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spideyanakin · 3 days ago

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❤️💙hadn’t written for spider boy in a long time !

I'm here (p.p)

summary - mcu peter parker x black widow + nat’s sister! reader, after years of loneliness, buried feelings and chipping your life away, you found peter. Now months later, after fighting monsters from another universe and loosing may, you comfort peter atop the midtown rooftop.

based on this request: hey could you do one with peter x reader from nwh where it’s after may dies and the reader and peter are dating and she’s just there to comfort him & and reader is a black widow, nat's sister (pls) and is dating peter. maybe have the other peters react to her fighting skills.

warnings - so, technically, the character’s ages in the mcu don’t match bc if the reader is approx the same age as peter, then she would have been way too young or not even born yet to be a kid with nat and yelena, so let’s pretend that nat and yelena are way younger so the ages match-but that doesn’t really matter, this is fan fiction after all lmao–so reader is approx 18/19/20? mention of death, no way home spoilers, talks of skipping meals and not sleeping properly, a bit dark and angsty but next part is light n fun lmao [w.c 2.9k]

id also like to thank @peterparkive for proof reading this <3

freaks masterlist

peter parker masterlist

can be read as a stand alone or part of my freaks series

The air felt too heavy, firm, dark and hot.

The dry sweat in the creases of your suit, the dirt beneath your finger nails, the smoke still clutching to your lungs, and the grief vailing your bones.

Everything seemed to cling to you like a horrible second skin.

The tears were still hot against your cheeks, and the Manhattan skyline felt dim.

Everything felt like a twisted dystopia, while the world you once knew, was now out of reach, out of touch by your bloodied and calloused fingertips.

There was no breeze to comfort you, no soothing hum of traffic that usually echoed with the beat of your heart.

Simply the darkness of the night sky, no clouds, and no stars to bear witness to night.

It was quiet.

Too quiet.

Horribly dark.

Horribly hot.

Horribly heavy.

The only touch to reality, the only feeling against your skin that felt real, that felt like a glimpse of life was Peter’s hand against your own. The softness of his touch, grounding against the shattering of your world, mixed with the soft shudder of his uneven breaths.

Because while Yelena was hunting Clint behind your back,

you were saving the world with your spider-boy.

Now that you think about it, you don’t really know how it happened, how you ended up here, amidst all the places in the world your feet had thudded upon. If not physically, then emotionally. How you had opened your heart to someone the way you had with him, and landed in this mess, sticking and impossible to untangle, caught like a fly on a web of grief and pain.

One day you were free-lance, walking across Europe. Lone except for your weapons, mind, and all the habits gained courtesy of the red room. But you weren't bothered by your loneliness, not one bit. Because you had refused Yelena’s help, and you had been clear on wishing to be left alone since you were sixteen.

You perfectly knew how to fill it, that gap, that hole that was eating you away when the silence became too loud and the ghosts a little too ravaging.

You filled it to the brim with hunting the villains of the world, and tracing down the last pieces and remnants of the monsters that had forged you.

You lost sleep and appetite to them, hunger becoming a color only felt for blood and death to all that harmed you and the hundreds of girls victim to the spell and training.

Yelena would often give you a call, reminding you of glimpses of a normal life amidst the red room.

Soft touches, butterflies, christmas trees and blue hair dye.

Of giggles beneath the TV and singing birds on pine trees.

In your soft children's eyes, and in the way Nat used to braid your hair, there was no KGB, no training, no punching bags, no glocks, no screaming.

You could still taste it sometimes, or smell it in a bottle of shampoo you never dared to buy at the shop.

A life with just her, you, Nat, and the two people you once, in what felt like another life, called mom and dad.

So then, after trying to get a tear from your eye, an emotion, a reaction, anything to get you to miss her, she would slip in the latest project she was tackling, and a word or two about how great it would be for you to join her.

How you were too young to be left alone.

Or just how much Alexei missed you, and how he was too much of an emotional teddy bear to be hurt.

But every time, without missing a beat, you had the same answer.

One she didn’t understand, but one she respected, or at least tried in every way that she could.

So despite lying to the girl you called a sister, trying to convince her the blip had changed nothing, that just like her, you disappeared into dust and came back to a life unchanged, came back to a dusty cabin in the woods and the static sound of your broken radio and that you had healed from the news of Natasha’s death.

That despite not changing your habits and chipping your life force away, burning the light in your eyes with every missed hour of sleep, every skipped meal and every cut from a chase with a ghost. Despite all of that, in the end, you found an impossible comfort to Europe that you knew coming back to America would kill.

There was a familiarity, a mood, a vibration that made the world seem smaller, and the demons that still shadowed your steps less vicious.

Until you got a call from Nick Fury to join you in Venice, and your entire life tipped on itself.

He needed a shadow. Someone he could trust. Someone young, who could blend in with a crowd of high schoolers, keep an eye on them, and aid the Stark sponsored hero that was getting drowned in the aftermath of the blip and who Fury believed was not fully capable of handling such a threat as this.

Plus, the pay was fucking great. He made sure you couldn’t say no.

So before you could even blink, Nick Fury had enrolled you as an exchange student from Venice, who barely spoke Italian and had a questionable past of living in America, who would be joining Midtown High.

It was weird. You believed the cover to be less than full proof. But Nick Fury believed it was, so you followed the lead.

Your cover might have been weird but the teachers were even weirder, and the suspicions had died as quick as they came.

Little did you know you had just signed for your life to change forever, that you would be brought through a whirlwind without a warning, and things you never thought you would be able to feel again came rushing back.

Something in the way Mysterio toyed with your minds. Something in the way Peter had looked at you for just a second too long across the hall when you were stuck in your own tiny cell for female prisoners, empty with the exception of you when you landed in the Netherlands.

Something about the way his touch lingered a little too long, or in the way you’d catch the spark in his eyes. And finally, there had been something in the way he had hugged you. In the way his arms held you on that broken bridge in London.

Peter had witnessed death and betrayal, and somehow, amidst it all, he had deemed you good enough to be your friend, to smile at you and hold you, to kiss you days later under the London setting sun when he still thought you would stay in Europe.

He had managed to see something in you, managed to pull out the life and will to live that had been shattered to pieces, sullied and buried a long time ago by the Red Room.

So you followed him to Queens, making Peter and Yelena the two happiest people in the process.

And now, months later, after witnessing villains that came from another universe and disobeying a wizard (which you had strictly told Peter not to do, but he did it anyway). After helping the so-called villains from other universes and surviving an exploding building.

After losing May.

After watching her die in Peter’s arms, listening to his scream, his cries as he tried to reassure her, reassure himself that everything would be okay.

After everything that this day had thrown at you, you still, somehow, thought coming to America was the best decision you ever made.

Because you had him.

Because despite everything, you had each other, and whatever the world was ready to throw your way, you could handle it, together.

“You’re ok, right?” Peter’s voice came meek, small and broken over the night’s silence, and your heart shattered all over again.

“My suit is bullet proof,” you let your eyes open, ready to face your now broken world again.

The city sky line was still dim but clear, still pulsing with nothing but pain and sorrow as your eyes adjusted to its sight.

You breathed in, sharp over the pain in your ribs and turned your gaze to face him.

“I’m okay,” you reassured him, and maybe even yourself.

You scanned his features, searching his eyes for any sign of pain, any sign of distress despite the clear grief that settled in the air.

“You?”

He nodded instead of using words, squeezing your hand tighter in your own and you let your shoulders slacken just a little bit. He was alright.

You were alright.

You were both alive.

You shuffled closer, and Peter let you, the hand that was holding yours finding your waist with a slight wince. You observed, saw the way his shoulder flinched and the way his teeth gritted as his fingers dug your side to brace from the pain.

