: sebastian stan, anthony mackie x husband!alex turner and fem!actress reader.

▹ summary: what could be a more unhinged and unserious thirst tweets episode with this trio?

▹ warning: vulgar language, mentions of profanities, swearing—but mostly harmless and a good laugh! just pure chaos!

marvel masterlist!

arabella series!

“I’M ACTUALLY SO SCARED TO READ THESE.” [Y/N] admitted to the crew members, eyes painted with slight worry as she was sandwiched between Sebastian Stan and Anthony Mackie. It was yet another movie promotion for the Avengers Infinity War and the actress was finally reunited with her two favorite co-stars, starring in a new episode of Buzzfeed Thirst Tweets.

Sebastian let out a nervous chuckle, agreeing with her. “Gosh, I already regret this.” he sighed, shaking his head as he crossed his arms. He glanced at Anthony, who was holding the blue bucket of thirst tweets from the fans.

Anthony wiggled his eyebrows at the camera, “This is gonna be good.” he said in a serious tone, making [Y/N] quietly giggle, giving the camera a look before watching Anthony reading the first tweet.

“So, this is what we love to do on a Saturday…reading thirst tweet,” Sebastian told the camera, turning his head to his co-stars as Anthony pulled out the first tweet.

Anthony smirked, “On [Y/N]’s comfortable couch!” Sebastian and [Y/N] shake their heads with another laugh. “Get on with it, Mackie!”

Anthony cleared his throat, reading the tweet, “[Y/N] could literally run me over with a tank and I’d say, thank you.” 

The actress burst out laughing, shoulders shaking while Sebastian nodded his head in agreement. “I mean, I’d apologize first, but, I-I appreciate the dedication,” she said to the camera, a small laugh escaping from her lips. 

Sebastian chuckled, “No, I think they would actually thank you,” he told her, grabbing his water bottle and taking a small sip. Anthony turned his head to the actress with a grin, “Right, they’d be like ‘Queen, do it again.’”

[Y/N]’s hands roamed around the bucket, hand clasping at another tweet, this time aimed at Sebastian. She smiled before reading, “Sebastian Stan could punch me in the face and I’d still ask him to marry me.” she read, giving the tweet to Sebastian. “Well, they’re not wrong.”

Anthony shakes his head, “This is why sea bass gets away with anything!” he whined, looking at the camera with a scowl, making Sebastian chuckle, “I mean…you don’t know what you like until you try it.” he cheekily said to the camera, making [Y/N] and Anthony squeal with laughter.

Sebastian muttered a small prayer, picking up another tweet. “Anthony Mackie could talk me into anything. Man could say “jump,” and I’d say–” Sebastian stops mid-sentence and bursts out laughing, making the pair prompt him to continue. “Finish the tweet, Seb.” [Y/N] whined, nudging his side with her elbow.

Anthony sighed impatiently, snatching the paper from Sebastian, who was dying of laughter, almost falling off the couch. “Man could say “jump” and I’d say ‘How high, daddy?’” [Y/N] almost spat out her drink, her throat emitting a small cough, making the crew laugh. “Oh my God!” 

Sebastian was still cackling and he had to lean on [Y/N] for support, who was also a mess. Anthony looked at the camera, a smirk forming his handsome features. “I accept this.”

“This is getting out of hand, guys.” [Y/N] scolded, her face morphing into a deep frown at the camera, referring to their fans with a disappointed look.

She handed the bucket to Anthony, who picked up a tweet. “[Y/N] could bench-press me I’d gladly be her gym equipment.” The crew behind the camera completely lost it, and Anthony got up and walked away, while Sebastian gave the camera a horrified look.

Heat flooded over her cheeks as she laughed, her flustered face looking at the camera while picking up the tweet from the floor. “W-What does that even mean?!” She stuttered, laughter bubbling in her throat.

Sebastian snatched the paper from her hands and showed it to the camera, “It means you need to start charging rent because you’re living in their head rent-free.” he bleated, giving the camera a disapproving look.

“Ok, guys, let’s finish these. We have a few left,” the cameraman said with a chuckle, watching the spectacle in front of him. Anthony came back and sat back down, taking a long sip from his bottle.

[Y/N] picked up a tweet, lips curving upwards. “Anthony Mackie could look at me and I’d get pregnant instantly.” she paused, looking at the camera, “The power,” she said, making Anthony shrug his shoulder with a cocky expression.

