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cece693 · 5 months ago

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Personal Bodyguard

pairing: tony stark x male reader tags: you can't tell me Tony isn't bi or at least experimented in his youth, you become his personal bodyguard after the cave fiasco and iron man revelation, enemies-to-friends-to lovers, Tony really needs a hug, reader is set to become his friend (and more), military background

You’re used to working in tense environments. The military taught you that complacency is death and that vigilance is survival. You’ve seen your fair share of conflict, learned to read people and situations at a glance. That’s probably why Pepper Potts sought you out after Tony Stark’s dramatic return from Afghanistan. She looked you up and down with calculating eyes, recognized a bit of herself in your “don’t mess with me” attitude, and decided on the spot—you were the best candidate to protect Tony Stark from himself, and from the new, dangerous world he was plunging into.

Tony’s penthouse overlooks the Malibu coastline, the sun reflecting off the ocean waves and onto polished floors. There he stands—fresh from the workshop, grease on his tank top and that lopsided grin that only half-masks the shadows under his eyes. He spots you, sizes you up, and crosses his arms. “Pep, this is the solution you found?” Tony gestures at you dismissively. “A glorified babysitter?”

Pepper forces a polite smile. “A bodyguard, Tony.” You don’t rise to his bait. The best reaction here is none at all—just a stony expression. Let him get it out of his system. He cocks an eyebrow at your silence, clearly expecting some snark in return.

“Fine,” he says, turning on his heel. “Follow me. Or don’t. Whatever." Pepper shakes her head apologetically as she goes to leave. Before she goes, she places a hand on your shoulder, giving you an unspoken good luck. You already know you’ll need it.

Tony tries his best to make your life difficult. He’ll disappear from his home at odd hours, use his snark to try and aggravate you, or do something reckless like attempt a suit flight test above the Malibu cliffs. However, you're never that far behind and your patience is endless. One night, he’s just touched down too hard in the Mark II, crashing through his garage and damaging several of his expensive cars. You rush in, weapon at the ready, scanning for threats.

“Relax,” Tony says, struggling to peel off the broken armor. “It’s just me doing some, uh, routine test improvements.” You exhale slowly, then calmly dismantle your sidearm. No threats—except the one Tony poses to himself.

“You know,” you say eventually, picking up a piece of the shattered gauntlet, “if you keep messing around with these half-finished upgrades, eventually I won’t just be your bodyguard. I’ll be the one scraping you off the ground.”

Tony stares at you, momentarily struck by the genuine concern in your voice, before clearing his throat. “Point taken,” he mutters, but for the first time, he seems less antagonistic—and almost thankful.

The slow thaw between you and Tony continues. He starts sharing details of the Iron Man suit, half to show off and half because he’s realized you’re more at ease when you know everything that’s going on. You learn that behind the smug exterior, Tony is propelled by guilt, determination, and a heart that aches to do genuine good. And for your part, despite your initial refusal to get personally involved, you find yourself caring about him—protecting him matters, but so does understanding him.

Late nights often find the two of you in the workshop. Tony’s hyper-focused on some new repulser tech while you stand guard, occasionally offering your own insight to whatever he was working on. You’d never guess Tony would be the type to listen, but he does, especially when your suggestions keep him from blowing up half the lab. He’ll acknowledge your tips with a half-smile, or a nod that says more than words.

Pepper noticed the shift. She’d smile at you in passing, relief evident in her eyes. She once patted your shoulder and said, “You’re good for him. He trusts you, and that’s not something I say lightly.” Rhodey, Tony’s closest friend, warmed up to you fast. He appreciated having another military mind around. When Tony got lost in his own arrogance, Rhodey and you would share an exasperated look.

Then everything changes again when Tony becomes an Avenger. Suddenly, it’s not just small-scale threats or paparazzi you have to worry about—it’s cosmic forces, alien invasions, global catastrophes. You do your best to keep Tony safe in these new, unpredictable situations, but it’s a challenge.

The Avengers team is a powder keg of personalities. Steve Rogers, Captain America himself, openly clashes with Tony over leadership and moral ideals. You see how the tension weighs on Tony; he deflects with sarcasm, but you’ve come to know the signs of when he’s hurting.

One night at the tower, you’re standing off to the side while Tony and Steve butt heads—again. "Take away the armor," Steve says, voice steely, "and what are you?" The words hang in the air. Tony’s jaw tightens, and you can practically see his heart sink. It’s a cheap shot. And it’s wrong. You step forward before Tony can snap back with a trademark insult. There’s a calm coolness in your voice, the kind that hushes even the Captain.

“Tony Stark is the mind that built that suit,” you say evenly. “He’s the one who sees solutions where everyone else sees dead ends. If you take away the armor, you’ve still got the man who pulled himself out of a cave and saved his own life with scrap metal—because that’s who he is. He’s more than the suit, Rogers, and you know it.”

Steve meets your gaze and steps forward, but you aren’t intimidated. There were lines you simply wouldn’t let him cross, not tonight, not after he delivered that cheap shot at Tony without even knowing him. You can see Tony stiffen beside you, as if ready to jump in—or bolt. But you’re not about to let Steve’s words cut him down.

“Think very carefully about what you say next, Rogers,” you warn, voice low and steady. “Because none of you would be here—Avengers, Stark Tower, anything—if it weren’t for this man. Armor or no armor.”

For a split second, you can feel everyone’s eyes on you. Clint shifts uneasily near the back, Natasha straightens from her casual lean against the wall, and even Bruce lifts his head from the tablet he’s been absorbed in. Steve’s jaw tightens; he clearly didn’t expect you to stand your ground so bluntly—and you don’t care. Your top priority is Tony’s well-being, not theirs. With nothing more to say, you turn on your heel and head for the workshop.

By the time you reach the corridor leading to Tony’s private workspace, the echo of your own footsteps has become a steady, reassuring beat. Only then do you register the soft tread following behind you. He’s close—but conspicuously silent, which is out of character for a man who thrives on quips and banter.

“Sir, you have arrived at the workshop,” Jarvis’s polite voice chimes overhead, and the door slides open with a hiss.

You step inside and finally turn around. Tony lingers just past the threshold, his eyes lowered. His silence seems almost heavy, like he’s struggling to find the right words. “I never asked you to defend me,” he murmurs. “But you…you did. Why?” The workshop’s lights glow softly, illuminating half-built armor pieces and scattered blueprints. You let the sound of humming machinery fill the short gap before you speak.

“Because you needed someone to,” you say simply, though your voice carries an undercurrent of heat—residual frustration from your confrontation with Steve. “And because I wanted to.”

Tony’s gaze flickers upward—he looks uncertain, almost disarmed. “I can handle myself,” he says, though he doesn’t quite meet your eyes. It’s a weak protest, more habit than conviction.

You exhale, crossing your arms. “I know you can. Doesn’t mean you have to face it alone. Especially when the hits are coming from the people supposed to have your back.”

“You caught me off guard,” he admits, voice low, “standing up for me like that. Especially in front of the team.”