You let your fingertips travel up his face, brushing the dust and soot from a cut on his cheekbone. He sighed beneath your touch, eyes closing. You sighed with him, heart beats melting together in a calmer rhythm.

Your hand traveled down to his shoulder, and you brushed the gash there as gently as you could. You felt it. It was here, sharp and causing him a blinding pain every time he moved.

“Peter, you’ve got a bullet in your shoulder,” your voice came out a mix of worry and almost surprise, the type of surprise that could make him laugh under other circumstances.

“It doesn’t hurt, it’s on the surface anyways,” he shook his head, his fingers brushing your waist just above your utility belt.

He flinched a little when you inspected the wound further, he was a terrible actor.

“Bullshit. Peter, It’s a bullet,” you huffed, eyebrows pinching together.

“I’ll be fine,” he dipped his head just the slightest, resting it against your shoulder, and sighing with every piece of air he owned.

“I know you will,” you whispered, feeling him nod as your eyes closed and your hand found his hair, gently tugging as you tried to reassure him, soothe him, anything that could make the pain melt for just a second.

There was a heavy beat of silence. One poets could write about, not that you would let them. The world was suddenly filled with his warm breaths against your cheek and the way his pulse pounded against your own. His hand couldn’t leave your waist, gripping and anchoring him to reality as much as he could. You were both here, alive, and right now it was all that mattered.

“Peter, let me take out that bullet.”

“Okay,”

He sat up as best he could, leaning a bit crookedly, and clumsily pressed the spider at the center of his suit. You watched the top of the suit crumple and slip loosely over his shoulders and chest, stopping and pooling at his waist, he shivered when the breeze hit his sweat riddled torso. He caught your eyes as you stared at his now exposed chest, barely catching the blush creeping across your cheeks, but he made no note of it.

“You know,” you sighed through your nose and pulled up from your lingering stares, “with all that Stark tech available you could have made yourself a bulletproof suit.”

“Felt too bulky,” he muttered a bit sheepishly, “and I heal fast.”

“Fashion over safety… Right.”

“Well, my iron spider suit is bulletproof…”

You sighed, and tore your stare away from his eyes. His lips curved into the fainted ghost of a smirk, barely the curve of a lip and he watched you fumbled with the tools from your belt.

You pulled something out that made an overwhelming crumpling noise over his super hearing, it was a white, sterile packet he had never seen before and you ripped it open with your teeth, then followed a spray bottle he swore could not fit in there.

He hissed when the soaked sterile gauze pressed against his shoulder, even if your hands were the most delicate against him he shivered from the sting.

The gentleness of your fingers almost made him cry.

Then you pulled out something, a torture tool in between tweezers and a knife, and he would have almost been scared if it hadn’t been in your hands.

“This might hurt, but it won’t be bad,” you muttered, and dug in without warning. He flinched, his hand gripping your thigh as he braced for the pain.

His eyes closed and he leaned half of his weight against you, you flinched as the fast healing flesh tore against the bullet, and finally it was out, staring back at you with all its bloody and deadly glory.

“You wanna keep it?” You half joked, and he looked at you with eyes like a kicked puppy.

“No. God no.”

You nodded and tossed it. You could hear it, clink and fall somewhere in the distance of the Midtown High rooftop.

You grabbed a tissue from one of the infinite pockets of your suit and wiped your hands from both his and your blood.

“You should not be this good at removing bullets from a wound,” he shook his head, his voice cracking at his poor attempt to change the subject.

“You're right. I shouldn’t,” you sighed, and started unpacking a small wrap up bandage.

“But in the meantime, I’m here, skilled and saving your life,” you kissed his temple, and started gently covering his wound, wrapping it neatly.

“Thank you.”

He sighed, his chest shuddering as something bubbled up his lungs. You could feel it, and your own chest ached with it.

Your hand grabbed the edge of his suit’s shoulder and gently lifted it. You pressed the spider for him, and watched as the suit gently hugged his shape again. You noticed his suit that already auto generated, the wound on his shoulder seemed long gone over the smooth material.

When his eyes finally met yours again, your heart shattered into a million pieces.

He looked so lost. Eyes brimmed red and tears threatening to swallow him whole and drown him under his last breath. You tried to give him a faint smile, and your hand climbed up to brush hair out of his forehead, but the second your warm fingers touched him, he burst into tears, and you engulfed him in a hug.

You stayed like this for what felt like hours. The two of you, sitting on that rooftop, cradled by the city life below.

It was quiet.

Horribly dark.

Horribly hot.

Horribly heavy.

And the only thing grounding you to reality was Peter’s face resting in the crook on your neck, your hand rubbing soothing circles on his back as his shoulder violently shook.

The shoulder of your super suit was wet with his tears and you felt your own, hot and boiling over the curve of your cheek.

The sound of his cries, the hum of a passing car, and your heart beat ringing loud in your ears.

You had to breathe.

You would be ok.

Silent steps and quiet voices broke your rummaging. Your head lifted up, and your eyes softened on the faces of your friends.

Peter heard, his face lifted from your shoulder with a final sniffle, his nose red and eyes blinking the tears away. He sniffled again and rubbed the tears from his cheeks, refusing to make eye contact with his two friends.

“We um, we heard,” Ned’s voice broke the quiet, all low, tired and scared.

Peter gripped you a little tighter when he felt you move away from him, a small little whimper leaving his lips. You gripped his shoulder again, a way to show him you were there, but the tension in his shoulders did not ease under your palm.

“We um- we came because-”

“Wait,” you gazed at them, listening to the wind, but the look on their faces told you they knew. “we’re not alone, right?”

You might not have any superpowers but you were trained to feel. Trained to know when eyes were on you.

“Yeah. That’s what we're here for.” MJ pointed out and you raised an eyebrow. “Peter, um, there are people we would like you to meet.”

Peter’s eyes widened a little, and you felt him squeeze you tighter. You saw he was looking for something to reply, but then, out of the darkness, two other guys, stuck to the building’s tower, in the same way Peter would, slowly climbed down.

“Holy fuck,” you gasped as you realized who were standing in front of you. “You are all-”

“Spider-man,” the one that wasn’t in the suit finished your sentence.

“We’re here to help you, Peter Parker.”

#quartermaster parker 🫧#peter parker x reader #peter parker x you #peter parker fan fiction #peter parker x y/n #peter parker imagine #mcu peter parker #mcu peter parker x y/n

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spideyanakin · 6 days ago

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It’s Joseph Quinn summer I don’t make this up x

I had gotten out of the Joseph Quinn building safely, and I refuse to go back in.

#eddie munson #Johnny storm

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spideyanakin · 8 days ago

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SOBBING CRYING THROWING UP AND CANNOT WAIT !!!

bent and bruised (4) 𐙚 b.b

pairing: new avenger!bucky barnes x fem!ex-hydra!reader

warnings: nsfw, 18+, minors dni, non-con/dub-con themes under HYDRA conditioning (flashback), heavy angst, bucky's guilt, HYDRA related trauma and abuse, memory suppression, emotional breakdowns, mentions of torture and cryo, unprotected sex, creampie, emotional sex

summary: you were built by HYDRA to please the soldier—then left for dead. years later, bucky sees your face again. but no amount of time can erase the way you once whispered his name through tears. inspired by this request

word count: 5.4k

author's note: hi my sweethearts! chapter 4 is finally up! gosh, it took me a full day to write this, and genuinely, so much of my heart has went into this series ❤️ and i hope that you guys will love this chapter as much as i do! i am always grateful for the support from you which motivates me to write 🥹💓 i love you guys and please stay safe out there!

series masterlist

It had been nearly a month.

Since the collapse. Since the flames. Since Bucky carried your limp body out of rubble and ruin with blood in his throat and your name breaking over his teeth like a prayer he hadn’t earned the right to say.

Recovery came in fragments. You didn’t wake up whole. You didn’t wake up you. Healing was slow—not just in flesh and bone, but in the quiet, broken machinery of your mind.

