#Clint Barton & reader

[waltermis]

I miss them 🥹🥲

[urdreamydoodles]

MARVEL COMICS CHARACTERS x FEM!READER

Marvel Comics Characters Receiving a Dirty Picture from You in Public

Characters: Peter Parker, Tony Stark, Steve Rogers, Thor, Loki, Clint Barton, Natasha Romanoff, Bucky Barnes, Matthew Murdock, Frank Castle, Marc Spector, Johnny Storm, Reed Richards, Felicia Hardy, Stephen Strange, Namor, Johnny Blaze, Eddie Brock / Venom, T'Challa & Elektra Natchios

God, I love Marvel Comics...

Peter Parker aka. Spider-Man

Peter has been through a lot. He’s fought villains, lost people he’s loved, and carried the weight of responsibility since he was a kid. But nothing—not Venom, not Doctor Octopus, not the Green Goblin—has ever hit him as hard as opening his phone and seeing you.

He’s perched upside-down on a fire escape, mid-stakeout with Daredevil, when his phone buzzes. He barely glances at it at first, assuming it’s an update from MJ or the Bugle. But then—his Spidey-Sense misfires. His stomach drops. And suddenly, he’s scrambling so fast that he almost falls off the fire escape.

“...Parker?” Matt’s voice is suspicious, brow furrowing beneath the red mask. Peter clutches his phone like a lifeline, heat rushing to his face, his entire body going rigid. “Uh—nope! Nothing’s wrong! Totally fine! Just, uh—gotta—go!” Before Matt can say another word, Peter web-slings away, heart pounding.

Later, in his apartment, he stares at the image, biting his lip so hard he might draw blood. Then, fumbling with his phone, he types back: You cannot just drop this on me in the middle of a mission. I almost DIED. You’re gonna make it up to me. In person. Immediately.

Tony Stark aka. Iron Man

Tony Stark is always the one making people flustered. He’s the king of inappropriate timing, the grandmaster of chaos. So when you flip the game on him? When you send him something completely indecent while he’s in the middle of a live press conference? Oh, he is in trouble.

He’s mid-sentence, standing in front of a sea of reporters, when his phone vibrates. He glances at it without thinking, because hey, it might be about stock prices or another alien invasion. But no. No, it’s you. In the filthiest pose imaginable.

He visibly freezes. Blinks. Blanches. Then—his brain blue screens. The entire room stares as Tony suddenly cuts off mid-sentence, clears his throat, and forces a smirk that’s absolutely not covering up a crisis. “Uh—ladies and gentlemen, I think that’s enough questions for today.”

The moment he’s offstage, he stumbles into the nearest private room, yanks at his tie, and pulls out his phone like it holds the meaning of life. He types back immediately: Oh, now you’ve done it, sweetheart. I hope you’re home right now, because I’m on my way, and I’m bringing consequences.

Steve Rogers aka. Captain America

Steve is not a prude. He’s been around, he’s seen things. But there’s something about you—about the way you know exactly how to knock the breath from his lungs—that makes him feel like a kid again.

He’s in the middle of a strategy meeting with Sam and Bucky, his shield leaning against the table, when his phone vibrates. He checks it without thinking, eyes flicking down—and then every muscle in his body tenses. His grip on the phone tightens. His ears burn red.

“You good, Rogers?” Bucky gives him a knowing smirk, because he immediately recognizes that look—Steve flustered beyond belief. Steve clears his throat, hard, locking his phone like it’s offended him. “Fine,” he says, voice a little too even. “Let’s, uh—let’s keep going.”

But later, when he’s alone, he exhales deeply, pressing a hand over his face before looking at the image again. Then, with slow deliberation, he types: I hope you know what you just started. Because I don’t break my promises, sweetheart. And I promise—you’re not leaving that bed when I get there.

Thor Odinson aka. God of Thunder

Thor has seen battles, has waged wars across the cosmos, has faced monsters and gods. But when his phone pings—when he sees the absolute sin that you’ve just sent him—he forgets how to breathe.

He is in the middle of the Avengers’ common room, laughing boisterously with Bruce and Natasha, when he pulls out his phone. He expects something simple—a text from his brother, perhaps, or a message from Jane. But instead? Instead, he sees you.

The entire room feels it when Thor’s laughter stops. There is a moment—just a beat of silence—before the lights flicker. The air crackles with static electricity. His fingers twitch around the phone, and then, in a low, very serious voice, he mutters, “By the Norns…”

Natasha raises an eyebrow, but Thor abruptly stands, clearing his throat. “I must depart. Urgently.” Bruce frowns. “What? Why?” Thor barely offers an explanation before storming out of the room, typing furiously: You dare tempt the God of Thunder? Very well, little one. You shall learn what it means to summon a storm.

Loki Laufeyson aka. God of Mischief

Loki is the undisputed master of control. He is calm, composed, always one step ahead of everyone else. But when you send him something so shameless, so brazen, in the middle of an important diplomatic event in Asgard—he nearly drops his goblet of wine.

He’s reclining on his throne, listening to some dull ambassador drone on about trade negotiations, when his phone vibrates. He lifts it lazily, expecting nothing of importance—until he sees you.

His entire body goes rigid. His grip tightens around the goblet, the silver denting beneath his fingers. His green eyes darken, and for the first time in centuries, he feels his pulse stutter. The ambassador keeps talking, oblivious, but Loki? Loki is seething.

Later, in his chambers, he lounges on his bed, turning the phone over in his fingers before smirking. Then, with slow, careful precision, he types: You dare tease the God of Mischief? Oh, darling, you are in such trouble. And you know how much I enjoy trouble.

Clint Barton aka. Hawkeye

Clint Barton is used to chaos. He’s fought alien invasions, taken down crime syndicates, and, most impressively, lived in a house with three dogs and somehow survived. But nothing—not the Avengers, not S.H.I.E.L.D., not even Kate Bishop’s endless sarcasm—could have prepared him for this.

He’s in the middle of a debriefing with Captain America and Black Widow when his phone vibrates. Normally, he’d ignore it, but boredom gets the better of him. He sneaks a glance, tilting the screen just slightly—and immediately chokes on his coffee.

“Barton?” Natasha’s voice is sharp, her suspicious gaze snapping to him. Steve looks concerned. Clint, on the other hand, is malfunctioning. He quickly locks his phone, pressing it to his thigh like it’s burning him. “Yep. All good. Just… wrong text thread. You know how it is.”

The second he’s alone, he whistles, rubbing a hand down his face before sending a text: You are absolutely trying to kill me, aren’t you? I’m a trained marksman, babe. You know I always hit my target. Hope you’re ready.

Natasha Romanoff aka. Black Widow

Natasha Romanoff is a professional. She’s endured psychological conditioning, trained with the deadliest assassins in the world, and can lie so well that even she forgets what’s real. But when you send her something so utterly filthy, in the middle of a high-stakes poker game with some very dangerous people—she nearly loses her composure.

She’s holding a perfect poker face, one leg crossed over the other, a cigarette between her fingers (purely for effect). Then, her phone buzzes. She never checks her phone during missions, but for some reason, she does this time.

The second she sees the image, her fingers twitch. She almost fumbles her cigarette. Almost. A single slow breath is all that betrays her before she locks the screen and smirks, adjusting her sunglasses to hide the flicker of heat in her gaze.

Later, after she’s won the game (because of course she has), she finally responds: You must be very confident, sending me something like that. I hope you know what happens when I catch my prey, моя любовь (my love). Because I always catch them.

Bucky Barnes aka. Winter Soldier

Bucky is already always on edge. He spent decades being controlled, his mind fractured, his instincts constantly telling him that danger lurks around every corner. But when his phone vibrates in the middle of a mission briefing and he makes the mistake of checking it—he nearly self-destructs.

He’s sitting next to Sam Wilson, arms crossed, trying to focus on the tactical discussion. Then, out of habit, he glances at his phone. And suddenly? His enhanced heartbeat spikes. His grip on the phone tightens, metal fingers creaking.

Sam immediately notices. “Dude. You okay?” Bucky doesn’t answer. He just exhales deeply, jaw clenching, and locks his phone like it’s personally offended him. “Fine,” he mutters, but the way his throat bobs betrays him.

Later, in the privacy of his room, he leans against the wall, pressing his flesh hand over his face before looking at the image again. Then, he types—slow, deliberate, full of promise: You are playing with fire, doll. And you know I don’t burn alone.

Matthew Murdock aka. Daredevil

Matt has learned to control himself. He has to, considering his senses pick up everything. The heartbeat of a liar, the scent of blood, the whisper of fabric against skin. But when he puts in his earpiece during a stakeout with Elektra and hears you—sultry, teasing, wicked—his composure shatters.

Your voice is a purr, warm and full of amusement, as you describe, in explicit detail, exactly what you want to do to him. Every syllable slides into his ear like a sin, and for the first time in years, Matt Murdock forgets how to breathe.

“Murdock.” Elektra’s voice is unimpressed. “Are you even listening?” Matt clenches his jaw, forcing his expression into something neutral as he slowly removes the earpiece. “Yeah,” he lies, his voice way too tight. “Loud and clear.” But his fingers twitch, betraying him.

Later, alone in his apartment, he plays the message again. And again. Until his own heartbeat is thunderous in his ears. Then, with a slow smirk, he records his reply—his voice low, gravelly, barely more than a rasp: Angel, you have no idea what you’ve just done. And I promise—you won’t be able to walk tomorrow.

Frank Castle aka. The Punisher

Frank Castle does not fluster. He’s a man who’s seen the worst of the world, a soldier who has lost everything. He does not get distracted. But when he’s sitting in the middle of a grimy bar, brooding over a whiskey, and his phone vibrates—everything stops.

He checks it absently, expecting intel from Micro or maybe a warning from Daredevil. But instead, he gets you. And just like that, his grip on the glass tightens. His jaw locks. His entire body tenses, muscles coiled, because you have just sent him something so utterly indecent that he has to set his whiskey down before he crushes the glass.

The bartender notices. “You good, man?” Frank barely glances up, his fingers white-knuckled around his phone. “Fine,” he mutters, voice rough. He shoves his phone back in his pocket and downs the rest of his drink in one go.

Later, in the dead of night, he finally lets himself look at the picture again. He exhales, rubbing a hand over his face, before sending a single message: You think you’re real cute, huh? Yeah. Keep that same energy when I get home. See if you’re still smirking when I’ve got my hands on you.

Marc Spector aka. Moon Knight

Marc has lived multiple lives. A mercenary. A vigilante. A fist of vengeance. But the moment his phone vibrates in the middle of a stakeout, and he sees you—he nearly blows his own cover.

He’s perched on a rooftop, watching a weapons deal go down, his mind sharp and focused. Then, out of habit, he checks his phone. His breath hitches. His grip tightens around the device, and he has to physically restrain himself from groaning. Khonshu’s voice rumbles in his mind: "Your mortal desires are distracting, Spector." Marc grits his teeth. "Yeah, no shit."

“Something wrong?” Jake’s voice purrs from inside his head, amused. “She send you something nice, hermano?” Marc rolls his eyes, exhaling sharply before locking his phone. “Mind your damn business.” But his pulse is thundering.

Later, back at his apartment, he leans against the wall, staring at the image before typing: You have no idea what you’ve just done. Hope you’re home. Hope you’re ready.