You stand your ground, letting the seriousness of the moment settle in. “You act like I never stand up for you.”

A wry huff of laughter escapes him. “Not the same way. Usually, you’re telling me not to blow up half my lab or reminding me to eat something other than coffee. This time you had my back when it counted.”

“Isn’t that why I’m here?” you ask, tilting your head. “I’m your bodyguard, Mr. Stark. That means I protect you—against outside threats and inside threats too. Even if that threat’s a super soldier with a knack for colorful speeches.”

“So that’s it?” he asks, a thin note of vulnerability in his tone. “You did it because it’s your job?” You take in his tense posture—shoulders rigid, hand flexing at his side. Tony’s never been good at showing his more vulnerable edges. Carefully, you move closer, letting your voice soften.

“Let’s get one thing straight. Defending you isn’t just me ‘clocking in.’ I do it because I care. Because I know you’re more than just the suit, no matter what Steve says.” Tony looks up at you in surprise, but you're not done yet. "If this was just part of my job, I wouldn't be spending all my free time down here with you. I would've jumped at the chance to quit when you offered it on a silver platter."

Tony cracks a half-smile, remembering when he outright tried to bribe you to quit, and you surprisingly rejected his offer. The money could've set you for life, supported you and a family if you so desired, but you simply shook your head and informed him about a meeting he had in the morning.

Tony moves closer, so close you can count the faint freckles along his cheekbones. “I hated the idea of having a bodyguard,” Tony admits, voice low. “But I’ve come to realize how much I needed you.” Your heart stutters, unsure of how to respond. Tony swallows thickly, looking uncharacteristically unsure. There’s no witty remark, no deflecting sarcasm. It’s just him, raw and honest, baring feelings you never thought he’d share.

“You’ve become one of the closest people in my life,” he continues. “I trust you in ways I don’t trust anyone else. Hell, Pepper might be the only other person who gets me anywhere close to this.” He hesitates, eyes flicking to your lips before returning to your gaze. “And…I’ve been trying to figure out how to say I might—well—I feel something for you.”

Your stomach flips, warmth blooming in your chest. There’s something surreal about this: Tony Stark, the man who refused to even acknowledge your presence at first, now openly admitting he cares—that he wants something more than just having you as security detail.

A ghost of a smile curves your lips. “I might feel something for you, too.” Tony’s grin is immediate—relief and mischief dancing in his eyes. He leans in, and for a moment, the rest of the world fades.

“Do I have to make an appointment to kiss my bodyguard,” he murmurs, “or is this—” You cut him off by closing the distance, your lips finding his in a slow, tentative kiss.

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spideyson-stuff · 5 months ago

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Steve: We need prepare ourselves for the possibility of dying on this mission-

*Tony grabs Steve by the collar and looks at him with the most serious look ever*

Tony: Listen here you LITTLE SHIT, I have 3 beautiful kids and a wonderful wife waiting for me at home, I'M NOT DYING TODAY!

Steve, scary for his life: O-ok Stark, I get it...

Tony, letting go of Steve and smiling like nothing had happened: GOOD.

The rest of the team: Have kids makes you scary...

#peter parker #spider man #tony stark #iron dad and spider son #spider son #spiderman #iron dad #iron man #meme #incorrect marvel quotes #incorrect quotes #the avengers #steve rogers #harley keener #morgan stark #pepper potts

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august-parker · 4 months ago

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Peter wearing a suit holding a stack of cards at a pedestal that appeared magically for this joke: "welcome to the first episode of 'how well do the Avengers know each other!' I'm your host spiderman!"

Tony: "that is the worst name ever."

Peter: "I'm working on it- FIRST QUESTION! what is Ms Romanoffs favorite color?"

Bucky slamming his fist onto the buzzer: "EASY- RED!"

*LOUD INCORRECT BUZ*

Bucky: "FUCK"

Natasha: "are you serious?"

Bucky: "what do you mean 'am I serious' why wouldn't I be!?"

Nat: "my favourite color is pink asshat"

Peter: "okaaayyy.. Second question! What is Mr Rodgers favorite animal?"

Thor breaking the buzzer: "dog. Final answer."

Steve:

Thor:

Steve: "no."

Thor: "WHAT!? I thought-!"

Steve: "ELEPHANT!!! I'M WEARING AN ELEPHANT SHIRT HOW DID YOU NOT KNOW!?"

Peter: "OKAY- WOW! uh. Two wrong... Third and final question! What is Ms Potts allergic to?"

Bright ass spot light shines on Mr Stark

Tony: "oh fuck."

Pepper: "Tony how long have you known me?"

Tony sadly: "almost 10 years..."

Pepper: "and how many times have I told you the answer to this question?"

Tony: "multiple..."

Pepper:

Tony:

Pepper:

Tony: "carrots..?"

*LOUD INCORRECT BUZZER*

Pepper: "I want a divorce."

Peter talking in front of the burning Avengers tower behind him: "this was a horrible idea."

#what even is this #idk man #mcu #peter parker #natasha romanoff #bucky barnes #steve rogers #thor odinson #tony stark #pepper potts #incorrect avengers #shitpost

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sweetromanova · 1 month ago

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Crisis Management: Part Two🖤

Natasha Romanoff x PR Handler!Reader

Summary: Your assigned to make Natasha Romanoff more ‘relateable’. Somewhere along the way you forget your job was to fix her image, not fall in love with it.

Chapter Two

The problem with press events wasn’t always the press.

It was the people.

All polished smiles and curated soundbites, the room filled with the kind of performative charm that could make even Tony Stark look humble. You’d been to enough of these events to know the drill, gloss over the truth, glam up the heroes and sell the illusion of unity over entrees and expensive champagne. They were less about valour and more about vanity. Tonight was no exception.

Or at least so you’d thought.

This one had started with a glimmer of hope and just a flicker of change.

Natasha Romanoff had shown up in heels, willingly and in a floor-length dress that she hadn’t threatened to set on fire. A slinky, dark crimson number that shimmered under the lights like wet blood and fit her like it had been tailored by a spy with too much time on their hands.

Another notch of progress.

But hope has a short shelf life when you're dealing with assassins and political theatre.

“Try to keep the murder-eyes to a minimum.” You’d whispered as the two of you stood at the entrance, side by side beneath the glow of a chandelier that probably cost more your whole apartment building.

She turned just enough to give you that same dry, flat look, equal parts boredom and threat. It said No promises louder than words ever could.

She was supposed to be the guest of honour, ‘hosting’ the pretentious elite of the Upper East Side. You almost laughed when at first invitation, she refused to ‘host’, the word that here meant playing diplomat, smiling just enough to be disarming, shaking hands with people who funded wars in countries she’d once bled in. It was a performance, one she hadn’t signed up for but couldn’t quite walk away from.

You watched her scan the room with that calculating stillness, the same kind she used before a mission went sideways. Something in her expression told you the evening was already unraveling. Or maybe it never even stood a chance.