Some mornings you opened your eyes and couldn’t remember your own name until someone said it.

Other days, it rolled too easily off your tongue, like muscle memory, while everything else felt like static.

The team didn’t ask questions. Not the important ones.

But Bucky… Bucky never really left.

He didn’t hover. He didn’t talk much. But he stayed.

A fixed point in your periphery, silent and steady like gravity. You’d turn your head and find him there—sitting in the corner of the medbay in the dark, elbows on his knees, staring at the floor like he could see the shape of your soul etched in the tiles.

Sometimes he brought things.

A cracked paperback you hadn’t asked for. The soft blanket from the common room, worn at the edges, smelling faintly of cedar.

A water bottle he’d already uncapped for you, placed in your palm just before your throat got dry enough to ache.

Quiet gestures. Gentle offerings.

When you could finally stand without the world around you practically spinning, he helped you take the first few steps.

He didn’t guide you like a nurse—there was no forced gentleness. He was a presence at your side, solid and wordless. His hands would hover at your waist, the callused pads of his fingers barely grazing your ribs as you found your balance again.

But he never lingered.

Never touched you for longer than necessary. Never let himself want.

Even then, the tension was unbearable.

It pressed into the air between you like a storm front. Not new, not sudden. Old and starved and still too dangerous to name. It lived in the spaces between glances. In the pauses between words. In the way your breath always caught before his name.

You didn’t call it love.

Not yet. Not when it still felt like something torn from you, stitched back with the wrong thread.

But it was there—burning beneath the skin. Something once soft turned jagged. Something left behind in a room you couldn’t remember, but your body had never left.

And now… they’d cleared you.

Light training. No combat. Just movement. Reorientation. “Reintegration” as Val had called it, as if your mind and body were separate machines that had lost signal.

You weren’t sure if she believed that. You weren’t sure if you did either.

And of course—of course—they’d assigned Bucky to oversee your session.

The training room was as clinical as ever. Still, silent, stripped of distraction. Rows of padded mats laid out in quiet geometry.

The walls gray. The air chilled, no music, no background chatter. Just the high, electric hum of fluorescents and the whisper of your bare feet against rubber.

He stood several paces away. Arms crossed. Eyes tracking your every move.

Not invasive. Just… watchful.

Like he knew what it felt like to move in a body that had once been used against you.

You didn’t speak. Neither did he.

You stretched slowly, deliberately, muscles groaning with each extension. Tight. Resistant. But obedient. Your arms moved through familiar shapes, hips shifting to accommodate old weight distributions. Every breath came like you were borrowing someone else’s lungs.

Still—your body remembered.

Muscle memory. Instinct buried in the blood.

You flowed through the motions like a ghost moving through old ruins, letting your limbs carry you forward while your mind lagged somewhere behind.

Bucky’s gaze stayed with you. Never wandering. Never slipping. Just… there.

And when your posture slipped—when the angle of your elbow faltered—he stepped forward.

“Drop your shoulder,” he murmured, voice soft, low. Controlled. “Elbow higher. Like this.”

And then—his hand touched you.

Not firmly. Not boldly. Just the softest brush of his fingertips against your shoulder blade, correcting your alignment with the same ease he might guide a weapon into place.

No hesitation. No hesitation at all. As though his hand had always known where to find you.

But the second his skin touched yours—everything shattered.

It wasn’t just memory. It wasn’t just a flash.

It was a fucking detonation.

Your lungs seized. Your knees buckled.

Your vision didn’t blur—it replaced itself.

You were naked. Laid bare across cold sheets, back arched against the unforgiving steel of a table that creaked beneath every motion.

The air was damp. Your thighs slick with sweat, lips parted around a breathless cry that barely made a sound.

He was inside you. Not violently. Not with the detachment of routine. With intention—with devotion.

Each stroke of his hips was slow. Deep, measured.

Like he was trying to stretch time around you, like he was writing something into the lining of your body with every thrust, every roll of his pelvis pressed flush against your heat.

His hand gripped your hip—tight, trembling—the pads of his fingers bruising you with possession. The other, the metal one, cupped your cheek like you were something fragile.

Something holy.

His mouth hovered by your ear.

“I’m sorry,” he breathed. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry—”

Then, lower. Rougher.

“You’re mine.”

The words were a plea. A punishment. A prayer. Spoken like they tore him open just to say it.

And you—

You weren’t scared. You weren’t broken.

You pulled him deeper.

Your nails raked down his back, drawing thin lines through sweat-slick skin. His breath stuttered. His body bucked. He buried himself to the hilt in you with a groan that bordered on a sob.

He kissed your shoulder. Your jaw, your lips. Messy and shaking, mouth slick with desperation, like he was starving and you were the only thing that had ever fed him.

And you—god, you gave it to him.

Every whimper. Every tremor. Every broken sound.

Because it wasn’t sex. It was a man finding the last piece of himself inside the body of someone he wasn’t supposed to love.

You came back into yourself with a jolt.

Your body recoiled before your brain could catch up. You staggered back a step, a strangled breath catching in your throat like a sob choked off mid-sentence.

“Don’t—” you gasped, voice raw.

Your arm flew up instinctively, shielding your chest like you expected another memory to slam into you with teeth.

Bucky’s hand snapped back instantly, palms raised, eyes wide.

“I didn’t—” he started, voice low, rattled. But he didn’t finish.

He saw your face. The devastation. The betrayal of recognition.

And he knew.

He knew what you’d just seen.

You swallowed. Hard. The taste of him was still in your mouth. The ghost of him still pulsed between your thighs.

Your fingers trembled at your side.

“What…” your voice was barely a whisper. “What aren’t you telling me?”

He didn’t move.

Didn’t blink.

But something behind his eyes crumpled like paper soaked in blood.

You turned and fled the room before he could answer. Before he could lie.

Before he could not lie.

Because whatever that memory was—whoever that man had been, inside you, above you, holding you like he’d never get another chance—you knew two things:

You had loved him. And that man could very well be Bucky.

You stormed out without looking back.

The door slammed open, crashing into the wall behind you with a hollow, reverberating crack that rang down the corridor like a warning bell.

But the sound didn’t register—not really.

The only thing you could hear was your own pulse, pounding like war drums in your ears. Your breath tore in and out of your lungs with no rhythm, shallow and sharp, chest heaving as if the air itself was too thick to swallow.

You didn’t have a destination. You didn’t need one. You just needed distance.

Distance from him. From the walls of that training room. From the echo of his voice in your memory—mine, spoken with such unbearable reverence it had sunk into your bones like heat.

It was still clinging to your skin, that memory. Still pressing against the insides of your ribs like smoke trying to escape.

You could feel it in the throb between your thighs, in the ghost of his mouth on your throat, in the way your muscles still ached with the rhythm of a man’s body that had moved above you with trembling restraint.

You hadn’t just remembered it—you’d relived it. And your body had welcomed it like something holy. Something lost.

It was him.

The weight of his chest against yours, the shape of his hips fitting yours like they’d been carved to match. The breathless heat of his mouth whispering against your neck—you’re mine—like he’d meant it, like it had nearly broken him to say it out loud.

That wasn’t just memory. It was truth. And it had shattered you from the inside out.

You felt violated—not by him, but by yourself. By your mind, your body. By the truth of it.

Like something sacred had been pulled from the depths of your soul, laid bare, and forced into the light before you were ready. A dream you hadn’t consented to.

A memory played on loop with your body still trembling from the aftershocks.

And the worst part—the part that hollowed you out completely—was how deeply, how viscerally, you’d wanted it.

You turned a sharp corner, bare feet sliding slightly on the tile, and scanned the hallway for escape.

Your lungs were too tight. Your skin burned. You needed the dark. You needed silence. You needed somewhere you could scream without anyone hearing it.