“I’ll take that responsibility.” He said, making Sebastian laugh as he picked up a tweet of himself, “Oh God….Bucky Barnes could choke me with his metal arm, and I’d say ‘Harder’” Sebastian read his tweet, immediately standing up and leaving the frame, his voice echoing around the room. “For the love of God!”

Anthony fell down the chair with a loud wheeze while [Y/N] looked concerned, looking around the room and giving the crew members an appalled look. She sighed. “I need therapy after this,” she admitted, putting the bucket on the table.

Sebastian scoffed from off-camera, “No, they need therapy!”

Anthony shook his head, wiping his eyes with his hands before picking up another tweet. “I love this. C’mon, there are still some left,” he said to his co-stars, who exchanged a glance before pulling themselves together.

Anthony gave the next tweet to [Y/N] with a funny look, who looked at the camera with a nervous look. “[Y/N] could step on me and I’d bark.” She read, her chest vibrating from laughter. “Why are you people like this?”

Anthony loudly cackled, his shoulders shaking. Sebastian’s expression turned serious as he looked at the actress, “Woof.” he said, making Anthony laugh harder while [Y/N] pushed him off the couch, screaming with laughter. 

Sebastian chuckled, getting up from the floor while grabbing the bucket. She slapped his hand, still laughing. “S-Stop! I don’t think I can handle this anymore.” she giggled, leaning into Anthony for support.

Sebastian grinned, “Oh, I love this tweet. Alex Turner is the luckiest man alive to get that every damn day. I’d give up my soul to be in his position. That body, that face... I’m sweating just thinking about it." [Y/N] hides her face with her hands, completely flustered while the whole room erupts in laughter and whistles.

Anthony whistled, looking at the person who came into the room. “Speaking of the sun.” he chimed, eyes painted with playfulness as he watched Alex standing at the doorway with a confused look. “What are you guys doing?” he asked the trio as he walked toward them, giving the camera a look.

“Suffering.” [Y/N] answered her husband while fanning herself. 

“Reading thirst tweets. You wanna join, Strumzilla?” Anthony asked him, wiggling his eyebrows at him, making Alex shake his head, deep chuckles emitting from his lips, “No, I–uh, I’m good. I’m just here to pick up my guitar.” he excused, turning to leave, but Sebastian grabbed him by the shirt. 

“Oh, no, Al. You’re in this now,” he told him with a wink, shifting in his seat to make room for Alex to sit. The musician cursed under his breath, reluctantly sitting down.

Anthony gave him a tweet with a funny look, “Read and see what the fans say about your wife,” he jested, making [Y/N] snort, small giggles coming out of her mouth. “Oh gosh, no! He’s not ready for that.”

Alex sighed, adjusting his sunglasses. He licked his lips before reading, “[Y/N] could spit in my coffee, and I’d drink it like it was holy water.” Alex froze, eyes looking at his wife with a disturbed look. 

Anthony and Sebastian shook with laughter, their cackles echoing across the room. “Oh my God!” [Y/N] screams with laughter, slapping her thighs as the whole room died, again. “First of all—” she tried to say, but ended up gasping between giggles, her words lost in a fit of uncontrollable laughter at her husband’s deadpan look.

“That is wild,” Alex exclaimed, gripping the paper and giving the camera crew a genuinely concerned look before giving his wife another look, which made her chuckle with a scowl.

“Why are you looking at me like I wrote it?” she chortled, giggling as she hit his shoulder, making his lips crack a smile. 

The married couple looked at Sebastian and Anthony, who were still howling with laughter. The camera panned to the duo and back to Alex and [Y/N], who looked at them with a chuckle. “Are you guys okay?” Alex asked, watching them regaining their composure. 

“Oh, man. This is the best day of my life.” Anthony chimed, clearing his throat. He gave the camera a look, “Did we finish all of the tweets?” he asked a crew member, who shrugged in response asking if there was any more left.

Sebastian’s hand roamed around the blue bucket, eyes sparking as he picked up the last tweet. He read the paper, a wide grin reaching his handsome features.

He gave it to Alex, who looked at him, dumbfounded. “What a better way to finish this episode,” Sebastian said to the camera, making [Y/N] inch closer to her husband, reading the tweet.

“I already know my tweets are a nightmare,” Alex mumbled, but enough for the whole room to hear as they laughed. He almost choked on air, eyebrows furrowed as he read the tweet loudly. “If I ever get reincarnated, I wanna come back as a chair so Alex Turner can sit on me.” 