After an hour of polite smiling and whispered profiles, you’d left her alone with some congressman that had brought his daughters, teenagers that looked at Natasha like she hung the moon. She’d smiled politely, engaged in conversations about academic interests like she’d ever even been to high school.

After a quick dismissal, you’d gone to get some water, leant across the bar to take it in and before you could think about what and where you needed to show her off next, you caught her eye.

The congressman and family were still stood with her, joined by another older couple with kind eyes but her eyes were locked across the room. On you.

You didn’t notice at first. The intensity had made goosebumps appear and you turned away for a brief second to catch your breath when a body almost slammed into yours.

“NO WAY! Oh my god, it’s you!” Catching a glimpse of the person who just body checked you into the bar, you almost rolled your eyes at your new companion. Emily Martins, a reporter that had begun her career around the same time as you and nearly tanked you both in the first week. You had been assisting in a press conference for some young influencer that was about to break out into the music industry, given the important job to brief the press on what questions were appropriate and what questions were going to get both of your necks on the chopping block.

She was the second person to put her hand up eagerly once it had commenced and the third person to ask her question. A question that had been forbidden by yourself.

So it took exactly 30 seconds for the influencer to stand up and walk off the stage and leave you with the fall out. She was the last person you wanted to see ever again.

“Emily. It’s… surprising to see you.” You politely smiled, stiffening as she’d hugged you warmly, like it was familiar.

“You look good!” She smirked. “Running PR for the Avengers is really paying off, huh?”

You grimaced. “In migraine and stress ulcers, mostly. But sure.”

She laughed and you thought maybe she had changed. The industry of journalism was cut throat, maybe she had shaped up. She looked a hell of a lot healthier than she did fresh out of college. Her eye bags were non-existent, her hair looked like she’d spent the better half of the day getting styled and her dress was flattering, hugging every curve like a second skin.

You couldn’t deny she was attractive, in that natural kind of way. Soft jawline, warm eyes, the kind of girl who didn’t have to try. She just had a calm, easy presence that drew people in without saying much.

What you didn’t realise was that somewhere across the room, Natasha Romanoff was gripping her wine glass like it was a live grenade.

She should’ve been circulating. Instead, she stood in the corner like a living security breach, every muscle tense, like she was calculating exactly how many steps it would take to cross the room and ‘accidentally’ spill red wine on her dress.

“So, what are you up to nowadays? Apart from babysitting Earth’s mightiest egos?”

You coughed up a laugh and smiled. “Honestly not much. All work, no life.”

“Nothing’s changed then.”

“I guess not. What about yourself? Still entertainment reporting?”

“Yeah, I’m good. Actually, I’m an editor now. It’s different but it means I don’t have to stand on red carpets for six hours in 7 inch heels and a corset.”

“Editor? Nice. Anything else on the cards?”

“Well I’m learning to balance it. Every friend I ever had I college became my adversary in the industry but I’m trying.” She jokes, leaning in just a little closer. “If you ever wanted to learn a bit of work-life balance then I’m sure we could arrange-“

You felt her presence a second a second before she spoke. “Hi.” All threatening eyes and an even more threatening posture.

“Hi! Natasha, right?”

“You’re standing in my way.”

You and Emily both blinked, caught off guard. “Uh- Nat-“

“Yes! Yeah, sorry!” Emily excused, stepping aside to let the redhead come directly between you.

“Don’t apologise.” She simply uttered, her shoulder brushing yours as she turned her back completely to Emily.

You stared at her. “Natasha, this is-“

“I know who she is.” She still didn’t look at her.

Emily looked between you, confused and more than a little awkward. “I was just saying hi to an old friend. But it’s great to meet you, Natasha. Thank you for your service.”

Natasha’s mouth curled, not in a smile. “Did you say hi?”

“Sorry?” Emily questioned.

“You said you were saying hi, did you say hi?” Emily glanced at you, her eyebrows knotted in confusion as she now tried to avoid the redhead’s gaze.

“Yeah-“

“Then what are you still doing here?

“But-“

“Natasha!”

Emily exhaled, almost a scoff as her cheeks flushed. “Emily, I’m sorry-“ You attempted to apologise but the damage was done, she simply gave you one sold nod and quickly retreated into the crowd.

Then you turned to her.

“What the hell was that?”

She didn’t flinch. “You don’t need to waste your time on people like that. A reporter? Seriously?”

“People like what? She was an old friend, not even that. You were supposed to be hosting, not playing bodyguard.”

She didn’t answer, just scanned the room again, jaw tight.

Then someone called her name, a panelist for the charity presentation. You’d agreed on it earlier. Easy lines, rehearsed points. She just had to show up and say the words.

She walked up to the mic like she was walking into a battlefield.

“Hi.” She spoke. No warmth. No inflection. “This organisation does… good work. With kids.” Pause. “Or gardens. I don’t know.”

You closed your eyes, the anger seeping through your skin.

“Anyway…” She continued. “It’s all very... important. Give them money.”

Someone near the front coughed. The host smiled too tightly. You wanted to disappear.

By the time she walked off-stage, you were already waiting for her.

“We’re leaving.” Your voice was sharp and quiet.

She shrugged. “Fine.”

⋆⋆⋆⋆

The car was silent at first.

Then she spoke. “I don’t get it.” Natasha said, voice low and dangerous. “You say you want me to be real. To be myself. But the second I stop playing nice, you act like I’ve gone rogue.”

You exhaled, slowly. “What you did tonight wasn’t ‘being yourself.’ It was sabotage.”

“Oh, I’m sorry.” She snapped. “Was I supposed to just stand there doing everything while you’re stood making heart eyes at Ms Hollywood reporter?

You turned to her, eyes blazing. “You are the person of interest so YES! You were meant to be working the room. I stepped away from your for ONE second. I wasn’t making heart eyes at anyone. That was a conversation. You know, those things normal people have?”

Her laugh was humourless. “Right. Normal people, with normal pasts, normal trauma, normal ways of pretending to be someone they’re not.”

You looked at her then and under the anger you felt, the anger she was also expelling, you saw it. Not jealousy or pride.

Fear.

“Natasha.” You sighed, softer now. “I don’t want you to fake anything. I don’t want a script. I want you. But I need the version of you that tries. Not the one that pushes people away just to feel safe.”

Her jaw clenched. “You don’t get to tell me how to protect myself.”

“I’m not. But you don’t get to burn the place down and call it a security system either.”

She turned away, toward the window. Her reflection was stark against the glass, sharp cheekbones, haunted eyes, a woman built to disappear.

You didn’t speak again.

But as the car turned toward the Tower, you caught her hand twitch slightly between you on the seat.

Wanting to reach you but not quite ready.

As the car pulled into the assigned space, armed guards already waiting to escort you both inside, you felt the gentle press of fingertips on the back of your hand.

“I’m sorry.”

⋆⋆⋆⋆

The next morning, you knocked on her door at exactly 9:00am sharp.

No tactical gear. No detailed briefing. Just your well-worn jeans, your favourite shirt that smelled faintly of coffee and a little checklist with directions folded into your back pocket.