Johnny Storm aka. Human Torch

Johnny Storm is used to attention. He thrives on it. He’s a celebrity, a hero, a walking flame. But when you send him something scandalous in the middle of a live television interview, even he isn’t ready for it.

He’s laughing, flashing his signature cocky grin at the camera, when his phone buzzes. He checks it without thinking—because hey, it might be Sue yelling at him again—but instead, it’s you. In the filthiest pose imaginable.

Johnny visibly chokes. His entire body tenses. For the first time ever, he forgets what he was saying. The interviewer blinks. “Uh… Johnny?” His brain short-circuits. His face heats—literally. The tips of his ears ignite before he clenches his fists and forces himself to not spontaneously combust on live television.

The second the interview is over, he’s sprinting to his dressing room, slamming the door shut and typing frantically: Ohhh, you are in trouble. You’re really trying to set me on fire, huh? Hope you’re home, babe, ‘cause I’m flying over. Right. Now.

Reed Richards aka. Mister Fantastic

Reed Richards is a genius. His mind is constantly working at speeds beyond human comprehension. But when he’s mid-lecture at a prestigious scientific conference and his phone vibrates—his brilliant mind suddenly goes blank.

He absently checks his phone, half-expecting an alert from the Baxter Building. But instead, it’s you. Wearing almost nothing.

For a solid ten seconds, he is frozen. His eyes slightly widen. His fingers twitch. And then, very slowly, he locks his phone and clears his throat. “Ah—excuse me, esteemed colleagues, but I must—um—attend to an urgent matter.”

Later, he adjusts his glasses, staring at the image with a fascinated, almost scientific appreciation. Then, with methodical precision, he types: You are a very distracting woman. I will be conducting an… in-depth study on you as soon as I return. Expect a thorough examination.

Felicia Hardy aka. Black Cat

Felicia Hardy is a master of seduction. She flusters men for fun. But when she’s in the middle of a high-stakes casino heist, and you send her something utterly indecent, even she loses her composure.

She’s leaning against the bar, sipping an expensive martini, eyes locked on her mark. Then, her phone buzzes. She lazily checks it, expecting an update from her crew. But instead? Instead, she sees you.

Her eyelashes flutter. Her lips part just slightly. And for the first time in years, her poker face cracks. The bartender—oblivious—raises an eyebrow. “Everything okay, miss?” Felicia exhales, smirking as she locks her phone. “Oh, it’s better than okay.”

Later, she lounges on silk sheets, staring at the picture before purring into her phone: You really think you can tease me, kitten? Oh, sweetheart… you just made a very expensive bet. And I never lose.

Stephen Strange aka. Doctor Strange

Stephen Strange is not easily shaken. He’s fought cosmic horrors, bent reality, and wielded power beyond mortal comprehension. But when he’s in the middle of a magical duel with Dormammu, and you send him a sinfully explicit picture—he almost loses.

He’s mid-incantation, floating above the Sanctum’s rooftop, when his phone vibrates. Normally, he’d ignore it—except something in the back of his mind tells him it’s you. He flicks his fingers, glancing at the screen—and immediately regrets it.

His spell stutters. His fingers twitch. The fabric of reality briefly warps. Wong, standing below, yells, “What the hell was that?!” Stephen clenches his jaw, locking his phone immediately before snapping his wrist and repairing the timeline. “Nothing,” he mutters. “Absolutely nothing.”

The moment the battle is over, he retreats into his study, loosening his Cloak, before typing: You dare distract the Sorcerer Supreme? You have no idea what you’ve just unleashed, darling. And I do hope you’re prepared for consequences beyond mortal comprehension.

Namor aka. The Sub-Mariner

Namor is a king. He does not answer to anyone. He has waged war against the surface world, stood against the mightiest heroes, and commands the loyalty of an entire empire. But when he is seated on his throne, discussing politics with his council, and his communicator vibrates—everything else becomes irrelevant.

He glances down, expecting a diplomatic missive. Instead, he is greeted by you—a vision of temptation, captured in a way that only he has the privilege to see. His grip on the communicator tightens, his lips parting slightly. The light of the display reflects in his dark, narrowed eyes.

The council drones on, but Namor hears nothing. His golden gauntlets flex, his knuckles tightening as his jaw sets. A slow, deliberate exhale is all that betrays his reaction. But those closest to him—his most trusted generals—see the flicker of something dangerous in his expression. A storm, barely contained.

Later, as he stands upon his balcony, overlooking the endless ocean, he types a single response: You seek to tempt a king, my love? Then be prepared for the wrath of a god. When next we meet, you will drown in my devotion.

Johnny Blaze aka. Ghost Rider

Johnny Blaze has seen Hell—literally. He has ridden across the desolate highways of damnation, stared into the abyss, and laughed. But when he’s sitting in a biker bar, nursing a whiskey and half-listening to some guy ramble about the Devil, his phone vibrates. And when he checks it—he nearly sets the whole place on fire.

The image of you is burned into his mind, seared into his soul. He sucks in a slow breath through his teeth, his fingers tightening around the glass. His knuckles go white. Somewhere deep inside, the Spirit of Vengeance chuckles.

“Something wrong, Blaze?” One of the other bikers eyes him warily. Johnny forces a smirk, setting his whiskey down before he crushes the glass in his grip. “Nah,” he rasps, his voice a little too rough. “Just realized I got… unfinished business to take care of.”

Later, on his Hellfire-coated bike, he sends a text: You got a real bad habit of making me wanna sin, sweetheart. And I promise—I’ll make sure you repent. Over. And over.

Eddie Brock & Venom aka. Venom

Eddie Brock has been through hell. He’s fought monsters, been one himself, lost everything, and still kept going. But nothing—not a damn thing—could prepare him for the absolute carnage of getting that picture from you in the middle of a crowded subway.

He’s scrolling through his phone absentmindedly, Venom muttering in his head about wanting tater tots, when the image loads. For a solid five seconds, he is completely still. Then—

“Eddie.” Venom’s voice rumbles, amused. “Your mate is very… bold. We approve.” Eddie, red-faced, slams his phone against his chest like that’ll somehow erase what just happened. “Jesus Christ,” he mutters, eyes darting around to make sure no one saw. A teenager across from him raises an eyebrow.

Later, when he’s alone, he finally lets himself look at the picture again. A slow, predatory grin spreads across his face as he types back: Oh, you think you’re being cute, huh? Yeah. Just wait till I get my hands on you. Hell, maybe we’ll even let Venom have a little fun, too.

T’Challa aka. Black Panther

T’Challa is a king, a warrior, a legend. His mind is a fortress, his will unshakable. But when he is seated in the royal palace of Wakanda, surrounded by dignitaries, and his Kimoyo Beads alert him to a personal message—his focus wavers.

He allows himself a discreet glance. And in that moment? His heart skips a single beat. His fingers—steady even in the heat of battle—tighten just slightly around his beads. His expression does not change. But to those who know him well—Okoye, Shuri—they notice the subtlest flicker of something dangerous in his eyes.

Shuri smirks. “Brother,” she murmurs, leaning in. “You look… distracted.” T’Challa exhales deeply, locking the message with a casual flick of his fingers. “I am merely… anticipating a conversation.”

Later, when he is alone, he reviews the picture once more, fingers grazing his jaw before he types: You are testing my patience, beloved. And you know I am a man of great discipline. But for you? I am willing to break my own rules. Expect me soon.

Elektra Natchios aka. Elektra

Elektra Natchios does not fluster. She has slit the throats of kings, danced on the edge of oblivion, and played cat-and-mouse with death itself. But when she is sharpening her sai on the rooftop of a New York high-rise and her phone buzzes—her grip falters.

The blade nicks her glove. Barely. But it happens. Her lips part in a slow, dangerous smirk as she tilts the phone toward the moonlight, drinking in the absolute audacity of your message.

“Something amusing?” A voice—a rival assassin, lurking in the shadows. Elektra does not answer. She merely tucks her phone away, standing smoothly, her stance lethal. “Yes,” she purrs. “Something… very amusing.”

Later, as she leans against the window of her penthouse, she finally sends a reply: You are so very reckless, my love. And I do enjoy breaking reckless little things.

[earlgreylatte]

Nicknames and Pet Names

Peter Parker: ‘Bug’! I can you two calling each other ‘bug’ and ‘bug boy’ respectively. Definitely has a roster of petnames depending on the mood; ‘sweetie’ to comfort you, ‘champ’ to make you laugh, ‘pipsqueak’ to tease you, etc. Definitely has squished your cheeks and called you ‘chipmunk’ before. Of course, nothing beats your name for him.

Johnny Storm: Don’t let him see you do something embarrassing because he won’t let you live it down. Trip in front of him once, and he’ll be calling you ‘stumbles’ for the next year. Also likes using loveydovey names like ‘firefly’ and ‘good lookin’. ‘Hotstuff’ and ‘boo’ are also some of his favourites, and probably what he refers to you as on his Instagram posts.

Matt Murdock: No one, and I mean no one, says ‘sweetheart’ like he does, whether he says it when he’s comforting you or when he’s about to go down on you, it is so insanely attractive. Definitely a ‘yes dear’ guy. He definitely has a nickname to reflect your nature/dynamic to him, like ‘sunshine’, ‘angel’, etc.

Wade Wilson: Revoke his right to use pet names!! It’s like he wants to give everyone diabetes with the names he comes up with. Hit him so he never calls you ‘pussy cat’ again. ‘Sugar plum’, ‘Carebear’, and ‘Angel face’ are his more tolerable ones. Probably stacks pet names on top of each other, creating an actual Frankenstein of mushiness.

Clint Barton: ‘Birdie’ or ‘dove’ definitely. Less into pet names, and more into making nicknames, I think, but definitely throws around ‘babe’ or ‘angelface’. Definitely makes up a teasing nickname based on your alias if you have one.

Scott Summers: ‘Honey’ or ‘dear’ because he is literally a wife guy. I can see him call you ‘peanut’ somewhat awkwardly when you two first get together. But ‘honey’ really does suit him, the type to rub your arms comfortingly while whispering sweet nothings.

Kurt Wagner: Mein gott, German time! ‘Engel’, ‘Schatz’, ‘liebling’, etc, are his go to. Also refers to you as his heart, his light, and the like because he wants you to always know how much you mean to him and all the ways you’ve changed his life for the better.

Logan Howlett: We all know ‘bub’ is his go to, but he definitely calls you ‘doll’, ‘bunny’, and ‘lovely’. Anything that points out the juxtaposition between how…pretty you are and how…Logan he is. Could also see him going for someone mousy, which of course would come with its own array of nicknames.

Masterlist

[alixandra-multifandom-version]

How different marvel and dc characters would hold your face:

Tony stark, loki, bucky Barnes, Bruce wayne, Oliver queen, Dawn Granger, donna troy, Carter Hall

Thor, Clint Barton, Agatha harkness, rio vidal, Jason todd, Arthur Curry, Hal Jordan, Diana prince, Dinah lance,

The joker, poison ivy, harley Quinn, Jason todd, logan howlett, Mystique, Erik Lehnsherr

Steve Rogers, Sam Wilson, Peter Parker, Peter quill, natasha romanoff, wanda maximoff, bruce banner , dick grayson, Tim drake, Barry allen, John Stewart

[angelltheninth]

You know how guys have the happy trail? What do you think the MCU men's is like?