That’s when you saw it—half-open, forgotten. The storage room.

No lights. No windows. Just shadows and space and shelves of gear collecting dust.

You slipped inside without hesitation, hand reaching back to close the door softly behind you. The latch clicked into place with a finality that felt more like a lock snapping shut around your chest.

But you weren’t alone.

You hadn’t heard him follow you—but you knew. You felt him.

The air shifted just slightly behind you.

A faint current. A gravity.

And then—he was there.

He didn’t speak. Didn’t step forward. Just stood in the doorway, motionless, cast in a wash of gray from the light leaking in through the cracked door.

His shoulders were hunched tight beneath his hoodie, arms loose at his sides, posture strained with restraint. Like he knew if he moved too fast, you might vanish entirely.

It didn’t matter.

You spun on him anyway, heart thudding so violently you could feel it in your palms, in your throat. The rage was already in you—rising fast, sharp as a blade and twice as lethal.

It wasn’t clean anger. It was tangled. Desperate. Grief and confusion and betrayal, all knotted tight behind your teeth.

Your finger jabbed into his chest with more force than you intended. His body didn’t move. But his breath caught.

“I want the truth,” you demanded, voice a raw crackle. “What did they do to us?”

You saw it instantly—the way his eyes flicked away. Like a reflex. Like shame.

His mouth opened. Closed.

“I—” he started, jaw flexing. “We were prisoners. We survived. We—”

You cut him off with a snarl. “Don’t fucking lie to me.”

The words detonated. They didn’t echo—they reverberated. Slammed off the walls and bounced back with all the fury you couldn’t hold in. Your fists clenched at your sides, nails digging crescent moons into your palms.

His face didn’t move. But his entire body locked down.

Rigid. Silent. Like the weight of the truth was pressing down on every vertebrae, threatening to split him open if he said one more word.

“Don’t do that,” you spat. “Don’t stand there and act like we were just survivors. Like it was torture and nothing else.”

Still, he didn’t speak.

Your voice cracked. You didn’t care.

“Because I see it, James.”

His name fell from your lips like an accusation. Or a confession.

You took a shaky step forward. “Every night. I close my eyes, and I see your body on top of mine. I feel your hands. Holding me like I was something… something you didn’t want to break. Someone you were trying to keep alive.”

And finally—finally—he looked at you.

You almost wished he hadn’t.

Because what you saw in his face wasn’t denial. It wasn’t confusion. It was recognition.

And guilt.

So much guilt it looked like it might drown him. His mouth parted slightly, like he wanted to speak—but no words came. Only the flicker of a memory neither of you had asked for, now burning behind both pairs of eyes.

“I feel it,” you whispered, and your voice was so quiet it almost didn’t sound like your own. “I fucking feel it. But I can’t see your face. It’s like someone carved it out of my god damn memory, and all that’s left is everything else. The hands. The voice. The—” Your voice broke, your chest trembling. “The way it felt. And it’s driving me insane.”

He stepped toward you—just one step. A single shift forward.

And you stepped back like you’d been burned.

Your back hit the shelf behind you, shoulders slumping slightly under the weight of everything coming undone.

Your hands trembled at your sides. Your heart felt like it had torn in two and couldn’t figure out how to beat around the split.

And then—barely audible. Fragile.

“It was you… wasn’t it?”

The silence that followed was deafening.

It pressed in from every direction, thick and suffocating, the weight of unspoken things crashing like waves in the dark.

And then—you saw it.

The moment he broke.

His shoulders collapsed inward, like something inside him had finally given out. His head bowed. His eyes closed. His lips parted around a breath that sounded like a sob he didn’t want you to hear. His hands, once clenched into restrained fists, fell loose and helpless at his sides.

“Yes,” he said, and the word was barely more than breath. “It was me.”

The floor shifted under your feet. Not physically. Emotionally. It was like the world tipped sideways, like the ground beneath your ribs hollowed out and took your balance with it.

Your knees buckled. Your shoulder catching the edge of the shelf for support. Your breath faltered. Your vision blurred.

Because it was him. It had always been him.

And now—you couldn’t un-know it. Couldn’t outrun it. Couldn’t undo the way your soul had always known the shape of his.

There was no going back now.

Only through.

The silence that followed his confession didn’t soothe. It scraped.

The air in the room felt colder, somehow—denser. Like the shadows had multiplied, curling around the racks of supplies, slipping beneath the doorframe to listen.

Your spine pressed to the shelf behind you, heartbeat still ragged, fingers flexing at your sides like you didn’t know whether to run or reach for him.

He didn’t move. Not at first. Just stood there across from you, chest rising and falling like he’d just crawled out of a grave. Like saying those words—yes, it was me—had gutted him open from the inside.

When he did speak, his voice was rough. Wrecked.

“They put you in my cell,” he said, each word careful, as though afraid to drop them too hard. “Said you were mine. That you… that I could have you.”

You didn’t breathe.

His eyes flicked up to meet yours—and the look in them nearly undid you. Not lust. Not possession. Regret. Bone-deep. Aged. Like it had lived in him for years.

“They told me you were built for me,” he continued, slower now. “That you were designed for me. Said you wouldn’t feel pain. That you’d… want it. That it was what you were made for.”

He swallowed hard. A muscle in his jaw jumped.

“I didn’t believe them. Not at first. I—I didn’t even know how to want anything back then. I was still… gone, still on HYDRA's leash. But they told me you were compliant. That your programming would respond to mine."

Your stomach twisted.

“I didn’t know you,” he rasped. “I didn’t even know me. But they gave the order. So I obeyed.”

He stepped forward once, like he couldn’t stand being that far away from the truth anymore. His hand lifted half a breath, then fell again.

“I touched you the first night,” he admitted, and his voice broke around the word. “Not because I wanted to. Because I didn’t know what else I could do. I thought I was following orders that would spare you worse.”

Your breath came shallow, tears starting to pool hot behind your eyes.

You couldn’t blink. Couldn’t look away. Couldn’t not listen.

“But you…” he continued, softer now, as if the memory was something fragile. “You weren’t afraid. You weren’t empty like they said. You—looked at me.”

He swallowed again, chest rising with the effort.

“You touched me.”

His voice cracked around it, that last word, like it still didn’t make sense to him all these years later.

“You said my name. James.” His eyes burned, and he blinked like the memory stung.

The quiet between you pulsed, heavy and electric.

“Even after they’d dragged you back bloody and broken, too many times to count. And when they wiped your memory—when they tried to scrub everything clean—you still remembered me. Every time.”

You covered your mouth with one shaking hand, the sob building at the back of your throat thick and hot and impossible to hold.

“You never looked at me like a monster,” he whispered. “Even after the first time. Even when I didn’t know what it meant to be touched. You looked at me like I was still a man that could be loved.”

He took another step toward you.

“You used to kiss my scars,” he said, and the memory made his mouth tremble. “Talk to me in the dark. Tell me you wanted me. Not because they told you to. Not because it was your programming. Just because it was me.”

The tears spilled from your eyes before you could stop them.

He didn’t touch you. Didn’t dare.

“I didn’t believe you,” he confessed. “Not then. Not really. But I held onto it, you were the only real thing I had.”

His gaze dropped to the floor.

“I told myself I was protecting you. That if I made them believe I was following the plan, if I gave them what they wanted, they’d stop hurting you. That if I kept you close, I could keep you safe.”

He paused. And when he looked back up, his voice cracked open entirely.

“They broke you for me,” he said, the words thick, trembling. “And I let them. I fucking let them. I couldn’t stop it. I couldn’t fight them. I tried, sweetheart. I tried—” He cut himself off, pressing the heel of his palm to his brow like he was trying to press it all back in.

“I watched them put you in the chair,” he whispered. “Heard you scream. And every time they brought you back, you’d forgotten just a little more. And I kept holding you anyway. Like maybe I could hold onto the pieces long enough to keep you whole.”