When she opened the door, barefoot and wearing a simple black tee, suspicion etched across her face, you raised your phone like a peace offering.

“What’s this?” She asked, eyeing the screen warily.

“Itinerary.” You said with a grin. “Today’s mission? Deep infiltration into New York’s worst influencer trends.”

Natasha blinked slowly. “This is a joke.”

You shrugged, unfazed. “If I’m going to manage your image, I figure I should at least know what people think ‘normal’ looks like these days. Plus, you still owe me for threatening Emily with those infamous eyebrows.”

She smirked, a flash of amusement softening her guarded expression. “They’re very expressive.”

“And yet, surprisingly not listed as a weapon. That’s what gets me.”

Her gaze lingered on you for a moment longer, assessing. Then she relented, voice clipped but willing. “Fine. But if I end up on someone’s Instagram wearing a flower crown, I’m going to need bail money.”

⋆⋆⋆⋆

The cafe felt like choreographed chaos, walls sheathed in fake grass, neon signs buzzing with relentless brightness and at least three ring lights stationed on each table. It felt more like being sat at an interrogation desk than a marble counter where the drinks names were longer than the street addresses.

The barista behind the counter had a nose ring, half a dozen bracelets jingling on her wrists and the kind of energy that suggested she could recite your entire birth chart before asking your name.

You pointed at the menu with uneasy smile. “We’ll take one... iced matcha-lavender-oat-milk-foam latte with the edible flower garnish.” You could feel Natasha’s eyes looking at you like you’d just chanted a witches spell. “And one upside-down dirty chai, extra espresso, vegan whipped cream, shaken, not stirred latte.”

Natasha’s eyes narrowed. “You’re making that up.”

“I wish I was.”

When the drinks arrived, Natasha stared at the green foam like it might lash out. “What’s the garnish for?”

“How do I know? Drama?” You guessed.

Snatching up the straws, you led her to a corner booth, half hidden behind a towering ficus. She leaned in, watching you snap a picture of the drink with a look of concern.

“Why post it if you’re just going to drink it?” She asked.

“Well what else am I supposed to do with it? It won’t stay pretty forever.” You said. “Anyway, real influencers don’t even drink it. They just tilt their heads and act mysterious.”

She rolled her eyes but took a tentative sip of the matcha, immediately grimacing. “That tastes like a garden and regret.”

You choked back a laugh. “That’s the lavender.”

She scrunched her nose. “Who decided flowers belong in coffee anyway? What’s next, a rose petal cappuccino?”

“Look at the third item under seasonal drinks on the menu. It’s already there.”

She gave you a sideways glance, passing you the next drink to try. “If I wanted to drink sadness and dirt, I’d stick to my morning kale smoothie. At least that doesn’t cost $10.”

You nodded solemnly. “I’m not mad at the chai though.”

She stared at the cup like it might bite back. “Promise me we’re not doing any beetroot lattes next.”

“Scout’s honour. Unless it’s trending.”

For the first time in days, she looked lighter like she’d momentarily shrugged off the weight she always carried. The door chimed once more, letting in a tidal wave of meticulously styled mayhem, all matching pastel sweat sets, cheeks flushed with heavy blusher and three girls leaning in close, whispering into their phones as they recorded an ASMR coffee review.

You both watched quietly.

Then Natasha leaned in, voice low and amused. “Which one do you think would cry first if her phone battery died?”

You pointed without hesitation. “Middle one. Definitely middle one.”

She smirked. “I was going to say left. The fake lashes scream ‘emotional fragility’.”

You sipped your ridiculous drink and sank back into the booth. “This is the happiest I’ve seen you all week.”

“I like judging people. It’s relaxing.”

“Noted.”

⋆⋆⋆⋆

Next, you stepped into a pop-up installation that felt like a haunted version of TikTok’s algorithm meets Stranger Things. Neon lights flickered overhead, casting strange shadows as cold fog swirled around your ankles. Broken mirrors lined the walls, reflecting twisted, stretched versions of your faces. In the corner, oversized inflatable props lay half-deflated, their warped shapes looking more like creepy creatures than anything playful.

Natasha eyed a giant swing, complete with plastic tentacles, with a deadpan stare. “Is this supposed to be a sex thing?”

“No. But I’m sure someone’s turned it into one. You muttered, walking a little closer to her than necessary.

She didn’t smile but suddenly shoved you in to the swing. The air turned inexplicably colder as she pulled out her phone, the screen casting a ghostly light across her features. She snapped a quick photo, catching your wide-eyed expression against the flickering background. “NATASHA!”

“Sorry.” She said, utterly unapologetic, smirking away at the photo.

In the mirror room, she struck a mock dramatic pose beneath a sputtering neon sign that buzzed ‘I am the vibe’, the letters glitching like a dying transmission from another world.

You leaned in, voice low. “That’s definitely going in our next press kit.”

She groaned but her eyes kept darting to the shadows, ever-alert for the jump scare she knew was coming “Let’s get out of here.”

You didn’t even acknowledge it, just turned and started walking, a little too fast until a prickle of instinct made you glance over your shoulder.

She wasn’t there. “Nat?”

A cold breeze swept through the corridor of floating bubbles, each one bursting with a hollow pop that echoed too loud in the silence. You froze for just one second.

Then you bolted.

You just made it to the exit before a figure lunged from the darkness, fingers curling around your arm as you jumped a mile into the air.

“Gotcha!” Natasha grinned, voice low and teasing but with just enough menace to make your stomach drop.

“NATASHA!”

Once your heart stopped trying to beat its way out of your chest, you both doubled over in laughter, though your nerves still buzzed, raw from the eerie atmosphere that clung like smoke.

As you stepped into the harsh light outside, Natasha tried to play it cool, hiding a shiver behind her usual smirk.

She failed spectacularly

⋆⋆⋆⋆

“It said it was a walk. A moderate walk. This is not a walk.” You gasped, clutching your chest. “This is an incline from hell.”

“It’s barely a slope.” Natasha said, unfazed, striding ahead with her hair now tied up and sunglasses perched on her head, untouched by the exertion that was killing you softly.

You collapsed dramatically against a tree stump. “I’m filing a formal complaint.”

She glanced back, smirking. “Want me to carry you?”

“Want to be stabbed with a compostable straw?”

“I don’t think you brought one.”

“Don’t test me, Romanoff.”

Eventually the incline flattened and the city skyline stretched before you, all shimmering glass and fading sunlight, hazy and golden.

You stood side by side at the lookout’s edge. Natasha’s eyes followed the shifting light, watching people slow down to snap selfies. “I’ve never understood that.” She murmured.

“What? Sunsets?”

“No. The need to prove you were here.” She nodded toward a girl fiddling with her phone’s timer. “To capture a moment instead of just living it.”

You met her gaze, steady and thoughtful. “Maybe it’s not about proving it.” You said after a moment. “Maybe it’s just wanting to remember who you were in the moment, who you were with.”

She didn’t say anything but her eyes lingered on yours a little longer than necessary.