[Y/N] laughed, hitting him in the chest. “Honestly, that’s something I would write,” she admitted, making Alex shake his head with a laugh.

Anthony laughed and looked at the camera, “Y’all are nasty!” he turned to Alex, grabbing his shoulder, “Your fans are just as bad as ours.” 💬 … Comments:

@/fanaticforfame: lmao alex looks so disgusted by the thirst tweets 

@/starryobsessed23: nobody mentions the fact that seb calls alex for al MY HEART

@/buckysoldiers: anthony calling alex strumzilla got to be the funniest thing ever

@/turnerflower: ok but alex interacting with the marvel cast was not something that i needed so badly

@/lovelyyn85: they're so unapologetically unhinged and unserious i love them so much

@/arctic-lovers: marvel and arctic monkeys fans unite!

@/scarletswidow: we need a part two with alex!!!!

[urdreamydoodles]

MCU characters and how they meet their soulmate ?

MCU CHARACTERS X FEM!READER

How they meet their soulmates

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

Tony Stark

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

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

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

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

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

Steve Rogers

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

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

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

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

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

Natasha Romanoff

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

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

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

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

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

Bruce Banner

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

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

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

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

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

Clint Barton

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

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

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

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

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

Bucky Barnes

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

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

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

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

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

Sam Wilson

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

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

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

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

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

Peter Parker (Tom H.)

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

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

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

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

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

Stephen Strange

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

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

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

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

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

Thor Odinson

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

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

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

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

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

Loki Laufeyson

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

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

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

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

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

T’Challa

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

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

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

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

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

Marc Spector

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

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

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

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

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

Steven Grant

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

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

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

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

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

Jake Lockley

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

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

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

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

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

Scott Lang

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

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

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

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

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

Matt Murdock

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

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

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

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

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

Frank Castle

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

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

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

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

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

Benjamin "Dex" Poindexter

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

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

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

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

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

Wanda Maximoff

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

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

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

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

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

Pietro Maximoff

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

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

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

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

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

Peter Quill

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

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

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

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

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

Wade Wilson (Fox)

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

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

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

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

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

Logan Howlett (Fox)

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

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

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

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

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

[lanae111]

Desperate, begging, and pathetic men 😵‍💫😵‍💫

[navybrat817]

https://www.tumblr.com/navybrat817/773964651350360064/gummydummy19-zanephillips-richard-armitage?source=share

Why would you do this? 😭

I just reblogged it, nonnie! But let's imagine, shall we?

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Female Reader, Steve Rogers x Female Reader

Warnings: Masturbation, oral sex (referenced), unprotected sex (referenced), stalking, Bucky Barnes/Steve Rogers (they're warnings, okay?)

Banner by the talented @cafekitsune

Bucky/Steve who is away on a mission and brought a piece of your clothing with them. You’ll never understand why he wants your ruined underwear so much, but you don't argue. Your lingering scent makes his mouth water while he strokes his thick cock and he wishes he was home to bury his tongue deep inside. It isn't always your underwear he brings. Sometimes it’s a shirt or cardigan. He can pretend he’s taking it off before latching onto a nipple. The little gasp you always let out when he does drives him crazy. And you aren't getting out of bed when he gets home.

Bucky/Steve who lives next door to you and one of your shirts somehow ends up in his basket. He knows it’s wrong to jerk off with the garment on his face, but he does it anyway. It smothers his grunts and moans as he imagines what it would feel like to split you open with his cock. You're such a sweetheart with your little waves and smiles, but he wants to see you cry from pleasure. Maybe the other neighbors will hear you scream his name so they know who you belong to.

Bucky/Steve who works for your dad and knows he isn't supposed to touch you, but wants to. You leave your sweater behind on accident one day after a gathering and he uses it before returning it. He moans your name and swipes his thumb over his tip, wondering if you would tease his length and balls with your tongue or if you would beg for him to fuck your throat. You’ll look so beautiful down on your knees, your cunt practically dripping with the need for him to fuck that hole, too. Your dad will have to accept that you belong to him.

Bucky/Steve who doesn't mean to start stalking you. It just happens. You need someone to look after you. So, it isn't his fault he’s currently laying on your bed, touching himself like he watched you do the night before. His fingers will stretch your pussy much better than your own, and he’ll make room for his cock. He may finish on the fabric and leave it in the middle of the bed for you as a teaser for what’s to come. Because the next time he does it'll be inside you. And you’ll thank him for it.

Nothing to see here, lovelies. Go about your business. ❤️ Love and thanks! ❤️