Gonna tell you something Anon, I love it when guys have that. It's cute and attractive.

Pairing: Steve Rogers, Bucky Barnes, Clint Barton, Thor, Loki, James “Logan" Howlett, Remy Lebeau, Kurt Wagner, Tony Stark, Peter Parker x Fem!Reader

Tags: fluff, suggestive, body worship, teasing, muscles, established relationship

Ko-Fi | Rules | Fandoms and Characters | Commissions

A/N: Probably one of the most attractive things on guys. At least to me. Other than strong hands.

Steve keeps himself very neat, not really because of you, not at first, it's just a habit that he still has from his army days. That being said he didn't miss the way you look at him when he does it. He knows you're looking so he takes his time.

Bucky is a bit more clumsy with it since losing his arm. His new one is good but it's cold on his skin when he needs to groom himself and be nice. But... maybe you can give him a hand when he needs it.

Clint doesn't bother with it much because he doesn't have much of a visible happy trail. It is there when you really look or run your hand down his abs. That being said he doesn't quite see why you like it so much, it's just body hair.

Thor never quite cared to keep himself overly well groomed or to cut down on any body hair. When he tried his hair grew back rougher, which you can feel as you touch his stomach. To him it was never something he had to think about, besides you like it.

Loki brags about how good he looks. Every part of him, even the happy trail which he always keeps well maintained. As he gets ready for bed he might take it slower, to give you time to look.

Logan has always been covered in a lot of rough, bushy hair and his happy trail is no different. For him it's like a path that you can follow as you kiss his body. In fact he has referred to it as that numerous time, making you blush at the implications.

Remy often gets asked if his hair is red everywhere, and yes it is. He chuckles when he tells you that you should check for yourself. Despite how he may seem he does keep himself well trimmed, from his belly all the way down.

Kurt does have a bit more hair there and it's quite soft and fluffy. It's one of the rare parts on his body that's not as cold as the rest of him. But it is quite dark, almost black in contrast with his blue skin.

Tony wants you to look at him as he gets changed. He wears his pants a bit lower when he knows he can work from home. Seeing you ready to kiss every inch of him won't make work easier.

Peter has a happy trail but it's a bit sparse. He doesn't have much body hair on his belly and is a bit ticklish when you touch him there. It's one of his weaknesses so he always blushes when you do it.

[thyme-in-a-bubble]

teamwork

kinktober, day twenty-six

a/n: ........I mean, how could i not? it's a classic.

summary: “oh, naughty, naughty you,” Tony crossed his arms with a chuckle, “what were you hoping to get out of this, huh? Sneak in here and seduce the whole team? Is one just not enough for you?” the rest of the men snickered at his mocking quips. 

warnings: reader x pro football team!avengers (bf!steve rogers, bucky barnes, pietro maximoff, clint barton, sam wilson, tony stark, thor odinson), smut, slight dubcon, pro athlete au (even though i know the majority of them are american, i’m just gonna say that they play for a team somewhere else just so that i don’t have to say soccer, it hurts my soul), the old oops i accidentally walked into the locker room trope, gangbang, everyone's a hoe, established relationship, kissing, size kink, dirty talk, handjobs, oral, thigh riding, unprotected sex, penetrative sex, anal, double penetration, bukkake, spit kink, squirting, impact play, choking, overstimulation, multiple orgasms

word count: 5400

∼ gentle reminder that feedback, but especially reblogs are the way you support writers on here ∽

masterlist | join my taglist | kinktober 2023

“You were amazing out there,” you purred between pecks as Steve’s firm thigh, slotted between your own, rubbed against your core, your short skirt flaring out over the shorts of his uniform. 

“Thank you,” he chuckled, his lips fluttering down your neck as he uttered, “you know, I think was even better with you in the audience,” nudging his leg more determinedly against you as you melted against the wall he had you pressed against, “like you brought me luck or something.”

Just then, as you felt yourself begin to soak through your underwear and mark your boyfriend’s uniform, someone from further down the hallway poked their head out of a door and shouted, “hey, Rogers!” reeling back from the crook of your neck with a peeved exhaled, Steve cast his glance in the individual's direction, “coach wants a word with you in his office.”

“Alright, thanks,” he nodded before turning his attention back to you, arms firm on either side of your head, cosily caging you in as he spoke, “I’ll be right back,” his leg reluctantly retracted from your warmth, “there is lounge down around the corner there that should be on the quiet side about now if you don’t wanna wait out here,” he offered a vague nod to his left before dipping down to near your lips one last time. 

Smile growing wide at his considerateness, you breathed, “okay,” but the kiss you thought he wanted to give to you never came as his nose just ghosted against your own, seemingly savouring the moment before you felt him shift and his finger disappeared below your skirt, “Steve, what are you-,” but the rest of your sentence never saw the light of day as, with a daring smirk on his lips, Steve swiftly kneeled down before you and snatched your underwear down past your knees, keeping his eyes on yours as he methodically manoeuvred your jelly like legs to steal the sodden garment completely. 

“I’ll come find you in a bit, yeah?” he placed a playful peck right above your knees before straightening back up. 

“Steve!” you hazily giggled as he began to disappear down the corridor. 

“10 minutes, 15 tops!” he called over his shoulder as he sauntered away from your stunned form, “then I’m claiming my prize!” 

With a breathy chuckle still billowing from your lips, you pulled out your phone and rounded the corner, scrolling through your options of temporary entertainment as you neared the room that you could supposedly wait in.

Eyes glued to the small screen in your hands, you didn’t even glance up as you reached the first door you approached, not assuming there were any other options, you simply pushed it open and strolled in. 

Fully expecting that you were nearing a couch or something soon, the room you’d blindly entered turned out to not be the lounge you’d thought it was, but instead, the team’s locker room as you swiftly walked straight into a broad and bare chest. 

“Wow, I’m sorry-,” your eyes tore away from your screen to finally discover where you were. Vision growing wide, you stared up at the athlete before you, his golden mane rustling from the collision, “I-I-…”

Blinking up at Thor, your own name even escaped your memory as you found yourself in the very last place you should have wandered into.

From off to the side, you heard the voice of Tony holler, “hey sweetheart, fans aren’t allowed in here,” before leaning closer to the sandy buzzcut beside him and muttering quietly, “I thought they said they had tightened security around here…”

With your feet still frozen to the floor, your mouth hung agape as your eyes glazed over the recognisable individuals throughout the room, all in various states of undress. As Thor’s towering form moved past, walking over to snatch up a towel, someone else dexterously took his place, “wait a second, I recognise you,” you blinked back at the guy who rarely left your boyfriend’s side, “you’re Cap’s new girl, aren’t you?”

“I-I-, yeah,” you stammered, “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to walk in here-”

“Oh, but you did,” Bucky teasingly took a step closer. 

“I was, uh, looking for the lounge, and I was just staring at my phone,” you swallowed thickly as someone out of the corner of your eye peeled off their shirt, “I’m so sorry, I'll get out,” but as you whirled around to bolt out of there, you just collided with another individual that had slyly slotted in between you and the only way out of here. 

“You’re cute,” you heard Bucky continue as you blinked up at Pietro, his athletic physique now completely blocking the exit, just as Thor's, the team's goalie, would do before the vast net during an intense game, “isn’t she cute, guys?”

Soft echoes of agreeance bounced off the walls before Pietro smiled down at you, “what’s your name, baby?” his accent sending a shiver straight down your spine. 

“Y/n…” you softly uttered, your heartbeat deafening in your ears, growing and rippling out from where it was still thumping from between your thighs.

“That’s a pretty name,” his eyes washed over your visage, licking it up like he was at a museum. 

“So, tell us, Y/n,” you spun back around at the sound of Bucky’s timbre, “did you really just not pay attention or did you perhaps walk in here on purpose?”

“No!” you squeaked, “I swear, I didn’t-”

“Because I think you were trying to catch a little glimpse,” he teasingly cut you off with a soft tilt of his head. 

“Oh, naughty, naughty you,” Tony crossed his arms with a chuckle, “what were you hoping to get out of this, huh? Sneak in here and seduce the whole team? Is one just not enough for you?” the rest of the men snickered at his mocking quips. 

“No, I wasn’t trying anything, I-,” the rest of your plea got suddenly swapped out with a shuttering gasp as the player sitting on the bench beside you had begun to ghost his hand against the goosebump-ridden flesh of your leg, sneakily twisting his position enough to catch a glimpse as his touch carelessly bushed against your short skirt, making it briefly fluff out enough for him to notice. 

“Hey,” Sam boomed to the rest of the team, “she’s not wearing any panties!”

“She’s not?” Thor turned his head to join the festivity entirely.

“Fuck,” you heard Clint curse gutturally, “you came to the game like that?”

From right beside him, Tony bit down on his smirk, “what a little fucking slut…” 

“No, it wasn’t-”

But before you could manage to convince them, Pietro pushed your form lightly and sent you directly into Bucky’s waiting arms. With your back arched like a ski slope, your short skirt rose up, covering virtually nothing, especially after you’d had your undergarments stolen, and granted the men behind you a pornographic view of the state Steve had left you in. 

Catching your chin between his thumb and forefinger, Bucky tilted your head up to catch your hazy eye, “why don’t you wait here with us?”

“I-…” you blinked back at him, feeling your chest rise and fall rapidly against his. 

“Rogers won’t mind,” he shook his head reassuringly, fingers shifting to gently caress you’re your heated cheek, “promise.”

“Yeah,” Pietro’s voice resonated vibrantly from behind you once more, “we always take good care of his girls…” 

Utterly spellbound by his ocean gaze, your head nodded fuzzily, “o-okay,” your breaths came in shaky as you spoke, “I guess if you say Steve wouldn’t mind, then I could probably just hang out in here for a bit till he gets back.”

“Great!” Sam clapped his hands together, the sudden noise causing you to jump out of the burly arms that held you. 

Leaning back against his locker, Clint then asked, “so did you enjoy the game?”

“Oh, sure,” with clumsy words flowing from your lips, your eyes traced Thor’s half-naked form as he crossed the room, “it was fun, I mean, you guys played really well, congrats on the win by the way.”

“Aw, thanks,” the man your gaze was locked upon sniggered as he settled in beside Tony, then leaned in to mutter in his ear just loud enough for you to catch, “Cap really wasn’t bluffing about her.”

“Dude, I know,” Tony harmonized lowly before raising his voice, “so, Y/n!” he slyly cleared his throat, “you never did tell us why you came to our game commando. Did you do that for us?”

“Oh, I-…” you averted your gaze, attempting to explain it with an airy laugh, “that wasn’t me, Steve kinda stole them a few minutes ago.”

Counting from behind you, Pietro challenged, “oh, Steve stole them, did he now?”

“Yeah,” you nodded bashfully. 

“And just why would he do such a thing?”

“I-…” you redirected your vision up towards the ceiling, “I think it’s easy enough to deduce what he was thinking.”

“Yeah, but I wanna hear you say it,” Pietro playfully stepped closer, tilting his head to catch your nervous gaze. 

“Come on, honey,” Sam’s tongue flickered out to glisten up his smirk, “don’t get shy on us now.”