You held up your phone. “Let’s take one. Just for us.”

Natasha raised a brow. “Did you hear me say I don’t get it?”

“Exactly. So let’s try, for science.”

With a dramatic sigh, she leaned in. You both fit awkwardly into the frame, your heads tilted together as the fading sun lit your faces in warm gold. You snapped the photo then grinned at the screen.

“It’s good.” You said, surprised by how much you meant it. The colours in the background bled together, creating the perfect lighting for the both of you. Natasha’s face held a soft smirk, even softer eyes as you smiled next to her.

“Let me see.” She reached for the phone, studied the image. “Not terrible.”

Then after a pause, quieter. “Let me take one of you.”

You blinked, a little caught off guard. “Seriously?”

“I want to see something.”

“See what?”

“Just let me. Please?”

With a huff, you agreed and awkwardly posed in front of her. You stood for a second. “Did you take it yet?”

“Hold on, it’s a little bright.”

“When did you turn into a photographer?”

“Just be patient and smile.”

“Take the photo already!”

With a laugh, you reached out for the phone in her hands and pushed it down. “Times up!”

“You totally ruined the shot!” She groaned but with a smile, opening the photo. The photo did look like something pulled straight from Tumblr circa 2012. Soft edges, motion blur, an almost dreamlike quality. You were mid-laugh, hand stretched toward the camera like you were reaching for her.

“You look beautiful.” She said, quiet again.

You looked up, only just registering how close she was now. The moment held for a second, you both enjoying the quiet.

Until… “Oh my god! So cute! Slay queens.”

You turned to find a young couple, both dressed in pastel pride jackets and sparkly eye makeup, grinning at you like you’d just won a reality show. One of them clutched a bedazzled tote that said ‘Gay Rights Or Else’.

“You two are adorable!” The taller one gushed. “Like peak sapphic excellence. Want us to take one of you together? We’ll get your good sides. Promise.”

You hesitated for half a second but Natasha was already nodding slowly, eyes narrowed in confusion. You were in a state of shock as she pulled you next to her, positioning you just a little in front of her.

Natasha suddenly held up her hand. “Wait. Sapphic, what?”

“Slay. Gay rights. Love to see it!” The shorter one added, positioning Natasha with the skill of a seasoned director. “Okay, just like that! Gaze longingly. Soft but powerful. Beautiful but not trying. Ok, put your hands around her!” Kill me now.

Natasha surprisingly did as she said, wrapping her arms around your shoulders from behind and resting her head on to the top of yours. “Oh my god, so perfect! Sapphic queens!”

Click.

They handed the phone back with theatrical bows and a chorus of compliments before flouncing off into the sunset like a rom-com ending you hadn’t asked for.

You glanced over at Natasha, who was still staring after them, slightly stunned.

“What just happened?” She asked.

“I think we were blessed.” You commented, looking at her with wide eyes.

She blinked. “By the queer pantheon?”

“Exactly.”

⋆⋆⋆⋆

For the final act of the day, you entered a tall building, buzzing with neon signs and clusters of teenagers loitering around the entrance.

Because if you were going to commit to irony and indulgence, why not end the night on a rooftop, playing glow-in-the-dark mini golf and sipping neon-blue alcoholic slushies that looked like they might permanently dye your tongue?

You high-fived her after she sank a hole-in-one.

“Damn it!”

“You’re doing good!” She laughed.

You were definitely not doing good. You hadn’t finished a single game yet without being at least two over par.

Leaning closer, you whispered. “Let me win and I won’t make you do a TikTok for the rest of the week.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Tempting. But I get so much more enjoyment watching you pout.”

“I don’t pout!”

“You do.”

“Do not!”

“Take your shot!”

You laughed, trying to line up your shot but completely distracted. “You like this, admit it.”

She watched you for a beat. “I like you like this,” She said quietly, honestly.

Then just as casually, she took another sip of her radioactive slushie, like she hadn’t just lit your entire nervous system on fire.

⋆⋆⋆⋆

The elevator ride back to the Tower was wrapped in the kind of warmth that made your bones soft. Laughter still buzzed in your chest, cocktails lingering on your tongue and Natasha’s low voice echoing in your memory. ‘You’re actually not bad at mini-golf. Don’t let it go to your head.’

You’d leaned into her somewhere between floors fifteen and thirty, a little too tipsy to realise. She didn’t pull away, she didn’t even shift.

When the doors slid open, you expected the usual, silence, the faint hum of late-night electronics, maybe a half-eaten pizza slice left to fossilise on the coffee table, courtesy of Stark.

Instead…

“And here they are!” Tony’s voice rang out like an announcement at a red carpet premiere, arms spread like he was presenting a scandal and thoroughly delighted about it.

You blinked.

The common room was full. Steve, Bucky, Sam, Clint, Wanda and Pepper were clustered around the massive screen, which had been paused mid-scroll on a random assortment of screenshots.

Instagram posts.

X threads.

Reddit conspiracies.

Tumblr GIFsets with aggressively emotional fanfic tags already stacked like a digital shrine.

And there, in perfect, high-definition clarity on each them.

You and Natasha.

Everywhere.

“I- What the hell?” You half-laughed, half-choked, stepping into the room like you were about to be interrogated.

Clint leaned over and tapped the screen. “Turns out your little day out was the world’s most successful soft launch.”

“Soft what?” Natasha deadpanned, crossing her arms.

Wanda beamed, leaning forward like she was discussing her favourite ship. She was. “It’s like a tease of a relationship before the people actually announce they are in a relationship. I read that earlier!”

Bucky piped in, dry as ever. “Someone made a thread claiming you’ve been secretly married since Budapest 2019. Then some say you’ve been dating since Nat was papped leaving that hotel at like 4am.”

Steve looked genuinely baffled. “I thought it was just a coffee run.”

Clint, practically vibrating, added, “There was sunset lighting. That’s like…. digital intimacy.”

Tony clicked through the evidence like he was presenting a case to a jury, all candid photos that you had no idea were being taken displayed.

A photo of the two of you at the cafe, Natasha holding a drink out to your, steadying the same straw you had your mouth around. A blurry video of you in the tunnel installation, your laughter echoing with Natasha’s arms loosely round you after she’d made you jump. A snapshot halfway up the hike, Natasha gripping your wrist, steadying you over a rock like she’d done it a thousand times. The sunset photo. You hadn’t even known it was taken. Silhouettes framed in fading light, shoulders touching, her head tilted the slightest bit toward yours. And finally the rooftop golf shot. Her arms around your waist, helping you line up the putt, your grin wild, hers softer than anything she’d ever shown in combat.

You turned, baffled. “Who even took that one?”

Tony smirked. “Drone. Probably. Or a very determined member of Gen Z.”

Natasha leaned in, studying the screen. “Why does this one have three hundred thousand likes?”

Sam answered with zero hesitation. “Because the internet’s never seen you smile like that.”

A silence settled, you glanced at her, expecting some dry deflection, maybe a sarcastic ‘it was fake’ and a storm-out.