Your knees gave out.

You sank down slowly, back sliding down the metal shelving until you were seated on the cold tile, knees tucked to your chest, shoulders trembling with silent sobs.

The tears came hot and heavy, streaking your cheeks, your chin, soaking into the collar of your shirt. You didn’t make a sound. But it wrecked you all the same.

Because it made sense. Every part of it.

The pull you felt when he entered a room. The ache in your chest. The way your body remembered something your mind couldn’t touch. It had always been him.

And now you understood why.

“I used to say your name,” you whispered, barely audible over your breath.

His chest hitched. “You did.”

He knelt slowly, as if afraid to shatter whatever was left between you.

“You used to hold me after,” he said, voice shaking. “And when they saw that—when they realised I was…feeling something —they started putting me in the chair again. Every time you made me softer, they shocked it out of me. But it didn’t work, not completely. Because you kept coming back. You kept finding me. Until you started to remember too much.”

He swallowed hard. “That’s when they wiped you clean.”

You stared at him through tear-blurred eyes. “You knew me all this time?”

His answer came without hesitation. “I did.”

His voice was lower now. Almost ashamed.

“You were the first person I asked about when I escaped HYDRA. When the memories started coming back in fragments—I went to Steve. Asked him if you’d ever been found. If anyone had seen you. If you were still…” He stopped himself. His jaw clenched. “When he told me HYDRA had written you off as dead—I thought I’d never see you again.”

He dragged a hand through his hair, pulling it back from his face with a soft, anguished groan.

“But I couldn’t stop thinking about you. Couldn’t stop dreaming about you. For years, I saw you in my sleep. Heard your voice. I remembered how it felt to be wanted. I remembered the way you said my name, how you held me in that room".

His eyes lifted again. Shining. Raw.

“I know what I felt in that fucking cell was real.”

You couldn’t speak. Couldn’t move. You were just… there. Drenched in the truth. Cracked open by it. Heart splintered into pieces too jagged to fit back together.

Something in you shifted. Snapped. Broke free like a tremor ripping through fault lines that had been quietly, patiently waiting for the right pressure to come undone.

Before he could say anything else—before the shame in his eyes could kill you all over again—you crossed the room in two furious, breathless steps and grabbed the collar of his shirt with both hands. You yanked him down and kissed him.

No warning. No pause.

It was not gentle. It was not sweet. It was a goddamn storm.

Your mouth crashed into his like you were trying to consume him, like the ache in your chest needed to be dragged out of you by force. He gasped against your lips, the sound ragged and helpless, before his hands shot to your hips—gripping, anchoring, holding tight like he didn’t believe you were real.

His groan vibrated through his throat and into yours as he kissed you back—hard, hungry, full of restraint that had finally snapped.

It wasn’t soft. It was confession. It was grief and guilt and years of stolen time pressed into teeth and tongue and bruising touch.

You pushed him backward without thinking. Your hands curled into the front of his shirt as you drove him into the wall, breath tearing from your lungs, teeth scraping against his bottom lip as he fumbled for purchase, groaning your name like a prayer he hadn’t dared speak in years.

He grabbed at you like a dying man—hands spreading over your back, dragging down your spine, squeezing your thighs like he needed to feel you to survive.

And then your back hit the door. Hard. You gasped, the sound punched from your lungs, but you didn’t stop—not for a second.

Your hands were already under his shirt, yanking it up, bunching the fabric over his chest as you kissed him again—sloppier now, wetter, more frantic.

He pulled away only long enough to tear the damn thing over his head and toss it blindly behind him. And then his mouth was on your neck.

Not teasing. Not coaxing. Devouring.

His teeth scraped your throat, tongue following in a heated trail that made your thighs clench around his hips. You dragged your nails down his chest, groaning at the feel of his body—familiar, built for you, already yours.

He shoved his hand between your legs, under the hem of your shorts, palm pressing hard against your clothed cunt until you arched against him with a gasp.

Your underwear was soaked. He cursed under his breath—low, guttural.

You hooked a leg around his waist, dragging him tighter, letting him grind against you, both of you still half-dressed, half-mad. You reached between you and shoved at his waistband, fingers fumbling with his belt as he kissed you again, messier this time, mouth open and breath hot.

His hands were everywhere—sliding up your shirt, tugging it over your head, cupping your tits like he remembered them.

When he shoved his pants low, cock springing free, you moaned at the sight of it—thick and flushed and already wet at the tip.

He reached down, pushed your shorts aside, hooked a finger into your panties and dragged them roughly to the side until you were bare beneath him.

He hesitated for only a second. His eyes flicked to yours—burning. Haunted.

“You don’t remember me,” he said, voice cracking. “Not really.”

You reached for his face. Touched his jaw. Brushed your thumb over his cheek like you’d done a hundred times in that cell.

“But I feel you,” you whispered. “I remember this.”

And that was all it took.

He grabbed your thigh and lifted you higher, pinned you to the door with a groan, and thrust into you in one brutal, beautiful stroke.

Your mouth fell open in a gasp—head snapping back, fingers scrambling for balance against the door as his cock filled you, stretched you, split you open in a way that felt too perfect to be new.

Like your body had been built to remember him. Like it did.

He didn’t wait. Didn’t give you time to breathe.

He fucked you like a man possessed—hips snapping into yours, hand gripping the back of your thigh to hold you in place, the other buried in your hair. His forehead dropped to yours as he moved, breath hot and harsh against your lips.

He was everywhere. All of him. The weight of his chest pressing you to the door, the scrape of his stubble against your jaw, the slam of his cock inside you, deep and raw and relentless.

There was no rhythm. Only need.

He fucked you like he was trying to erase time. Like he was punishing himself for every second you’d spent not knowing his name. Like if he could just bury himself deep enough, you’d remember every night you’d spent tangled together in the dark.

You came fast.

It hit like lightning—sharp, electric, sudden—your whole body shaking as your arms wrapped around his shoulders, holding tight, clutching him like an anchor in a world that wouldn’t stop spinning.

Your cunt clenched around him, tight and pulsing, and he groaned—a low, broken sound—and spilled into you with a final, stuttering thrust that felt like a confession.

His arms wrapped around you, holding you close, forehead pressed to your shoulder as he breathed through it, body shaking.

And for a moment—for a single, breathless second—

It felt like home.

But then— The guilt returned. Like it always did.

He pulled back, still inside you, his face devastated, eyes wide and glassy. His hands trembled on your thighs. His breath came too fast.

“I can’t,” he whispered, voice hoarse. “Not like this. You don’t remember me. And we—”

“James.” You reached for him again, desperate.

“We shouldn’t have,” he said, the words shaking. “You didn’t ask for this. You didn’t choose me. You don’t even know me.”

You swallowed. “But I wanted it.”

He looked at you like that only made it worse.

He didn’t stay.

Didn’t say another word.

He stepped back, hands falling away, head down, and walked out the door like the ghost he’d always been.

And you—

You didn’t stop him.

Because you were too busy sliding down the door, back hitting the floor, your thighs still wet with him, your body still echoing with the memory of his hands—and the empty space he left behind.

You lay on your bed in the dark.

The lights were off. The room was still. The hum of the compound’s night cycle buzzed faintly through the vents, soft and steady, like a mechanical lullaby too hollow to comfort. Even the silence felt like it was watching you—quiet, patient, endless.

You hadn’t moved in hours.

The sheets beneath you were twisted, rumpled from tossing, the faint scent of antiseptic still clinging to the cotton from your medbay stay.

Your limbs felt foreign—heavy and strange, like they belonged to someone else.

Your body ached—not just from him, not just from the way he’d held you to the door and fucked the breath out of your lungs—but from something deeper. Something that had been hiding in your marrow, buried beneath frost and programming and grief.