Gnawing on your bottom lip, you then confessed with an exhale, “…we were gonna go celebrate…”

“Celebrate? Really?” Bucky’s gaze gleamed back at you in amusement, “well, that sounds fun, doesn’t it sound fun, guys?” he didn’t tear his eyes away from you as he countered to the others, their enthusiastic replies swiftly filling the thick air. Slowly leaning in close, he tugged a stray piece of your hair behind your ear, “you know what I think?” your head instantly shook, hypnotically granting him the answer to continue, “I think we deserve some celebrating as well, don’t you think? I mean, it wasn’t only Rogers out there on the field. Don’t we deserve a prize as well?”

As he cradled your face, all you could do was melt, “I-… I guess so…”

Closing the short distance, Bucky planted a feathery kiss upon your lips before tilting his head back ever so slightly to flash you a playful glance, “yeah?” his words were just above a whisper, “you wanna celebrate with us till Rogers gets back?”

With starry eyes, you blinked back up at the football player and hummed, utterly spellbound, “uh-huh,” before his lips pressed against yours once more, kissing you like there was no tomorrow. 

Letting go of your face, his silky touch casketed down your form like a waterfall, flutteringly roaming, up and down, each time carelessly catching your skirt and letting it gather up with his hungry movements. 

As you purred enchantedly against Bucky’s lips, Pietro behind you sank down to his knees, his intentions becoming clear as you began to feel soft pecks flutter across the backs of your thighs, his fingertips raking over your tingling skin in sloppy patterns. 

But as his caresses danced their way further north up your flesh, I didn’t take long before the greedy man dove head first into what he truly wanted to kiss, rendering you to tear away from Bucky’s lips with a dizzying pant, “oh my god,” and bury your face in his brawny chest. 

Lapping against your soppy folds, Pietro let go of your puffy pearl with a pop, briefly pulling back to share, “fuck, she tastes good.”

“Oh yeah?” Thor breathed from the sidelines. 

“Like fucking sunshine and rainbows,” he elaborated with gravelly desperation in his tone before latching onto your core once more. 

You barely noticed when people stepped closer, scarcely knowing whose hands were exploring your every inch, all you knew was how incredible they made you feel. 

Squeezing your boobs through your thin shirt, nipples pebbly and clear through the fabric, you felt Tony’s breath tickle your ear, “you mind taking this off for us, sweetheart?”

Eyes fluttering over your shoulder to find him, you simply raised your arms high above your head and let them yank your t-shirt off and merrily discover how you hadn’t bothered to put a bra on this morning. 

Glancing down, you watched as Clint cupped your softness in his wide palms, “damn, look at these fucking tits,” he gave them a little jiggle before dipping his head down low to place a few pecks along them. With the left of your small buds swiftly getting captured by his lips, a different hand took over palming your right as your fingers found Clint’s short hair, your nails scraping gently along his scalp, “you like that, hon?” he blinked up at you as he sucked, friskily nipping at your sensitive skin, “you like having these little nipples played with, huh?”

“Mhm,” you nodded hazily as someone reached out to pinch harshly the one not getting slobbered. 

“What else do you like, huh?” Bucky asked, his radiating form still pressed up against you. Capturing your chin, his thumb extended to brush over your lips, “you like having something in this pretty little mouth of yours?” poking it in, the pad of his finger softly ran across your tongue before your lips enclosed around him, your head blissfully bobbing as you sucked on his digit, “yeah? You wanna suck our cocks?” he retracted his digit, smearing saliva across your cheek as you offered him a foggy nod, “you think you can handle all of us at once?”

“I don’t know if I can,” you admitted with excitement bubbling in your belly, “I’ve never been with more than just one person at a time.”

“Oh no, really?” Tony rumbled playfully, “you’ve never been shared by more?” he palmed your tit roughly as you craned your neck to gaze at him, “what a fucking shame, truly, you deserve to be worshipped like a goddess.”

“Don’t you worry, darling,” Thor smirked, “we’ll help you,” before Pietro as the last one distanced himself, letting go of your petals with a pop, as you sank down to the floor.

You hadn’t really noticed before, but now that you were at the right eye level, it became impossible not to take in the team’s enthusiasm. Most of them were already touching themselves and some even had already whipped their cocks out, the vision causing your eyelids to flutter as your brain turned molten at the possibilities. 

“O-oh, wow,” your eyes grew to the size of plates as they tugged their shorts down, “I-I-,” lengths springing free all around you, “I don’t know where to start… wow…” a giggle suddenly began to bubble out of you as you tore your stare away from their erections to find their eyes, “h-hi.”

Grasping your hand in his, Bucky then wrapped your fingers around his girth, smiling down at you as he throbbed for you, “hey, baby.”

“You’ll all so-,” your dazed gaze flickered around at them all, “wow…”

Raising your other hand up, you enclosed it around Clint, testing out a gentle jerk to gauge their reactions. 

“Yeah, right back at ya,” Clint echoed your compliments as his mouth fell open, utterly spellbound by your tender efforts. 

Catching Pietro’s eye, you slowly leaned in and gave his tip a sweet kiss, smile wide as you then licked it a few times as if he was a melting ice cream cone on a hot summer’s day, “oh, shit,” he groaned, the grip he had around his base tightening, “open up for me, baby,” parting your lips, he then slowly rocked forward to fill up your mouth slightly, “yeah, just like that,” you felt his pulse against your tongue, “fuck…”

Head bopping gently at a leisurely pace, drooling blissfully around Pietro’s bulbous head, you shifted your hands, eyes fluttering in an attempt to locate the others, Sam and Thor then instead came to your rescue by seizing your flailing hands and bringing them to what you sought. 

When you pulled back from Pietro to catch your breath, his dick falling from your swollen lips with a crisp pop, you barely managed to suck in one whole breath before Tony’s hands seized either side of your face, bringing you close and sliding his cock in past your gasp. 

“Here you go,” he groaned as he rolled his hips, instantly going so deep that he tickled the back of your throat. With his fist tight around his base, he reluctantly let you come up for air, pulling back so swiftly as if the lack of your warmth pained him, “show me that tongue, angel,” chest heaving and eyes a daze, your mouth fell open and did as he requested, a hot string of drool promptly dripping from it and connecting to your exposed chest. Grabbing your chin and holding it tight, he leaned down and spit in your mouth, watching only a moment as it sparkled on your tongue before he tapped the weight of his girth against it, playing with it like a rain puddle before he ruthlessly thrust forward so deep that his heavy sack nuzzled against your chin and his tip disappeared deep down your throat, “there you go, honey,” fingers woven in your hair, he kept you still as he fucked your face, “there you go…” 

As Tony selfishly made you choke on his cock, Clint then knelt down beside you and reached under the short skirt that still clung to your hips. One hand still pumping himself, his other fingers found your core. 

“Fuck, she’s so wet,” he groaned, granting your aching clit a few circles before your pussy practically sucked one of his fingers in from how turned on you were, slipping in with no effect at all. Girth falling from your lips, you let out a shuttering gasp. Pressing his cheek against your own, Clint chuckled lowly, “you like that, baby?” lavishly caressing your walls ever so slowly, “that what you need?”

“Oh, god,” you panted, eyes fluttering shut, “yes!”

As he offered you another digit, he kept up a dizzying pattern of pumping his fingers into you, petting against a spot that made your pussy sing, only to retract them in order to rub your puffy pearl, repeating the dance till your legs trembled against the cool tile floor. 

“How about something else, huh?” Thor’s voice cut through your haze, “you wanna get that little pussy stretched out by something else?” your frame then jumped as Clint promptly landed a sharp slap against your soppy folds, forcing your eyes to snap open and your mind to race for an answer. 

Eyes training on Thor, a playful smirk bloomed on your lips, “what do you have in mind?” you asked innocently before you leaned in close and swiped your tongue over his leaking tip. 

Pumping his cock tightly in his fist, he tapped it against your beaming face and chuckled, “you really want me to spell it out for you?” to which you simply giggled under the weight of his length as a reply, one that swiftly got cut short and morphed into a gasp as Clint beside you plucked you up onto your wobbly feet. 

Working as the team that they were, they spun you around so that your backside pressed up against Thor. Hiking your skirt far enough up your waist to render it useless, the blonde athlete gazed down at your dripping mess, nuzzled against him and virtually drooling for him to split you open. 

“Look at that…” he briefly swiped his cock through your folds, parting them with his girth, “so pretty,” before his hips snapped forward and buried himself completely, “fuck…”

Eyes fluttering closed, you let out a shuttering moan as he held you there for a moment, savouring the euphoric sensation as your spine melted back against his chest. As Thor nuzzled you close, filling your cunt up so much that your knees threatened to give out, you felt stray hands find your tits, twisting and tweaking your nipples teasingly as some others grabbed your palms and guided them towards their cocks, enveloping their own around yours and fucking up into your touch. 

“How does she feel?” you heard Tony ask. 

Grip digging into your hips, Thor eased his length out, just halfway, before slamming it back inside, poking a place that pushed the air out of your lungs, “fucking incredible,” his lips ghosted against the shell of your ear. 

When a pair of hands found your face, cupping your flaming cheeks, your eyes dreamily blinked open once more to gaze back at Sam. Briefly pressing his lips against yours, it nearly gave you whiplash when they then manoeuvred your spine to bend, bowing down for your mouth to be aligned with Sam's excitement.

“Here you go, sweetheart,” he pumped his cock before you, smile growing wider as your soft tongue began to swipe across him, “don’t forget the nuts,” he lifted his length far enough out of your reach, groaning loudly as you began to drool all over his jewels as he wished, “that’s it, atta girl…”

Feeling Thor’s hands shift, one of them came to clench your skirt tightly, gathering the fabric on the small of your back and holding onto it as an anchor as the other one descended upon your ass, slapping away in quick succession, just hard enough for it to tingle deliciously. 

It all felt like a blur, like a dream. A beautiful and intoxicating dream. The kind of dream you’d never wanna wake from. 

After cumming all over Thor’s cock, in the hazy daze of it all, it took you a moment to realise that they had all switched out, trading places so that Pietro was now behind you, sliding in and out of your clenching cunt, and Clint was before you, sinking his dick so far down your throat that it left an imprint.

“This how you thought meeting the team would go, huh?” Bucky’s timbre cut through all of the moans, “this what you expected?” his touch was all over you, so hungry that you could barely keep track of it, “you expected us to pass you around and fuck your brains out?” gliding his palm down your spine, he then came to fixate on the little rosebud just shy north of where Pietro was having his fill, “has Cap fucked you here before?”

In between your sloppy pecks across Clint’s cock, you admitted, “a-a couple times.”

“A couple of times,” he chuckled darkly, “really?”

“What a dirty little girl you are, letting your boyfriend fuck you in the ass,” Clint suddenly got down to your level and plucked up your flustered face, bringing you close to his own, “say it, say that you’re a dirty girl.”

The words promptly flowed from you as if you were hypnotised, “I’m a dirty girl.”

Tapping your cheek lightly with his palm, he ordered, “again.”

“I’m a dirty girl.”

Slapping your features harsher this time, “one more time, what are you?”

“A-, fuck,” you whined, brows knitted as your pussy filled the room with soppy melodies of desire, “a dirty girl!

Just then, the door to the locker room burst open and in strolled none other than your boyfriend.

“Alright guys, listen up!” he called out before he truly took in the activities he’d just interrupted, “couch says that-,” but then when his gaze finally trained on your cockdrunk visage, the rest of his important message trailed off, “Y/n?” 