But instead she tilted her head slightly. Eyes focused and narrow. “I don’t smile.” She said at last, voice low and unreadable. “That’s Photoshop.”

Clint let out a dramatic groan. “No, no, this is full ‘I’d kill for her and also bring her flowers after’ energy. Like, peak sapphic.”

Steve actually choked on his water. “Sapphic?”

“Why does everyone keep talking about ‘sapphic’ today?” Natasha groaned.

Tony looked far too satisfied. “They said it. Not me.”

You groaned and dragged both hands down your face. “I hate all of you.”

“No, you don’t.” Wanda said sweetly, giving your arm a pat.

“Can we delete these?” Natasha asked but there was no real bite in it. “They’ll never leave us alone.”

Tony just shook his head. “Too late. They’ve been reposted, TikTok’d, translated into at least three languages and someone made a Spotify playlist already.”

Pepper held up her phone. “It’s called ‘SpyPR Agenda: Enemies to Lovers.’”

You looked at Natasha.

She didn’t roll her eyes. She didn’t frown. She didn’t escape through the nearest window.

Instead, she looked at you.

And she said, voice quiet like it was just for you. “People can think what they want. They always do.”

But the way she looked at you then, unblinking, curious, soft, said something else entirely.

Let them.

⋆⋆⋆⋆

The next morning had all started with a bet.

Or maybe it was a dare. You couldn’t quite remember but by 9:14am, Natasha was standing in your borrowed room at the Tower, wearing grey sweatpants that looked too soft to be real, a hoodie three sizes too big and that blank, almost haunted expression of someone who’d been dragged far outside her comfort zone. You knew, without a doubt, that this was going to be fun.

You were already nursing an iced coffee, mostly oat milk, barely any caffeine, she eyed it like it was a suspicious potion.

“This is cold.” She gagged, not even taking the drink from your own hands, just pulling the straw towards her to take a sip.

“It’s supposed to be.”

“Why? Why do you want to drink something this cold on a morning?”

“Because it’s comforting… and trendy.”

She took another cautious sip. “Tastes like vanilla and weakness.”

You grinned, savouring the victory. “Just wait. We’re only getting started.”

Not ten minutes later, you were stood in the bathroom, opening bottles of glass and plastic, looking very pleased with yourself. You handed her a neatly wrapped headband, complete with tiny, perky cat ears.

She held it like it might explode in her hands. “I’m not wearing this.”

“Yes, you are.”

Natasha sighed but after a long pause, tied it on, the ears standing at strict attention. You pulled out your phone and against all odds, she let you snap a picture. You even caught the faintest twitch of a smirk.

Then came the serums, the facial mist and the gua sha tool, which she immediately wielded like a weapon.

“Stop looking for arteries!” You warned.

She muttered something sharp in Russian and began delicately patting on hyaluronic acid with all the enthusiasm of someone defusing a bomb except the bomb was sparkly. “Okay, moisturiser next.” You said, pointing at a pink tube promising ‘dewy goddess energy’. She was still rubbing in serum.

“Why is this so wet?!” Natasha murmured. “I’ve killed people with less effort.”

“Exactly. This is effort. Discipline. Self-care.”

She glanced in the mirror. Her skin was glowing, annoyingly perfect for someone who’s actual skin care routine consisted of ‘soap’.

“I hate how good this looks.” She muttered.

Next, you settled her at the kitchen island, laying out a spread that could have been ripped from an Instagram influencer’s morning story. Avocado toast with chilli flakes and a bright squeeze of lemon zest, a mason jar of overnight oats dotted with chia seeds and a perfectly ‘Instagrammable’ iced coffee.

She took a bite of the toast, chewed thoughtfully. “…This is good.”

“Thank you.”

“I still hate the headband.” You laughed and took your matching toast to the couch. Natasha followed, stretching out beside you, a sigh escaping her that could have melted the ice in your coffee.

For a long moment, the apartment held peace, warm sunlight pouring through the windows, lo-fi beats humming softly from your speaker and Natasha Romanoff, legendary assassin, curled up beneath your throw blanket like a cat who’d never taken a life.

“This is what you do every morning?” She asked.

“Yep.”

She blinked slowly, contemplative. “I think I get the hype.”

You smiled, resting your hand on her knee. “Everybody deserves to have peace in the morning.”

Without a word, her hand found yours and squeezed lightly, like she was saying ‘thank you’.

⋆⋆⋆⋆

Regret set in the instant you opened your eyes.

“Up!” Came her voice, sharp as a blade and way too awake for 5am.

You groaned. “It’s still dark. That means it’s illegal.”

“Illegal is subjective. Come on.”

She’d stood over your bed, fully reclaimed, she was dragging you into hell.

You stumbled out of bed, barely awake. She was already in full gear, sports bra, compression leggings, hair braided back with terrifying efficiency.

She tossed you a set of clothes. “Wear that. We run in fifteen.”

“Run what?”

“Your dignity into the ground.”

The workout started with a bodyweight circuit so merciless, it should’ve been banned by the president herself. It was borderline torture tactics.

Push-ups, lunges, Russian twists, which felt almost like a personal attack and something ominously named ‘core obliteration’.

You collapsed, face pressed into the mat. She stood over you, sipping water like it was the blood of her enemies. “You lasted ten minutes.”

“I have a desk job, Natasha.”

She raised an eyebrow. “You have no excuses.”

Then, she made you run five miles.

Five.

Miles.

You begged for mercy. She gave you one deal, if you didn’t puke, she’d carry you home.

You barely dragged yourself up the last incline, feet like lead.

She jogged backward, grinning like a menace. “This is fun for me.”

“You’re evil!” You wheezed.

“You agreed.”

“While vulnerable and emotionally compromised.”

“Still counts. Come on, get on.” You tried not to lose your head when her hands wrapped around your thighs as she piggy backed you on the way home.

Back at the Tower, Natasha tossed you a towel, grinning. “Sparring.”

You blinked. “I can’t feel my legs.”

“Then you won’t feel the pain when I flip you.”

And flip you she did.

Every time you thought you had leverage, she slipped out like water and turned it back on you. You were pinned in seconds, again and again.

“Is this a dominance thing?” You panted, letting her help you up after she pinned you for the third time.

“No.” She smirked. “This is foreplay.”

You completely short-circuited and she took the opportunity to swipe your legs out from under you. “Come on. Time for breakfast.”

Breakfast, Natasha explained, was black coffee, a hard-boiled egg, oatmeal without sugar and fruit measured out to precise macros.

You stared at your plate. “Where’s the joy? The zest?”

She gestured at your battered, barely standing body. “You already had it.”

You glared. “I hate you.”

She took a sip of her coffee then leaned over just slightly, tapping your spoon with hers. “But you survived.”

⋆⋆⋆⋆

It was rare to have the Tower so quiet. After you spent the morning being tortured trained by her, you needed a massage, a vacation and at least a 10% increase on your pay for every time you were taken down during sparring.