Your muscles were sore. Your throat was raw. Like the weight of remembering had torn through every nerve ending, every fragile thread of denial you’d still been clinging to.

You stared at the ceiling.

Blank. Colourless. Still.

The same ceiling you’d stared at the night after the mission. The same one you’d counted cracks in when the dreams started.

It looked the same now—but it felt different. Like something in the air had shifted. Like the truth had saturated the walls.

There were no thoughts left to chase. No fantasies left to run to. No lies left to wrap yourself in. The truth had been stripped down to the bone, and it sat with you now—quiet and heavy, like an old wound reopened. Like a ghost that had been beside you all along.

You had loved him. You had known him.

And now, knowing that—feeling it—was the worst kind of mercy.

And then—

A whisper.

Not out loud. Not in the room. But inside you.

A thread of memory, soft and fraying at the edges. It didn’t come with images. It wasn’t visual. It was sound. Scent. Weight.

The unmistakable presence of his body curled around yours in the dark, arms wrapped tight around your waist, chest pressed to your back, the low hum of his breath against your skin like a vow being made for no one but you.

His voice. That voice.

“I’ll keep them away from you,” he’d said. Barely above a whisper, broken and certain all at once. Like he was making a promise with his whole body. Like he knew he couldn’t keep it—but meant to die trying anyway.

“I swear.”

Your eyes blinked open again. The ceiling blurred.

Your chest stung, your throat tight with unshed ache. Your eyes burned with the sting of something that didn’t quite feel like grief. Not anymore. Not just pain. It was heavier. More complicated. A kind of sorrow that bled at the edges with memory.

With meaning. Because you remembered.

Not all of it. Not clearly. But enough.

Enough to crack the ice that had lived in your chest since the day they pulled you out of cryo, since the first scream you couldn’t place, since the first phantom bruise your body remembered without context. Enough to fill in the negative space of every nightmare with the shape of the man who had been beside you through it all.

Enough to feel the name form in your mouth like it had always lived there. Waiting.

“James.”

It escaped like breath. Like prayer. A whisper shaped from ash and ember and aching remembrance.

The sound didn’t echo. It settled.

Like it belonged here. Like it always had.

And in the silence that followed, your heart beat once—slow and steady and unbearably tender—like it recognised the name too. Like some part of you had been holding its breath for years just waiting for that moment. For him.

You didn’t cry. You didn’t move.

You just lay there—staring into the dark, blinking through the blur, wrapped in memory, in ache, in the unbearable silence of a future that might never come. Wrapped in something too quiet to be called hope, but too warm, too human, to be despair.

You said his name. You remembered. And it was enough.

It had to be.

a/n: i'll see you guys in chapter 5! it's probably one of the most painful things i've written in a while, and gosh, i cant wait to proofread and post it up! ❤️ please leave a comment or a reblog if you enjoyed this chapter! thank you for your support 🥹

taglist: @poisntree @moth-maam56 @ravenswritingroom @heymydearheart @secretdiaryofzai @whitelaxe @ficmeiguess @its-in-the-woods @chronicallybubbly @stell404 @overwintering-soldier @emilyswortwellen @vampirehimejoshi @chimmysoftpaws @herejustforbuckybarnes @s0urw00lf @cheeseman @onlyforyuto @hibiscy @quinquinquincy @wickedfun9 @bugs-n-roses @alicetesser @hibiscy @onlyforyuto

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spideyanakin · 9 days ago

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writing is 10% storytelling and 90% rearranging three sentences for an hour like you're trying to solve an ancient curse

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spideyanakin · 14 days ago

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not me lurking on your page like a desperate ex boyfriend

Ily spidey dear (^o^)／

❀

Ily more omg hahah 🌸

#❀ crew member 🫧

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spideyanakin · 14 days ago

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james 'bucky' barnes - fic recs

other fic recs | navigation

works by @danysdaughter

the soldier and the vixen ➾ 40s!bucky x 40s!fem!reader & winter!soldier x hydra!reader & post!tfatws!bucky x fem!reader, once comrades bound by war and affection, two soldiers-turned-weapons are reshaped into monsters by hydra, their humanity fractured and memories blurred. now free but haunted, they struggle to untangle love from programming, grief from guilt, and healing from the wreckage of who they used to be (THIS IS MY FAVORITE BUCKY FIC EVER. I took this to my mind palace so many times im sobbing. I love it so much)

cетка ➾ civil!war!bucky x widow!reader, when you, a former red room widow crosses paths with the man who once trained you—now a ghost of the monster you remember—your collision reignites memories neither of you can outrun. in a world that only ever taught you two to survive, you find something you were never trained for: each other. (HOLY SHIT!!! the whole start where they meet and its just them rediscovering life together and hanging out is insane. like I could bathe in that all day, and then the ending!!?? like babes this is brilliant)

works by @buckysleftbicep

bent and bruised (series) ➾ new avengers!bucky barnes x fem!ex-hydra!reader, you were built by HYDRA to please the soldier—then left for dead. years later, bucky sees your face again. but no amount of time can erase the way you once whispered his name through tears. (HOLY SHIT. HOLY SHIT, HOLY SHIT. THIS THIS THIS this is brilliant, this is magic.)

cradles and chaos ➾ new avenger!bucky x pregnant!fem!reader, you wanted to surprise bucky with the news—you’re pregnant. the only problem? everyone else on the team found out first. cue the chaos. (the banter and character dynamic have me CRYING. in love with this, I could read it 500 times)

high for this ➾ new avenger!bucky x fem!reader, during a mission, you and bucky are exposed to a gas meant to strip away restraint. he resists, and well, you try. but when the heat fades, it’s not the mission that haunts you both, it’s what happened behind that door. (I needed a good cold shower after this, holy crap)

for better or for worse ➾ new avenger!bucky x fem!reader, you and bucky are forced to play newlyweds at a luxury honeymoon resort. he’s controlling, you’re reckless, and now you’re sharing a bed. the problem? it’s getting harder to play pretend. and you’re not sure either of you will survive what comes next. (I- this whole series had me HOOKED. the tension. the yearning, the banter, the angst? obsessed)

works by @buckyseternaldoll

seargant's magic mouth ➾ you thought you were just his fling. He thought you were his girl. then you overheard steve teasing bucky about his legendary skills in the bedroom—particularly his mouth. bucky gets flustered. you get curious. a week later, he proved he’s still got it. (THE DYNAMIC? the yearning? im here, im sold. I love this)

five seconds, five years (series) ➾ bucky barnes proposed just days before the world ended — afraid he might never get another chance. Then he vanished in Wakanda. Five years later, he’s at your door — unchanged, while your whole life has moved on. Some love survives time. But what happens when life doesn’t wait? (stop this made me cry- genuinely on the edge the whole time, loved it)

works by @artficlly

lessons in lovemaking (series) ➾ bucky x blackwidow!reader, you and bucky barnes go undercover as a married couple, but when a fake kiss gets too real, he unexpectedly finishes in his pants—leaving you both stunned. (WAAAAAAAAAA, STOP THIS IS A MASTERPIECE IN EVERY WAY POSSIBLE, SOBBING CRYING THROWING UP. genuinely think this is one of my fav bucky series out there. the way the reader is torn with her own demons and the yearning for it to be normal but- AGH. I'm stunned and obsessed w this series darling.)

this is (not) fine ➾ personal assistant!reader personal assistant rules: don’t crush on bucky barnes. definitely don’t misinterpret a flower delivery and spiral into silent heartbreak, and absolutely never ever get stuck alone with him in an elevator. (OH MY GOD. STOP. THIS. THIS. im obsessed w the amount of detailing of what the team needs ect.. I adored it so much and the way everythning is descried and bucky noticing shit ;') stop im crying. and the smut?? holy cow I- I think its killed me)

works by @barnesonly

yearning ➾ you and bucky have been together for a while now, but haven’t had sex yet—he’s insecure, afraid he forgot how. but one night, things finally happen… (holy shit this was so sexy and amazing and SWEET, and just ugh. I loved every inch of this fic thank you for the masterpiece AGH)