“Oh hey, Cap,” Bucky grinned, none of the players slowing down at the appearance of their leader, “thought we’d keep your girl entertained while you were gone.” 

Closing the door behind him, Steve took a slow step forward and sighed, “guys, seriously?” his glare found each and every one of them, “I was gonna talk to her first,” stride leisurely, he moved closer to you, peeling his shirt off as he did so. Kneeling down before you, getting on your level, a warm smile bloomed upon his lips as his eyes locked with your hazy ones, “hey baby.”

“S-Steve,” you whimpered, wanting so badly to explain, but unable to do anything other than melt even further. 

“How are you doing, huh?” the back of his knuckles softly ghosted down your cheek as his gentle tone washed over you like a warm cup of tea, “you still wanna tell me how well I played today or are you too busy telling the rest of the team?” 

“No, please don’t go,” you grabbed onto his tender touch, “please!”

Straightening back up to his full height, he pulled his shorts down and let his cock spring free, slapping his toned abdomen with its enthusiasm. 

“You mind?” he offered Pietro a nod before the man complied, easing out, and passing you to Steve’s open arms. Scooping you up, his strong grip curved around your bottom entirely. Pressing your lips to his, you tangled your arms around his neck as he nudged your weeping core against his girth, your cunt already creaming and painting his cock a milky shade.

Carrying you in his arms as if it took no effort at all, Steve raised you up further, aligning you just so before dropping you back down again and letting you sink down onto his dick, the sensation causing a pornographic mewl to escape both of your lips as you let the fevered kiss crumble in order to hide your face in the crook of his neck.

“Fucking hell, that’s it,” Steve groaned, lifting you up and down in his grip like a precious little cocksleeve, “that what you needed, huh? You needed me to fuck your pretty little hole?” palming your bottom roughly, he them landed a few swift slaps across it causing even more electricity to course throughout you with the sparks of pleasurable pain, “after the team had their fill, you still needed to feel me?” eyes squeezed shut, your drool smeared against his pulse as you felt him extend a finger and rub a few circles over your other hole, all of the other previous activities already slickening it up enough to make his dance molten and his initiative effortless when he plugged it up, “have me fuck you in front of all of them, give them a good view of what a beautiful mess they’ve made of you… Open your eyes, baby,” hazy vision blinking open, the side of your head stayed plastered against your boyfriend’s broad shoulder as your eyes locked on the spectators, “look at them, look at what you do to them, look at how much they want you.”

Trembling in his arms, so violently that you convulsed off his cock completely, it wasn’t till Sam excitedly pointed out, “oh, she’s a squirter!” that you noticed the gushing waterfall your high had showered Steve with.

“Damn right she is,” Steve smiled proudly, realigning his tender hold as he pressed a soft peck to your temple, “my girl is full of many talents,” with long strides, he then walked up to the bench in the middle of the room and slowly laid down upon it, securely holding your molten form close as he shifted, your body completely plastered on top of his as he cheekily spoke, “in fact, Buck, come over here, help me stuff her a bit more, yeah?” 

Glance swiftly washing over Tony, Bucky asked, “hey, do you still have that-“ 

“Yep, of course,” Tony didn’t need any more to understand, hastily rummaging through his gym bag before tossing his teammate a small bottle of lube, “here!” 

After liberally slickening himself up, you perked up a bit as you felt Bucky’s skin press against your own, your back arching up against his chest as he teased you, nudging his tip against your farmost entrance and rendering your form to yet again give into the ecstasy and recover in a flash. 

But as soon as he confidently sank in at slow and steady pace, a gasp escaped your lungs, “oh my god!”

“What?” Steve smirked beneath you, catching your wild eyes as he teased, “what is it, babe? What’s he doing?”

Mouth agape and brows tightly knitted, you uttered, “he’s fucking my ass.”

“Who’s fucking your ass?” Steve’s mockingly sweet tone washed over you.

“Bucky,” you whimpered as he eased back out till just the essence of him remained. 

“Why don’t you look back at him and say thank you?”

Twisting your head, you found his gaze and hazily managed, “thank you, Bucky,” the sensation of him sinking back in and splitting you apart made it nearly impossible to complete the task. 

“Thank you, what?” Steve fished. 

“Thank you for filling up my ass, Bucky.”

Capturing your face, Bucky cradled it in his hands as he smiled, “you’re so fucking welcome,” before dipping down to steal a sweet kiss, “any time, doll, any time…” 

With your nose nuzzled against Bucky’s, your boyfriend’s low voice once more found your ears, “hey baby? Why don’t you slide my cock back in, huh? Stretch that little pussy out as well?”

Reaching down to seize it, you hummed fuzzily, “mhm,” before slipping it in, your eyes promptly fluttering shut at the ecstasy. 

Their thrusts were slow but immensely intense, with a roughness hiding behind the pace that made you tremble between them. 

“Fucking hell, if you don’t marry this girl, Cap,” you felt Bucky’s boorish fingers wrap around your delicate throat, “one of us will.”

Fighting to peel your blissful eyes open, you first caught sight of Steve’s adoring features beneath you, gazing between your fuzzy expression and your stretched-out holes as if you were some mystical goddesses. But then your vision glanced across the crowd of professional football players, all fixated on you and nobody else, stroking their cocks to the exact pace your holes got filled. 

“I-I-, fuck-…” you whimpered as felt yourself once again near the edge.

“What, are you gonna cum again, sweetheart?” Steve moaned, rolling his hips up into you in a synchronized rhythm, “I can feel you-, christ, you clench down so fucking tight when you’re all stuffed like this,” he snaked his fingers down to strum your aching and overly sensitive clit, your frame nearly bucking away from him as he bullied the painfully puffy pearl. 

“It’s too much, fuck-, I don’t think I can take it anymore,” you heard yourself cry, feeling as if you might actually pass out. 

“No, no, baby, you can, you can,” your boyfriend declared determinedly, not slowing down one bit at the sight of your pout, “you can take it, you can cum with the both of us inside of you.”

“B-but it’s so much, I-”

“Don’t worry, we’ve got you, don’t we, Buck?”

“Right here, doll,” Bucky’s warm palm slid down your front and grasped your left tit, his whole arm curving over you like a seatbelt holding you upright and close to him, “just fall and we’ll catch you.”

And with that, your pour pussy poured out everything it had, tears spewing from your eyes at the intensity.

“Aah!” 

Convulsing, you nearly tumbled to the tile below, but they both held you close, safely in their grasp as well as far down on their cocks as your gushing core clambered around them and nearly expelled them entirely. 

Maybe you fell asleep, for even a second, because that’s what it felt like when you blinked your eyes open once more to find your drowsy frame situated on the floor, the lingering aid from a few of the men to get you relocated still remaining as you blinked up at all of them.

Had it truly been that many cocks that had in one way or another been inside of you today?

Smiling up at all seven of them from your position on your wobbly knees, you let your mouth fall open and your tongue roll out once last time as they furiously jerked themselves to completion before you, the grin on your face only growing wider as their cum began to paint your skin.

Twitching and panting, the majority still let their touch linger needily as they floated back down to earth. 

Broad chest heaving with every deep breath, “babe,” Steve bit down on his smirk as he gazed down at the decorated state you were now in, “say thank you to the guys for taking such good care of you.” 

Making your gaze go on a round to catch each and every one of their doting stares, you uttered breathlessly, “thank you.”

© 2023 thyme-in-a-bubble 

[cadelinhadaromanoff]

𝐊𝐞𝐞𝐩 𝐭𝐞𝐥𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫𝐬𝐞𝐥𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 | 𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝟓

Summary: Natasha finds herself sinking into the quiet storm of her own insecurities—trapped in the uncertainty of her almost-relationship. Though deeply in love, she struggles with the fear that something so good can’t last. She worries she’s temporary, that she’s not enough, that she’ll be left behind. The lack of a clear title between them—no “girlfriend,” no labels—only feeds her anxiety. Despite knowing deep down that she’s loved, the ache of not hearing it aloud, of not being certain where she stands, begins to unravel her from within… until all of it changed.

Paring: Natasha Romanoff x Reader, Natasha Romanoff x Platonic Clint Barton.

Word count: 11615

Warnings: Emotional Insecurity & Anxiety, Mentions of Trauma (Red Room), Mild Language, Implied Nudity/Intimacy, Age Gap Relationship (33 and 23)

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5

Author's Notes: Hey guys! Just wanted to say a huge thank you for all the love and support you’ve been giving this story—it honestly means so much to me. I’m sorry it took a little longer to post this one, but I promise it was worth the wait (yes, it got long, I know, but I couldn’t help myself). As always, feel free to drop a comment or send me a message—I absolutely love talking with you all about the story!Hope you enjoy the chapter… especially now that they’re finally, finally official!

₊˚ ‿︵‿︵‿︵୨୧ · · ♡ · · ୨୧‿︵‿︵‿︵ ˚₊

Natasha had always believed that solitude was safety. That the quiet after a mission, the dim silence of her apartment, the untouched corner of a bed meant she was doing it right. Keeping the world at bay. But lately—no, ever since you—solitude didn’t taste like peace anymore. It tasted like absence. It tasted like something she wasn’t supposed to swallow down anymore. Because now she knew what it felt like to be held. And God, she craved it. Every cell in her body missed you when you weren’t there. It was like her skin had developed a memory, a longing—your fingers stroking through her hair, the solid weight of your arms around her, the way your voice softened when you said her name. She wasn’t built for needing people, but somehow, she needed you.

It was worse on nights like this, when the plan had been simple. Just bed. Just cuddles. You, her, and Ana—wrapped up like a secret in soft sheets and warm limbs, safe from the world. That was all she wanted. No espionage, no world-threatening disasters, no coded briefings. Just domestic silence broken by the gentle hiccup of Ana’s giggle or your breath whispering across her neck. And when it didn’t happen, when the world pried you away again with one more emergency or one more delay, something inside her clenched with a quiet, aching frustration.

She never expected this. She never expected to become this… touch-starved. Not her. Not the Black Widow, trained to endure, to resist, to suppress. But every time you left, she felt like her skin was betraying her, screaming for your touch. Her body missed you like a second heartbeat gone quiet. She found herself counting the hours, the minutes, the weight of time unbearable until she could feel your warmth pressed against her again. You didn’t just touch her skin—you calmed the war beneath it. The war that had never really stopped since she was a child.

She sleeps better now. That’s something she can’t even say aloud without her voice cracking. Before you, sleep was something she survived. A minefield of memories, of missions, of screams that were never hers but still lived in her head. The Red Room was always there—just under her eyelids. But with you… it’s different. When she lies beside you, her body folds into yours with such aching relief it almost breaks her. And on the nights when the dreams still come—because they do, not as often, but still—you never even hesitate. You just reach for her. Sometimes you wake up to the sound of her breath hitching, and you’re already there, pulling her into your arms before she can even open her eyes. Her face tucked against your chest, breathing in the scent of your perfume like it’s a tether. It makes her feel safe. Not just safe from danger—but safe from herself.