Natasha was tucked away behind closed doors with Maria Hill, discussing whatever high-level, confidential and likely mind-numbingly dull intel they had received. You, on the other hand, were curled up on the common room couch with your laptop balanced on your knees, a glass of iced coffee within reach, and your favourite playlist humming low through the speakers.

For a few golden minutes, it was peace.

Then the door opened.

Sam walked in first. Then Bucky. Then Clint, followed by Tony, already sipping something suspicious from a monogrammed tumbler.

You didn’t look up but you did lower the volume. “This smells like a trap.”

Clint flopped into the nearest chair with all the energy of someone who knew exactly what he was doing. “Relax. We just came to talk.”

Bucky raised an eyebrow. “And observe.”

“And probe your emotional weaknesses.” Tony added, far too cheerfully.

You blinked. “Was there a memo I missed? I thought this was ‘sit quietly while your terrifying Russian Assassin shadow does Important Spy Things’ hour.”

Sam smirked. “Speaking of terrifying shadows… how’s that going?”

You tried for casual but the pause before your answer was just a little too long. “Fine.”

Tony narrowed his eyes. “‘Fine’? You’re going with fine?”

You sighed, nudging your laptop shut. “We’re getting along. She’s… warming up. We’ve managed to turn the horror show of her press image into something halfway human. It’s actually kind of fun.”

“Fun?” Clint repeated, incredulous. “You just described working with the Black Widow as fun?”

“She’s got a sense of humor!” You defended. “You just have to dig past the murder stares and death aura.”

Bucky leaned forward, teasing. “And do you… like that death aura?”

You shot him a look. “Absolutely not.”

“No to the aura?” Sam asked, feigning confusion. “Or no to the liking?”

“I am not doing this with you guys.”

“Oh but you are.” Tony said, settling beside you. “Because we’ve seen the photos and the videos and the body language. She let you put glitter on her face?!”

“It was part of the skincare.” You defended, turning slightly away so they wouldn’t see the blush rising in your cheeks..

Tony grinned. “She let you touch her face. You do understand she once shattered a man’s wrist because he offered her sunscreen, right?”

“She was exfoliating.” You pouted. “And glowing.”

“And glowing.” Clint echoed with a dramatic hand to his chest. “God, she’s so gone for you. I can’t wait to tell Laura this!”

You tried to hold firm but your expression was already cracking. “You’re all absolutely unhinged.”

“Maybe.” Bucky said, with a shrug. “But we’re not wrong.”

You leaned back, groaning softly. “We’re working closely, that’s all. I’m good at what I do. Making her look human, even likeable, is the job. If we get along? Great. It makes things easier.”

There was a beat of silence.

Then from behind you, a voice chimed in, quiet, amused but impossible to ignore. “But do you like her?”

You turned, startled. Wanda had somehow appeared without you noticing, her arms folded, head tilted like she already knew the answer. Of course she knew the answer, her eyes fading from that scarlet red told you enough.

You sighed. “You’re not even supposed to be here. You have a livestream to do!”

She smiled. “You didn’t answer the question.”

Tony leaned in, resting his chin on his hand like he was front row at a drama. “Come on. You can tell us. It’s just the entire Tower watching you unravel like a 2000’s rom-com.”

You opened your mouth and faltered.

Because now all you could think about was her. You were remembering her giving you her hoodie when you shivered at mini golf, blinking at an iced coffee like it was alien tech, her fingers brushing yours under a blanket, her hands wrapping around your waist when she tugged you back into her when she knocked you on your ass for the sixth time. Her laughter, rare and genuine, when read a stupid comment about one of the guys online.

“She’s-" You swallowed, voice quieter now. “She’s complicated.”

“She’s got you.” Bucky teased, softly.

You looked at him, the vulnerability obvious to everyone in the room.

“And you’ve got her.” He reassured. “Even if neither of you are ready to admit it yet.”

This time, no one laughed. The teasing faded into something quieter, there was no smugness now.

Clint finally broke the silence. “We’re not judging you. If anything, we kind of love it. She’s less terrifying with you around. And you? You’re way more fun when you’re not alphabetising press kits by tone.”

“I’ve always been fun.”

“You once laminated a media itinerary.”

“I still do!”

Sam grinned. “Yeah but now you do it while in sweatpants while flirting with assassins. That’s called growth.”

You didn’t have time to retaliate.

The elevator chimed and everyone turned at once.

Natasha stepped out, jacket slung over her shoulder, eyes immediately scanning the room. When she found you, her expression softened.

You straightened up without thinking, flashing a soft smile back.

She crossed the room with quiet, purposeful steps, pausing beside the couch. “Everything okay?”

Everyone tried, and failed, to look casual.

You nodded. “Yeah. Just… talking.”

Her eyes flicked to the others. “Interrogating?”

They all smiled a little too innocently.

She turned back to you. “Did you survive?”

“Barely.”

“Then I taught you well.” Natasha studied you for a moment longer. She breathed out a sigh, her eyes flashing to the watch on her wrist. “Ok I’m going to get a quick workout in.” Casually, she reached down and brushed a strand of hair from your face, her hand then falling to your shoulder with a soft squeeze.

The entire room froze.

“I’ll be in the gym.” She said simply, already turning to go. “If they bother you anymore, come get me.”

Once the doors closed behind her, Tony exhaled like he’d been holding his breath the whole time. “That was so intimate.”

You buried your face in the throw pillow and groaned. “I hate every single one of you.”

But you were smiling.

Because maybe they weren’t wrong.

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erinwantstowrite · 11 months ago

Text

Happy Birthday Peter!!

this is a day late but better late than never! I wanted to draw Peter's 14th birthday because I've mentioned it before in LoF (especially with how that's the day Peter wanted to tell Ned about Spider-Man).

Characters (left to right): Steve, Nat, Thor, Tony, Rhodey, Peter, Ned, Pepper, Wanda, Bucky, Sam, and Dr. Banner

second image: Peter's birthday cards over the years :) left to right:

"Happy B-Day, Webs. Stick around for me, I promise not to mess it up." (this is from Tony)

"Happy Birthday, Peter. I'm very honored to know you. -Pepper"

"Happy Birthday, Peter. You are my brave boy. It will get better. -May"

"I love you, Peter. You Dad would be proud of you, just like I am. I promise to always have your back. -Uncle Ben"

"Happy 4th, Peter! Mommy loves you so much. Stop getting so big! I might blink and miss you growing up! -Mommy"

"It's your 1st Birthday, my Robin. How are you already so big? Dad loves you forever, Peter. :)"

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literaryavenger · 1 year ago

Text

Obsessed

Summary: Your crush on Bucky may be getting out of control.

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x F!Reader

Warnings: Dramatic Reader. Language. Angst. Fluff. My poor attempts at being Funny.

Word Count: 1.4K I'm physically incapable of making anything short.

A/N: I wrote this in like 2 hours and I don't even know what this is, just... Yeah.

Masterlist

This is terrible.

This is the worst thing that's ever happened to you.