(series) lust ➾ professor!bucky barnes x reader, you’re a literature student. he’s your english professor — brilliant, composed, and entirely off-limits. But the more you write, the more he notices you. And what begins as admiration quietly unravels into something far more dangerous. (THE WAY I ATE THIS SERIES UP. Its still on going, but I just could not stop reading. oh my god. there's just something about it.)

other works by amazing writers

manchild by @houseofhyde ➾ bucky can't help but wonder why they always come running to you,, or your living fossil of a roommate disapproves of your taste in men and its totally not because he wants a taste of you. (HOLY COW, the yearning? the pinning? the LAYERS, the banter? the slutting out on the floor of her kitchen while repairing her sink? yes. amen.)

come back to me by @peterparkive ➾ post-thunderbolts!bucky x fem!reader, it’s been three years since you and Bucky called it quits. you learned to live without him, to stop waiting for a knock that would never come. until tonight, when he shows up at your front door with his team and tired eyes, asking for a place to crash. his presence, bathed in the soft light of your doorstep, stirs feelings long buried—ones you thought had vanished the night he did. (OH MY GOD. the yearning??? the angst?? im living for it. Yelena being a menace, and the whole dynamic!!?? crying sobbing throwing up!!)

one dance by @daxisyzz ➾ mafia!best man!Bucky Barnes x moh!Reader, bride!Natasha Romanoff x groom!Steve Rogers, Your best friend Natasha is marrying a man whose world you don’t understand. At her extravagant wedding, you’re just trying to blend in — until a pair of blue eyes finds you from across the aisle. James Buchanan Barnes, Steve’s right hand, watches you like you don’t belong here… and maybe like you do. (HOLY SHIT. this was absolutely stunning. I ADORED every bit of it. and just the dynamics oh my god.)

reckless fever, lover girl by @rosesaints ➾ avenger!reader, you think it’s nothing—just a one-off, a fluke—when bucky softens at the sight of a baby in your arms during a cookout. but then it keeps happening. babies at airports. babies on recon. babies in vending machine ads. and every time, he looks at you like you’re the answer to a question he hasn’t asked out loud yet. he starts carrying gum “in case someone’s kid gets fussy on a flight,” stares too long at tiny boots in store windows, and once, unironically, asks if your hypothetical child would like goats. you’re not dating. officially. no one knows. but you’ve been sharing a bed for months and he makes you tea without asking and you’re starting to have dreams about pacifiers. he’s subtle about it. until he’s not. until he’s standing at a target, holding a baby hat like it cracked his ribs open, and says he wants a family—with you. not someday. now. (THIS WAS SO WELL WRITTEN. I- I-. The dynamic, and the yearning, and the way Bucky was written, STOP- I- I'm going to cry. I'm on my knees for this, this was so beautiful)

#quartermaster barnes 🫧#fic recs 🫧#bucky barnes #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x you #bucky barnes x y/n #the winter soldier #avengers fic recs #avengers #the avengers #the winter soldier imagine #bucky barnes imagine

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spideyanakin · 14 days ago

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bruce 'batman' wayne - fic recs

other fic recs | navigation

works by @vigilvntes

a world alone ➾ bruce makes his first public appearance since the memorial service, with you by his side (the dynamic between them is everything im sobbing)

warm ➾ (why can't this be me)

works by @house-of-kolchek

the darkness hides the truth

living a triple life

works by other amazing writers

right place, right time (series) by @devilfic ➾ you took the hippocratic oath. you swore to help those in need. you didn’t sign up for a man crawling through your apartment window bleeding to death, but you’ve unfortunately seen worse. surgeon!reader, secret identities, meet ugly but it’s kind of cute, vigilantes breaking into medical professionals’ houses but it’s not because they don’t heave health insurance, bruce wayne is a masochist. (AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH AHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!! THIS ? THIS? yes yes yes. It's so intense and brilliant shut up I love you for writing this)

surely, you'd burn the same (series) by @jangofctts ➾ reader works with gordon, is childhood friends with bruce, starts sex pollen trope! (one of my favorite battinson series ever, genuinely in love. I think I have read it like 5 times. the smut? the plot? the tension? the level of like wtf going on for the reader is just so perfect. absolutely adore this)

delicate by @psychedelic-ink ➾ “you’re the only thing I care about,” (sobbing)

like an animal by @imaginedisish ➾ sex pollen trope! after the riddler strikes again, he leaves some unusual clues behind for you and Bruce…including a strange green dust. (this HAS TO BE one of my favorite sex pollen trope fic ever. the plot? the tension? 1000/1000)

iron by @stargirlfics ➾ (this is probably one of the hottest bats fics out there, this had me on my knees)

are you upset? hot. by @athenalvss ➾ bruce has a weakness for his wife when she's angry, maybe he should make her angry more often. (hot, genuinely have read this 50 times)

#fic recs 🫧#barrelman bruce wayne 🫧#bruce wayne #battinson x you #battinson! bruce wayne x reader #battinson imagine #battinson x reader #battinson #bruce wayne x you #bruce wayne imagine #bruce wayne x reader #bruce wayne x y/n #batman #batman fic recs #batman fics

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spideyanakin · 1 month ago

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i’m gonna need more of malfoy!reader x sirius literally right neow!!!!!!!!!

im begging for more of them!!!!!! i require them biblically!!!!!!!!

WHAT DO YOU MEAN HES THE FATHER OF HER CHILDDDDDDD

(ps i pray that tumblr doesnt eat me so you get to look at my glorious gif)

OMGHAHAHAHA I LOVE THIS GIF WTF!!!

ily, thank you for this enthusiasm, genuinely so grateful for this <3 and hihihi ik! I so enjoyed writing this plottwist hehehe. the gif was me when i thought about it.

Here is what happens next because I do also, need them biblically. this part is a bit longer then the others just because hehehe

Also this fic will continue to be written on this account but new fics will go on it, so give a big fat follow and support to my new wizarding world writing account @wizardrockstar

all I think about now - masterlist

summary - things start to get revealed after the order discovers you have been working for dumbledore

warnings - we get a little bit of james and the reader which I'm finding so interesting to dig through, fainting, no one trusting the reader

read previous part

“We’re waiting for you." James nodded, giving you a tight smile. The young father looked; tired, disheveled, and honestly, a bit like he was going to cry. Your heart tightened in your chest at the sight, until your eyes met and you saw a thousand unsaid things flash behind his eyes.

Maybe it was a silent plea to not hurt Sirius again. A warning. With everything happening, he would not be able to handle picking up the broken pieces of his heart again. He would always put Sirius first, but this time, with Death Eaters lurking at every corner and the price on his son's head, he did not think himself physically capable of caring for him on drunk nights, carrying him through the dark thoughts and the endless days of him gazing at nothing in hopes of finding answers again. Gordric, he wouldn't even be able to handle seeing his best friend suffer without wanting to break into a million pieces himself.

James had always been precocious with you; you knew he had always seen you as a potential threat. You don't think he ever approved of your relationship with Sirius in the first place. He never liked you, never trusted you, and when things were brewing for the worst in your 6th year, you always heard him murmur how your whole relationship was a construct of the society you had grown up in. How if Sirius would just wake up, he would realize that his love for you was a superficial effect of his upbringing; an expectation his subconscious was still adamant on keeping. That he would get over you easily.

You heard through the grapevine that he changed his mind once he realised you and Sirius were sneaking around after Sirius had left home. Even though he still didn't approve, he had come to the conclusion that this was really love or whatever (you also suspected Lily and her 'you cannot control love' talks had something to do with his change of opinion on you).