You never ask her to explain. You never demand the shape of her fear or the color of her scars. You just hold her. Stroke her hair. Whisper to her. And it’s not even always words—sometimes it’s the quiet rhythm of a song you love, hummed against her temple, the vibrations sinking into her bones. Sometimes it’s a story, one of your myths or legends you adore, soft and slow like a lullaby. You talk about Persephone’s garden, or Selene’s moonlight, or the stars that guide lost souls home. And slowly, slowly, the war in her chest dies down. She breathes. She lets go.

And sometimes—her favorite times—you say nothing at all. You just stay. Stay with her. Stay present. Stay real. Your fingers weaving through her hair, your heart steady against her back. That’s how she heals. Not in grand gestures or loud declarations—but in these quiet nights where you remind her, without ever needing to say it, that the Red Room can’t reach her anymore. That Ana is safe. That she is loved. Fully. Completely. Unconditionally.

She never thought she’d have this. Never thought she’d be someone’s comfort, someone’s world. Never thought anyone would be hers. But you are. And she’s yours. And tonight, even if you’re not here, she holds onto that. Holds onto you. Because she knows that when the door finally opens, when your shoes are kicked off at the entrance, when you finally come to her again, you’ll climb into bed and fold yourself around her like you always do. And she’ll sleep. Truly sleep. Because you exist. Because you love her. And because somehow, impossibly, she’s allowed to love you back.

The text had barely finished delivering when Natasha’s heart leapt. “Coming home soon, love. Ana picked out a little bunny she refused to let go of. We miss you.” It was nothing extraordinary, just a simple message. But for Natasha, it lit her from within. She stared at the words until the letters blurred slightly, her chest warming with something fierce and tender and almost too much to hold. She could already picture it—the jingle of keys at the door, the sound of Ana’s babbling, your voice calling softly through the apartment, and then, finally, your arms around her. Your warmth at her back, your scent in her lungs, your presence like a balm to the always-too-tight coil in her chest. And Ana, her sweet little girl, pressed between you both like a heartbeat.

That had been the plan. The only plan Natasha cared about today.

She had tidied the room three times, not because it needed it, but because she needed to stay busy. She had fluffed the pillows, pulled out the softest blankets, even changed into your favorite hoodie—the one that still faintly smelled like you. The one she never admitted she slept in whenever you were gone too long. Her whole body was ready to melt into yours. Her mind was already there, halfway between your laugh and Ana’s cheek squished against her chest. That was her safe place now. That was everything.

But then her phone rang.

And everything—everything—shifted.

She stared at the screen like it had personally betrayed her. Clint. The only person she might’ve answered for tonight. The only one who knew her long enough to still pull her back into the life she thought she was beginning to leave behind. She pressed answer, already sighing.

“Please don’t say what I think you’re about to say,” she muttered before he could even speak.

“I wouldn’t if I had a choice,” Clint’s voice replied, casual but carrying that slight edge she recognized instantly—he was serious. “I need backup at the compound. New recruits are crashing hard. They’re not listening, not responding. They need someone who scares them straight.”

“They’re not my problem,” she said flatly, her jaw already tightening. “Not tonight.”

There was a pause.

“You said you were easing back in. This is easing. I wouldn’t call if I didn’t really need you.”

And there it was—that tug, that guilt-laced thread woven into years of loyalty and battles and blood. He knew it. He used it. And she hated that it still worked. But even as the pressure behind her eyes built, her voice snapped back, sharper this time. “Clint, I haven’t seen them all day. She’s been gone since morning. I just—” her voice cracked, barely, “—I just want to hold my family. I was going to hold them and breathe, and not think about combat posture or tactical breakdowns or angry kids trying to prove they’re bulletproof.”

“I get it,” he said gently. “But this is one of those nights I can’t handle it alone.”

She wanted to scream. Throw the phone. Anything. But instead, she clenched her teeth until her jaw ached. Her free hand twisted into the hem of your hoodie, holding on like she was bracing for impact. Her silence dragged long enough that Clint said her name.

“I’ll go,” she said, bitterly. “But I’m not happy about it.”

“I know.”

And with that, she ended the call and stood there, motionless, the echo of her own frustration boiling beneath her skin. Her body physically hurt from how much it had wanted to be touched. Held. She could almost feel the phantom of your arms around her already, like her body had preemptively exhaled—and now that touch wouldn’t come. Not yet.

She peeled the hoodie off like it burned her, tossing it onto the bed with a sound that wasn’t quite a sob and not quite a growl. She hadn’t felt this moody in years. This let down. It wasn’t just the cuddle. It was the hope she’d let herself build. The sacredness of such a quiet plan. The simplicity of love, denied.

She didn’t bother looking in the mirror as she tied her boots and clipped her hair back. The woman staring back would be one she barely recognized tonight. All sharp edges again. All steel and cold breath and detachment. She hated it. Hated how easily the armor still fit.

Before she left, she glanced at the phone again, almost against her will. No new texts yet. You were probably driving, Ana babbling in the backseat. The image made her eyes sting.

She typed quickly, furiously, deleting twice before finally sending:

|Me: Clint called. Going to the compound. I’m sorry. I wanted tonight so badly.

She didn’t wait for the reply. She couldn’t. If you told her it was okay, she’d hate herself more. If you told her you missed her too, she’d fall apart.

She stepped out into the night with her fists clenched in her coat pockets and a weight in her chest that made her feel like she’d left her soul back in that bed, still waiting for your aren't .

The elevator hummed with sterile efficiency, bright lights buzzing above her head as Natasha stood with her arms crossed, back pressed into the cool metal wall. Her jaw was tight, ticking faintly as she stared blankly at the floor numbers ticking upward. The ride felt slower than usual, and she hated how her foot kept bouncing with impatience. She was still thinking about the bed, about you. About Ana’s little hand probably gripping that bunny you mentioned. About the warmth she was supposed to be folded into by now. Instead, she was in a steel box, dressed for war, on her way to babysit rookies who probably couldn’t tell the difference between real fear and adrenaline.

Damn Clint.

The doors opened with a pneumatic sigh, releasing her into the training sector’s lower level—a new wing Stark had greenlit, full of sleek equipment, minimalist black panels, and eerily quiet lighting. The second she stepped out, the air changed. It was cooler here, laced with the faint scent of sterilized tech and recently dried sweat. Ahead of her, through the glass wall, she could see them—six newbies strapped into individual chairs, motionless, eyes twitching beneath closed lids. Each one connected to the simulation grid via a thin neural band wrapped at the base of the skull. A glowing interface pulsed beside each chair, tracking vital signs and neurological responses.

Great. They’re using the Divergent crap tonight.

.Natasha muttered it under her breath as she stepped into the observation deck, her tone soaked in irritation, though the flicker of reluctant admiration lingered beneath. Her eyes swept over the simulation chairs lined in two perfect rows, each rookie hooked up to the neural bands you had personally helped design. A sleek web of bio-responsive tech wound from scalp to spine, and beneath the blinking lights and soft whirring of the monitors, she could practically hear your voice in her head explaining it all—every circuit, every serum compound, every neural feedback loop.

She hated how good the tech was. Hated how brilliant you were. Because tonight, that brilliance had stolen you from her arms.

This wasn’t some off-the-shelf copy of what the Divergent factions once used. No, this was yours—your creation. A modified, perfected version of the concept. Inspired by the movie, sure, but completely reimagined under your touch. Instead of fearscapes, you built a neural simulation that generated complex, high-risk, hyperrealistic fake missions. Rescue ops. Espionage trials. Ambush recoveries. Each one designed to push recruits to their limits—not by terrifying them, but by testing them. Every scenario was tailored based on psychological profiling, combat scores, and instinctive behaviors. And unlike the fear tests, the recruits were fully aware they were inside a sim.

That was the genius of it—it wasn’t about whether they could survive. It was whether they would choose to keep going even when it felt hopeless. They knew it was fake. Their minds still reacted like it was real.

Natasha folded her arms and exhaled sharply as one of the screens flickered to show a recruit crawling through smoke and glass, her simulated arm “injured,” her path blocked by simulated debris. Natasha recognized the scenario. A building collapse, with two civilian hostages on opposite ends of the structure. One had to be sacrificed. Classic moral tension. A test of choice, not strength.

She clenched her jaw.

It was brilliant. Brutal. Effective.

And right now?

It was a colossal pain in the ass.

She should be home. Curled into your chest with Ana asleep between you, your heartbeat beneath her ear and your perfume weaving through her senses like safety incarnate. She should be buried in warmth and peace and the sacred comfort she only ever found in your touch. But instead, she was standing here, cold and tense, watching over recruits struggle inside a world you built, your fingerprints in every line of code.

A quiet pang stirred in her chest. Not jealousy. Just longing. The ache of missing you while being surrounded by pieces of you.

She glanced at the chair nearest her. The young man strapped in was shaking, sweat beading along his temple. His simulation feed showed him breaching a hostile compound, wounded and alone, with a timer ticking down until the bomb exploded. Natasha watched his eyes twitch beneath their lids, watched his hands grip the armrests like they were the last lifeline he had.

It was working. Too well.

Clint appeared beside her, arms crossed like he’d been watching her rather than the recruits.

“Impressive, isn’t it?” he said quietly.

Natasha didn’t answer right away. Her eyes lingered on the screen, on the chaos within the simulation.

“She built this,” she said finally. “Twisted it from some dystopian crap into a full-on psychological battlefield. It’s smarter than most field ops I’ve seen.”

Clint nodded. “She’s scary when she wants to be.”

“She’s brilliant when she wants to be.”

And then softer, bitter under her breath: “And I was supposed to be holding her right now.”

Clint winced.

“And then you called.” she added, sharp.

He raised his hands defensively. “And I said I was sorry.”

She turned away from the screens, tired of watching ghosts. “Let’s just finish this. I want to go home.”

Back to you. To warmth. To your arms and the scent of that bunny Ana refused to let go of. Back to what was real. Because no matter how convincing these simulations were—no matter how much of your brilliance hummed inside every byte—nothing in this cold, tech-lit room could compare to the life you’d built with her. Nothing could replace the soft gravity of your touch.

And when this was over, she’d crawl into bed no matter the hour, pull you against her, and breathe you in like a woman resurfacing from the deep.

The minutes dragged by like hours.

Natasha leaned against the edge of the control console, arms folded, posture tense but practiced. Beside her, Clint clicked between feeds on the main monitor, pulling up different simulation views. The room was quiet aside from the soft hum of processors and the occasional groan or muttered curse from one of the strapped-in recruits. The feeds flickered and changed—different scenarios, different reactions—and most of them, Natasha had to admit, were either absurd or just plain painful to watch.

“Did he seriously just run at the sniper with a knife?” she muttered, eyes narrowing at one of the panels.

“Yup,” Clint said with a grin, leaning in. “Didn’t even try cover. Full-blown hero charge.”

“He has a grenade on his belt.”

“I think he forgot.”

Natasha dragged a hand down her face. “That’s not forgetting. That’s suicidal optimism.”

Another screen showed a recruit trying to sneak through a corridor with absolutely no spatial awareness. He knocked over a chair, then tripped on it, then somehow managed to drop his weapon in the most exaggerated, dramatic tumble Clint had ever seen. Natasha didn’t say anything—just blinked slowly, her expression blank.

Clint laughed, loud and unfiltered. “That kid’s not even fighting the mission. He’s fighting gravity.”

On the far right panel, another recruit surprised them both. She rewired a security terminal in under thirty seconds using a snapped wire and part of her earpiece mic. Natasha raised an eyebrow.