This is the worst thing that's ever happened to anyone. It's just the most horrible, dreadful, awful thing that could’ve ever happen to yo-

“Would you stop staring at him for fuck's sakes!” Natasha's hissed words make your eyes snap to her and finally away from the metal armed Supersoldier lifting weights. Shirtless.

You don't know when Bucky stopped feeling self-conscious enough to allow him to workout in nothing but a pair of gym shorts, but it has become literal torture for you.

Needless to say, Bucky's current level of undress is making it impossible for you to concentrate on the stretching you're supposed to be doing before your sparring match with Natasha.

But your very thoughtful and not at all exasperated friend makes sure to keep your attention on her during the entirety of our match by thoroughly kicking your ass.

What a lovely best friend you have.

Anyways.

Your entire mood shifts with one not intentionally overheard conversation. Steve enters the gym and goes straight to Bucky, who was putting his weight set down.

“She’s here!” Is all the blonde says to his friend and your heart stops at the way Bucky’s face lights up with a smile, not needing any more information before following Steve out of the gym.

She’s here? Who the fuck is she? Does Bucky have a girlfriend? And most importantly, she’s here? In the Compound?

Natasha can almost see the gears turning in your brain as you make no attempts to move from the mat after she knocked you on your ass for the hundredth time today. You didn’t even seem to notice her hand offering you help to get up, your eyes still looking where Bucky was just a moment ago, staring at nothing in particular while your brain drowns in your overthinking.

Natasha sighs and decides to end the match here, kneeling down in front of you and placing her hands on your shoulders, shaking you gently to snap you out of it.

“Don’t overthink this.” She tells you when she’s sure she has your attention. “It’s probably just a friend visiting.” She tries to comfort you, but you both know that’s highly unlikely.

Bucky has no other friends outside the team. He doesn’t know how to talk to civilians anymore after everything he’s been through, and gave up trying to after the hundredth time he saw fear in a person’s eyes just by recognizing him. So his friend circle now includes the team and the agents of SHIELD that are not intimidated by him. Point is, every friend he has already lives in the Compound.

So who the fuck is here just to see him?

Natasha can see that this is a lost battle, your eyes barely concentrating on her as you start drowning in your mind again. All she can do when you’re like this is try to distract you and keep you out of your head. So she takes your hand and helps you up, leading the way to the common room to watch one of your beloved romcoms together, because that’s how much she loves you.

Big mistake.

“Y/N! Y/N!” The excited high-pitched voice came just seconds after you set foot in the common room. And that’s about the only warning you got before the excited 5-year-old jumped on you, your reflexes thankfully quick enough to catch her.

“Hi, Maguna!” You say while chuckling as the little girl hugs you. “You seem excited today. Did you get into the sugar cabinet again?”

Morgan giggles at your joke and shakes her hand before taking your face in her little hands and dramatically saying, “No! A princess came to visit uncle Bucky! A real princess.”

You frown, confused at what she’s talking about, before you look around the room and finally notice everyone else in it. Pepper and Tony are on the couch, looking at you lovingly as you interact with their daughter.

You love Morgan, she’s like a little sister. You never miss an opportunity to babysit her and you spend as much time with her as you can. She also loves you, out of all the Avengers you’re her favorite, much to everyone’s dismay. She calls them all ‘aunt’ and ‘uncle’, but you’re just Y/N. You’re her big sister, you don’t need a title. Which is why you're the only one other than Tony allowed to call her 'Maguna'.

Then you notice the other people in the room: Steve, Bucky and… Shuri. The fucking Princess of Wakanda, standing in the common room of the Avengers Compound and just smiling at you as you carry Morgan.

You’ve never met Shuri, but you know she played an important part in deprogramming the Winter Soldier out of Bucky, and you’re grateful to her for it. She’s important to Bucky, and you can’t believe you forgot Bucky has Wakandan friends.

You put Morgan down on the ground again and the little girl takes your hand and aggressively steers you towards where Steve, Bucky and Shuri are standing, clearly thrilled to be in the presence of a real life princess.

“Hi, I’m Shuri.” She offers you her hand when you get close enough and you shake it with your free hand while introducing yourself.

There’s a bit of an awkward pause and you’re about to say the first thing that pops into your head when Morgan thankfully saves you by pulling on your hand, making you look at her. She tells you to come close and, chuckling, you kneel beside her so she can whisper conspiratorially in your ear.

“She’s a princess and she’s really pretty, but I still like you better.” She whispers and you can’t help but laugh.

God, you love this little girl.

You smile brightly at her and launch a tickle attack, her adorable giggles filling the room as everyone looks at you two with warm smiles.

Your attention is solely on Morgan, until you unintentionally hear the whispered conversation between Shuri and Bucky.

“So, this is the girl, huh? She’s pretty.” Shuri says and your heart skips a beat.

You glance at them as discreetly as you can while still tickling Morgan, only to find Bucky looking at someone behind you. You turn around less carefully and see Sharon just entered the room, and she's also looking at Bucky with a smirk. You quickly return your attention to Morgan, but your mind is going a thousand miles a minute.

Of course he’d like someone more like Sharon. She’s pretty, she’s talented, she’s a total badass and she’s not afraid to go after what she wants.

She’s not a mass of anxiety in the shape of a woman that overthinks everything and becomes a flustered mess every time she’s even near Bucky.

It’s time to admit it to yourself: Bucky just doesn’t see you like that and you need to move on.

Natasha is right, your obsession with Bucky needs to end.

What you don’t see is Bucky almost glaring at Sharon because he knows damn well why she’s smirking. She came in just before Shuri whispered to Bucky, when he was very intent on looking at you with heart eyes as you played with Morgan.

Just before you looked at him, Bucky noticed Sharon and he had to hold in a groan at her because he knows that she’s never gonna let him live this down.

Both Sharon and Steve have tried really hard to convince Bucky that you like him back and he should make a move on you. But Bucky, being as stubborn as they come, never believes them.

He obviously makes you uncomfortable, you’re always stuttering when he’s around and you avoid eye contact whenever possible. He’s just glad that you can stand his presence enough for the two of you to work together when necessary and to hang out with the rest of the team without problems.

So he just enjoys looking at you from a distance. He loves watching you play with Morgan and his thoughts always run wild with images of you playing like that with kids that are yours and his.

But he knows that’s never going to happen. Why would you like a damaged, PTSD ridden soldier that can’t even make it through the night without waking up from a nightmare? No, that’s definitely not your type.

Bucky accepts the truth: He doesn’t deserve you and you don’t see him like that anyways.

It doesn’t matter that Sam thinks he’s obsessed, that won’t stop him from looking at you whenever he’s lucky enough to get a glimpse of his little ray of sunshine.

Requested taglist: @vicmc624 @matchat3a @nerd-without-a-cause @sapphirebarnes @cjand10 @mostlymarvelgirl @julvrs @blackhawkfanatic @lillianacristina @armystay89 @imdoingbetternow @spookyparadisesheep @elizalexwil @aceofhearts25 @dontworryboutitsweetheartxx-blog @justab-eautifulmess @buggy14 @thedonswife13

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