So he learned to tolerate you only because of Sirius's feelings, and you by extension, only tolerated him because of his friendship with Sirius.

But after you had inevitably crushed Sirius's heart (and entire soul) almost two years ago, you had no idea where he stood now with his opinions of you, and you weren’t blind to his concerns.

You walked through the threshold, handing your hand to Sirius who was still sitting on his bum, dazed.

He took your hand, not without missing how his hand felt against yours; burning hot, and precious like a rare diamond all at once. The horrible feeling of never wanting to let go roared inside you, and suddenly you were back atop the astronomy tower the first time he had kissed you all those years ago.

Sirius couldn't stop looking at you as you helped him up. You saw his eyes, open wide like an owl, fixed on you as you squeezed his shoulder once he was back on his feet. Your hand lingered there, maybe in reassurance, for you or for him, you weren’t sure. In a silent way of telling him you were here, that you would talk about it; but now, other matters were pressing.

You went back to stand next to Dumbledore, a bit awkwardly. You tried your best to muster a kind smile, but standing in front of everyone who had previously drawn their wands out defensively the second you had transformed back into human form made anxiety pick at your gut.

Your brain wanted to tell your body this was a stupid feeling. That your hands shouldn’t be shacking and searching for the rim of your gown and embroideries to fiddle with. You could stand in a room full of death eaters with the Dark Lord himself, your blood cold, hands like stone and head clear as you controlled your memories, thoughts and posture.

But standing in front of the infamous order of Phoenix, which Dumbledore kept assuring you were an honorary member. An exceeding one at that, who deserved more than enough rewards for your courage and strength in the face of darkness.

But they didn’t know that, and now your hands were violently trembling. Maybe it was because you cared so much. Maybe it was because you didn’t know anything about those people apart from the group of boys who were gawking at you. The others weren’t your friends, barely acquaintances, you didn’t even know most of their names.

They looked at you like the worst of enemies.

You had expected it. They hadn't been in those countless secret meetings between you and Dumbledore. They hadn't known all the ways in which you risked your lives to save theirs. All the secrets kept from Regulus and the Dark Lord, all those horrible things you had done to show your loyalty to the dark side. All those sleepless nights hoping you had left no trail behind, hoping you hadn't raised any suspicions. Hoping that what you were doing in the silent shadows would keep them safe, would keep your son safe, would assure a future for them that you hadn’t been lucky enough to know.

But none apart from Albus Dumbledore knew, and you could see it in their eyes; none of them trusted you.

Not even Sirius seemed sure of your loyalty.

You were ready to accept it.

Your brother had done horrible things to each and every one of them, and if not directly, they had hurt someone they loved. He had left an ever-lasting scar on most, and they hated you for it.

And Sirius, well… you don’t know how he could even look at you.

"I still don't get it," James muttered, one hand in his pocket and the other in his hair. "Peter- Y/n- Peter-" he kept muttering, pacing a hole through the plush carpet, making the wooden floor crease under his feet. Dumbledore watched him like you watched an annoying house fly.

Molly Weasley watched him with compassion-ridden eyes, but her brows quickly creased as everyone started to really settle back into the room.

"James," her voice was sharp. "We need to focus."

The brunette boy looked at her. You had never seen him like this. He looked so lost. Nothing like the bold and bright boy you knew.

His eyes searched for Lily's, who rested a hand on his shoulder. You watched as a sigh slipped past his throat, a tiny pearl of worry melting from him just by the touch of her hand.

You shivered at the sight. Your eyes stung at the domesticity of it. They had both grown in so many ways since the last time you had seen them. Lily's fine traits were somewhat older, in two years she had already matured into a woman, ready for the horrors of the world with a shield of kindness and power around her. You could tell worry had been picking at her new adulthood, but then it had for everyone in the room. James, by her side had an ere of responsibility and protectiveness in him that he previously lacked in your Hogwarts years. Their growth had been tainted by the colours of war, but with it sealed their love and proof of loyalty to one another with iron. Nothing else seemed to matter as her hand rested upon his back. No matter how much horrors and anxieties had picked at their days, the love that bloomed from their chest had grown stronger than any darkness surrounding them. A bubble of love that protected them like a spell, a spell whose words you wish you knew.

It hurt to watch. As your eyes blinked to catch sight of the boy standing not too far from them. The black-haired, and stormy-eyed rogue of a boy that made the butterflies in your stomach grow wings again. You missed that feeling, you craved for the similar powers Sirius Black once held over you. You craved the reassurance and love that would be felt by the mere brush of his skin against yours. The fear that you would never be able to feel it again swarmed inside you as you blinked your eyes dry.

A tattooed hand rested against his neck as he rubbed his shoulder blades, he looked at an angry-looking Peter Pettigrew who was still silenced and tied against a chair. His eyes were as lost as James’s.

"What's next?" Arthur Weasley looked expectingly at Dumbledore, who peered back at him under his half-moon glasses.

"They will know Peter is missing," Remus added, barely able to look at his once so-called friend as he spoke his name.

"Who are the others?" Marlene interrupted.

"The others? What others?" James spoke, fast and sharp as he pulled at his hair.

"The other allies. You said there were multiple," she continued, frowning to Dumbledore, who nodded.

"Indeed, they are." He turned to you—you took a sharp breath.

"There are three,” you cleared your throat, and Albus nodded for you to continue. "One, Albus refused to devulge their identity. They thinks they work alone. He can only be partly trusted, apparently." You sighed, eyeing the room as they all looked back at you—unimpressed and impatient.

"The second, my sister in law. Narssica." Sirius looked at you with wide eyes, color starting to drain from his face. He you watched as his hand picked at the collar of his shirt, making room for his breath.

"And the third" you hesitated. Your eyes adverted to find Albus, whose eyes were casted to Peter. You gulped, looking back to Sirius who was clearly not okay.

In the same night; he learned that you had been an ally of the order for the last two years, that his cousin was an ally too, that his best friend was a traitor, and and that he was a father of the child he thought was his nephew.

Maybe dropping the knowledge that his brother was still alive might just be the one thing too much.

But everyone was staring intently at you, and you felt obligated to speak.

You went to find Remus’s eyes, maybe he would react well to the news.

"The last ally is my- um, the last ally is Regulus. Regulus Black."

"But he’s dead." Remus croaked. Pain twisted as the sharp words rang through the room.

"No," you swallowed, and watched as the werewolf froze in place. You couldn’t look at any of them, your entire body finding it impossible to even spare a glance Sirius’s way.

The floor was suddenly an extremely pleasant sight.

"Dumbledore and I saved him a months ago. He works as a man with no name for the Dark Lord. Only his most trusted allies know he is alive."

A loud and sharp thud rang through the room.

You sharply turned to your head to be met with Sirius’s limp shape spread on the ground.

Sirius Black had fainted.

Everyone gasped and started mumbling louder and louder. Everyone speaking over each other until James’s harsh attempts to wake Sirius up took over the sounds.

"Let me help," you bent down to his level, surprised when James harshly swatted your hands away.

"You’ve done enough." James sharply muttered, barely sparing you a glance as he nodded to Remus.

Remus took the order, and helped Sirius up by his shoulders. You watched as the both of them dragged the barely conscious boy towards the living room.

James harshly closed the door behind them.

"He will be alright." Molly met your glassy eyes, a comforting hand on your shoulder.

Your shoulders were shaking, your hands were shaking—everything was. You took a few steps back, turned around to face Dumbledore; your back facing everyone else still in the room.

You felt a warm tear slip your cheek, for only Albus to see. You wiped it away, harshly rubbing your eyes before finally turning around again, facing the expecting group.

And so you made a plan.

#captain black 🫧#marauders 🫧#sirius black #sirius black x reader #sirius black x you #sirius black imagine #sirius black x y/n

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