“That one’s sharp,” she admitted.

Clint whistled. “That’s your girl’s tech, too. Interface adapted mid-sim. Pretty sure the sim actually improved her hacking instincts.”

“Good. Maybe someone here will make it past next month without getting themself killed.”

The next screen showed a recruit tossing his weapon to a simulated hostage and yelling, “Cover me!”

Natasha stared.

Clint choked on his laughter. “Oh my God.”

“He armed the hostage.”

“Strategic empowerment?”

Natasha shot him a dry look. “Strategic idiocy.”

They both laughed—hers short and bitter, his open and entertained. For a moment, the weight on her chest eased.

But only for a moment.

Clint glanced sideways at her when her smile faded. Her shoulders sank back into that familiar coil of silence, her expression hardening again as the recruits continued their digital trials. He studied her for a beat, then turned slightly toward her with that familiar smirk—the one he always wore when he was about to start poking the bear.

“You’re unusually grumpy tonight.”

She didn’t look at him. “Am I.”

He leaned on the console next to her, nudging her with an elbow. “C’mon. Even you usually enjoy mocking the next generation of idiots. What gives?”

Natasha sighed through her nose, eyes glued to the screen. “I had plans.”

“Oh no.” Clint gasped with mock horror. “Plans. Were they dangerous? Illegal? Food-related?”

“They were quiet,” she snapped. “They were warm. And soft. And involved zero morons giving weapons to fake hostages.”

Clint grinned. “So, cuddles?”

Her glare was pure ice. “Yes. Cuddles. That’s the mission you dragged me away from. The real one.”

Clint pressed a hand to his heart. “Heartbreaking.”

She didn’t respond, just clenched her jaw tighter.

Clint waited a second, then added with a mischievous glint, “You’re mad because you didn’t get to spoon your girlfriend, aren’t you?”

Natasha shot him a sideways glare sharp enough to cut through armor. “Say that again and I’ll throw you into the sim.”

Clint chuckled, clearly enjoying himself. “You’d need a whole custom scenario. ‘The Training of Barton: How to Shut Up and Let Natasha Cuddle in Peace.’”

She turned away, biting the inside of her cheek to keep from smiling. The irritation was real, yes, but even now, she could feel the edges of it softening around Clint’s usual nonsense. Still, it didn’t fix the ache—didn’t dull the image of what she could be doing. The gentle weight of Ana in her arms. Your body wrapped around her back. Your voice, soft and teasing against her neck. Her bed. Her home. You.

And here she was instead. Watching twenty-year-olds try not to shoot themselves in the foot.

Clint nudged her again. “Seriously though. You okay?”

For a while, she didn’t say anything. The screen in front of them flickered, throwing a cold blue glow across her face. A recruit stumbled through a simulated blizzard, searching for a beacon he’d never find, and Natasha’s expression was unreadable, carved from quiet tension. Her fingers tapped idly against her arm, then stilled.

“I’m trying to enjoy it,” she finally said, voice low. “Her. Us. Every second we get.”

Clint’s brow furrowed. He didn’t interrupt.

Natasha’s eyes softened a fraction, but her shoulders stayed drawn tight. “It’s been… good. Too good. So good it makes my skin crawl some nights. Not because I don’t want it—because I do. God, I do. But something in me keeps whispering that it’s not going to last.”

Her throat worked, like the words were digging themselves out against her will. “I keep getting this… this feeling. Like I’m losing her. Like she’s slipping through my fingers and I don’t even know why. Like this—whatever this is—has an expiration date and I just haven’t been told when yet.”

Clint’s voice came quieter. “She give you any reason to think that?”

Natasha shook her head. “No. That’s the worst part. She doesn’t lie to me. She holds me like she means it. Like she’s never letting go. But I can’t shake it. I wake up sometimes and I look at her and I think, this can’t be real. Life doesn’t give me this. Not for long. Not without taking it back.”

Clint exhaled slowly. “You’ve been through hell, Nat. Of course your brain doesn’t know what to do with softness.”

She looked away. Her jaw clenched hard. “It’s not just that.”

There was a beat of silence.

“She hasn’t asked,” Natasha said finally, quieter this time. “We’re not… anything. Not officially. Not girlfriends. Not friends-with-benefits. We’re just… something.”

She let the word hang, fragile and heavy.

“I think about it more than I want to admit,” she continued. “I keep wondering why she hasn’t asked. If it’s because she’s not sure. Or if it’s because she’s already decided and just doesn’t want to say it. What if she didn’t ask because she’s planning to leave? What if she’s just waiting for the right moment to end it clean?”

Clint frowned. “Do you really think she’d do that to you?”

“No.” Natasha’s answer was instant. She blinked hard, jaw still tight. “No. She wouldn’t. That’s the part that messes with my head. I know she wouldn’t. But it’s like my body doesn’t believe it. Like every scar in me is screaming that love is a trick, and safety’s just a lie waiting to collapse.”

Her voice cracked, barely.

“I hold her and I’m happy. She kisses my forehead and I want to cry because it feels so damn real. And then the voice comes in. The one that says, you don’t get forever. You don’t even get ‘official.’ You just get this borrowed time until she figures out she deserves someone better. Someone whole.”

Clint was quiet for a long moment. The sim monitors flickered in silence behind them, each recruit caught in their own temporary hell.

He shifted beside her, then leaned forward on the console with a sigh. “You wanna know what I think?”

Natasha didn’t look at him, but she didn’t tell him to shut up either. So he took that as permission.

“I think you’re scared out of your mind,” Clint said, not unkindly. “And I don’t blame you. You’ve never had anything like this before. Not really. Not where you could breathe in it. Where you could stay. Where no one was going to be dragged away or shot in the dark or pulled out of your arms while you watched helpless.”

She closed her eyes for a moment. Just a second. That soft tremble in her lashes said enough.

“But Nat,” he continued, gently now, “you’re not in the Red Room anymore. You’re not in a cage. You’re not some shadow they trained to be disposable. You’re home. You built something. With her. With your kid. You think that’s an accident? You think someone like you—someone who’s lived through fire and came out human—doesn’t deserve this?”

She clenched her jaw again. “It’s not about what I deserve.”

“No. It’s about what you’re terrified to hope for.”

Natasha looked at him then. Really looked at him. And for a moment, there was nothing but years between them—wars survived, trust earned, quiet confessions passed like thread between wounds.

“I’m not good at soft,” she said finally. “I never was.”

“No one’s asking you to be good at it,” he replied. “Just don’t run from it.”

She went quiet again, but the air between them had shifted—thick with the weight of things unspoken and the quiet, aching truth she’d been too afraid to say out loud.

“I just…” Her voice faltered, then steadied again, low and raw. “I want her to want me forever. Not just now. Not just while it’s new, or easy, or exciting. I want her to choose me. Name me. Claim me. Because this… something… it feels like everything, but I keep waiting for her to say it out loud.”

“And until she does, you’re stuck in limbo.”

She nodded, once. Slow. Painfully slow.

Clint tilted his head. “Then ask her.”

She blinked. “What?”

He shrugged. “Ask her. Be brave, Romanoff. You’ve taken down gods and dictators. You think you can’t survive asking the girl you love where you stand?”

“It’s not about surviving,” she said quietly. “It’s about what it’ll feel like if I’m right.”

Clint studied her for a beat, his expression softening. “And what if you’re wrong? What if she’s just scared, too? Or waiting for you to ask because she doesn’t want to pressure you? What if she’s lying awake at night, wondering why you haven’t said anything?”

Natasha looked down at her hands. The scar across her knuckles. The place where you kissed when you thought she was asleep.

“She holds me like she’s afraid I’ll vanish,” Natasha whispered. “But I hold her like I’m already losing her.”

Clint didn’t have an answer for that. Not one he could speak, anyway.

So he reached out and gently bumped her shoulder. A wordless reassurance. A tether.

“You’re not losing her, Nat. You’re just scared.”

She gave a short, bitter laugh. “A spy afraid of love. That’s original.”

“Hey,” he smirked. “Even assassins get hearts. Yours just took a while to remember how to beat.”

She didn’t reply, but her eyes flicked to one of the monitors without really seeing it. And Clint watched her, watched the way her mouth pressed into a thin line, the way her fingers dug slightly into her arms like she was holding herself together by will alone. He knew that posture. Knew it from rooftops and bunkers and long silences between missions. It was the way Natasha braced when something inside her was louder than anything outside.

“Nat,” he said, voice quieter now, less teasing, more solid, “she’s not going anywhere.”

“You don’t know that.”

“No, I don’t,” he admitted. “But you do. You do, and that’s what’s killing you. You know she loves you. You know she’s not lying, not playing, not keeping you around out of convenience. And that scares the hell out of you because the only thing more terrifying than losing her… is believing she might stay.”

She exhaled, sharp and shaky, and suddenly the room felt too small. Like the walls were pressing in with all the things she never let herself feel. All the quiet dreams she’d folded into the corners of her mind. All the hope she never gave herself permission to want.

“I’ve lost so much,” she murmured, eyes still fixed somewhere far beyond the monitors. “More than I ever let myself count. And now I have her. And Ana. And I keep thinking… what if this is just the calm before the storm? What if the universe is just fattening me up before it rips it all away again?”

Clint didn’t scoff. Didn’t try to joke it off. He just let her say it, let the words crack open between them like raw nerve.

“I think,” he said softly, “that maybe this time… the storm already passed. And this isn’t the before. Maybe it’s the after. Maybe you’re already standing in what’s left, and instead of ash, it gave you something to live for.”

That made her look at him. Her throat bobbed, her eyes glassy but refusing to spill. She wasn’t a crier. Not even when she wanted to be.

“I’m scared,” she said again, like it was a confession.

“I know.”

“I don’t want to ruin it.”

“Then don’t,” he said gently. “Just… tell her. Tell her you want more. Tell her this in-between isn’t enough. That you want to be hers. For real. She’ll listen. She’s not like the others.”

Natasha didn’t speak, but something inside her shifted. You could almost see it—like a wall cracking, just a little. Letting the light in.Natasha didn’t speak, but something inside her shifted. You could almost see it—like a wall cracking, just a little. Letting the light in.

She exhaled slowly, almost as if the weight on her ribs had grown too heavy to carry in silence. Her voice came softer this time, stripped down, the edge dulled by something more fragile. “I never really noticed how hard it is… being a single mom. Not until I wasn’t doing it alone.”

Clint turned toward her, careful not to speak, just letting her unravel.

“I mean, I knew it’d be hard. Of course I did. Late nights, the crying, the routines, the guilt. But I thought I had it under control. I thought I was doing okay.” She paused, eyes fixed somewhere vague, like she was watching a reel of half-remembered mornings and chaotic afternoons. “And then she came in.”

Her voice thickened—not with regret, but awe.

“She didn’t just help me. She showed up. She saw me. She saw Ana. And it was like…” Her lips curved, barely, aching. “Like she’d always been meant to be there. Like Ana was waiting for her too.”

Natasha swallowed hard. “Damn it, Clint. It’s like she was made for us. Like some piece I didn’t know I was missing finally clicked into place. She’s a breeze of fresh air in a house that forgot how to breathe.”

She looked down at her lap, fingers clenching and unclenching like she was trying to hold on to something intangible. “Ana adores her. She laughs differently when she’s around. Softer. Freer. Like she feels we are safe, it's like she can see that I am better. like she already knows who her home is.”

Clint watched her, eyes warm, but said nothing. Letting her get to it.

Natasha leaned forward, elbows on her knees, voice dipping low again. “And that’s what terrifies me. Because she’s ten years younger than me. Ten years of freedom. Ten years of unburned skin. She could have anything. Anyone. And I’m just… me.”

Her jaw clenched. The words tasted bitter coming out. “What if one day she realizes she wants someone her own age? Someone without baggage? Without trauma layered under every smile?”

Clint’s lips pressed together, but he still said nothing. He knew too much now. Knew more than he was allowed to say. And even if the box was burning a hole in his pocket, even if he could already hear your nervous voice rehearsing the proposal over and over again… this moment wasn’t his to interrupt.

Natasha sat there, voice barely above a whisper now. “I don’t want Ana to lose her. I don’t want to lose her either. But I can’t stop thinking… why would she stay with me? Why not someone easier? Someone who didn’t come with a whole damn history of blood and ghosts?”

Her hands moved to cover her face for a second, as if she could scrub the vulnerability out of her pores.

Clint finally leaned back with a small sigh. “You’re asking all the wrong questions.”

Natasha peeked at him through her fingers.

“You’re thinking about why she shouldn’t love you. But have you looked at how she does? She’s not with you because of what you’re not, Nat. She’s with you because of everything you are. The fact you care this much? That’s not weakness. That’s proof.”

Natasha blinked, slowly.

“You and Ana aren’t just a chapter in her life,” Clint added, softer now. “You are her life. She made you part of her story. And she’s not walking away.”

He paused, the hint of a grin playing at the corners of his mouth. “Just trust me on that, okay?”

And Natasha… didn’t argue. She didn’t fight it. Not this time.

Instead, she looked down at her hands again, and let herself feel the full weight of what she’d built. What she stood to lose. And maybe—what she’d never have to.

They kept watching the simulations as the room buzzed with artificial chaos—guns fired, teammates failed, a building in one of the fake missions collapsed because someone forgot to check structural integrity. Idiots. Clint muttered something under his breath, scribbled a note about better obstacle training, and sighed heavily as a recruit ran into his own reflection thinking it was a teammate.

Natasha didn’t even blink.

Her eyes were on the screens, but she wasn’t watching. Not really. She was somewhere far away—somewhere quiet, warm, and filled with the faint scent of your perfume. Somewhere Ana was babbling in the background, dragging books across the living room carpet, while your fingers brushed Natasha’s hair back from her temple and your lips pressed to her shoulder without needing a reason. She could almost feel the weight of you behind her, arm snug around her waist, breathing synced with hers.

Her brow was furrowed, though her body was still. She was thinking too much again. Drowning in it. All those sharp edges of self-doubt scraping against everything she wanted. Everything she had no idea how to ask for.

Clint watched her out of the corner of his eye, occasionally glancing between her and the recruits as another poor kid accidentally set off a chain reaction that ended with simulated civilian casualties. They’d laugh about it later, probably. But he couldn’t even get a smile out of her now.

Then his phone buzzed.

He checked it, and when he read the message, his face changed. Something settled behind his eyes—a flicker of amused satisfaction—and he slowly tucked the phone away like it wasn’t burning in his hand.

He leaned in, cleared his throat dramatically. “Alright, I’ve seen enough bad decisions to last me the rest of the week. And you—” he pointed at Natasha without looking at her. “You’re done here.”

She didn’t look away from the monitors. “What?”

“I’m kicking you out.”

She raised a brow, just a little. “You’re kicking me out?”

“Yep. You’re useless like this,” he said, standing up and stretching his arms behind his head. “You’re not paying attention, you’ve been staring through the screen for the last fifteen minutes, and if I have to watch you sit there and stew in existential dread one second longer, I’m gonna throw myself into the next sim.”

She gave him a look—flat, unamused.

Clint grinned. “Go home, Nat.”

“Clint—”

He put a hand up. “Nope. No arguments. I’m the boss tonight. Go.”

She narrowed her eyes. “You don’t even like being in charge.”

“Well, tonight I do. Because it means I get to tell you to get out of here, go home, and stop being a haunted, brooding mess.”

She stared at him. He stared right back.

Then, slowly, her body shifted. Like a tired weight was finally giving up resistance.

“…Fine,” she muttered, dragging herself up from the chair.

Clint tossed her a mock salute. “Tell her hi for me.”

Natasha rolled her eyes and turned to leave, but he caught the way her fingers twitched slightly at the mention of you. The way her spine straightened Natasha stepped into the elevator, her body moving on autopilot, but her senses already alert—trained, sharp, impossible to fool. Something was in the air. Not the kind of tension that came before a fight, not the weight of danger—this was quieter. Warmer. Thicker, almost. Like anticipation had taken shape in the oxygen itself.

She narrowed her eyes slightly.

She passed her keycard across the scanner. Beep. The familiar green light lit up, and the doors slid closed behind her. As the elevator began its descent, her fingers flexed against her thigh. Something was going on. Not a threat. No—she would’ve smelled that. But something… intentional. Delicate. And no one had said a word.

When the doors opened, her brows furrowed instinctively.

Her living room.

Soft amber light bathed the space in a gentle hush, like the entire apartment was holding its breath. No mission debris. No toys scattered from a wild Ana afternoon. Just… peace. Her eyes scanned quickly—then landed on the dining table.

Two plates. Steam rising. The scent of tomato and garlic filled the air like a memory.

Italian takeout.

Her lips parted just slightly. Her bag slid from her shoulder, hitting the floor without thought. She took a slow step in, like she was afraid the quiet might shatter if she moved too fast.

And then she felt it—before you touched her.

Your warmth behind her. That familiar hum that her body recognized before her mind could catch up. It wasn’t noise. It was presence. You.

Your arms slipped around her waist like they belonged there—like they’d always belonged there—and pulled her against you with a gentleness that made her breath catch. Her back met your chest, her hands instinctively finding yours. Her eyes closed.

You rocked her softly, slowly, swaying the way she might soothe Ana when she couldn’t sleep. “Good night,” you whispered, your lips brushing her hairline. “I missed you.”

The sound of your voice in that low, loving hush hit something deep. Natasha bit the inside of her cheek, grounding herself in the reality of it—of you. Your arms. Your smell. Your heartbeat against her spine.

She wanted to ask what all this was for. But she couldn’t. Not yet.

She just stood there in the quiet, still as a statue, letting herself be held.

Letting herself believe—for this moment—that maybe this wasn’t too good to last.

Your arms tightened around her just a little, pulling her closer, your presence now not just behind her—but wrapped into her. Natasha didn’t move, didn’t speak. She simply let herself be held, her body still tense with that faint echo of disbelief, like she didn’t quite trust that something this warm could be hers.

You leaned in, soft and slow, pressing a tender kiss to her shoulder through the fabric of her shirt. It was small, nothing grand, but it made her shiver—made her heart stutter in her chest. You stayed there for a moment, your lips resting against her like they belonged there, then moved higher, burying your nose gently against the crook of her neck.

You nuzzled her, slow and affectionate, like you were breathing her in—like the scent of her skin, her warmth, the quiet strength she carried, was enough to steady your soul. Natasha let out the softest exhale, something closer to a sigh, her hand instinctively rising to rest over yours where it lay across her stomach.

Her walls didn’t fall all at once.

But they shifted.

Bit by bit, you were undoing her—not with force, but with love. Quiet, patient, steady love

.As you nuzzled into the soft curve of her neck, Natasha let out a slow breath, one hand rising to lightly curl around your wrist. Her voice came quiet—barely more than a whisper, like she didn’t want to break the spell.

“Where’s Ana…?”

You smiled against her skin, lips brushing her gently before you answered, your voice warm and full of affection.

“She was out like a light,” you murmured. “Didn’t even make it through the car ride. I tucked her into the crib—she’s sleeping like a little log, all bundled up in her blanket.”

Natasha exhaled a soft chuckle, the sound barely there but rich with relief.

You pulled back just enough to catch her eyes, brushing your knuckles along her cheek. “So tonight?” you added with a teasing smile, “You have my full, undivided attention. Every second of it.”

That earned you a look. Soft. Unreadable. But the corner of her mouth lifted ever so slightly, the tiredness in her eyes replaced with something gentler.

You slid your hand into hers and guided her toward the couch. The moment she sat, you were already pouring her a glass of wine—her favorite kind, the one you always remembered.

She took it with a small nod of approval, swirling the liquid lazily in the glass before taking a sip. Her head leaned back with a quiet sound of satisfaction, the day melting off her shoulders.

Then she tugged at your wrist again, wordless and sure. You didn’t need an invitation—you curled into her side easily, letting her arm drape around you as you snuggled against her, your cheek pressing to her shoulder.

“This,” she murmured, almost like she was admitting a secret to herself. “This is what I was waiting for.”

You nestled deeper into her side, the wine glass balanced in her hand while her other arm stayed wrapped around you. The low light flickered across her face, casting soft shadows over her cheekbones, but her expression had softened into something that felt… private. Vulnerable. At ease.

Your hand slipped under her shirt—slowly, reverently—finding the warm skin just above her hip. You didn’t rush, didn’t push. You just stroked her in slow, affectionate circles with your fingertips, letting her body adjust to the intimacy not of passion, but of peace. Of being wanted like this. Of being held.

She didn’t flinch. Didn’t tense. She simply breathed out, deeper this time, the kind of breath that meant home.

You shifted slightly, brushing your lips along her jawline, feather-light kisses tracing their way upward until you found the hollow just beneath her ear. You kissed her there too, the rhythm unhurried, almost reverent.

Natasha tilted her head ever so slightly, giving you access without a word. That small surrender said more than she ever could out loud.

She took another sip of wine, her fingers tightening slightly in your hair as she leaned her temple against yours.

“You’re dangerous,” she whispered finally, voice husky and low, not from seduction but from truth. “You make this feel so easy.”

You smiled into her skin, your hand continuing its slow, grounding motion against her waist. “It is easy,” you murmured, lips brushing her jaw again. “With you, it’s the easiest thing I’ve ever done.”

Natasha didn’t answer, but her thumb began tracing small circles on your shoulder, mirroring the way you touched her—as if learning your rhythm in return. And in that quiet, in that warmth, the silence said everything.

You pulled back just a fraction, your fingers still lingering on her skin, and raised an eyebrow, a teasing glint in your eyes. “So, we’re not eating yet?” you asked, your voice laced with playful curiosity. “I mean, the Italian’s just sitting there, getting cold… but I guess I can let it slide if you’re not in the mood.”

She shifted just slightly, turning her head to catch your eyes, her gaze soft yet filled with a playful challenge. “Right now, I’m more in the mood for cuddles than anything else,” she said, her voice low and tired in the way that only came when she’d been running on fumes all day, but somehow it sounded like the most honest confession. “We can eat later.”

You couldn’t help but smile, that familiar warmth curling in your chest as you leaned in a little closer. “Oh, is that so?” you teased, your lips brushing the edge of her ear as you whispered. “And here I thought I was going to have to convince you to eat. But… if it’s cuddles you want…” You let the sentence trail off, your fingers making their slow journey back up her side, brushing the fabric of her shirt.

She rolled her eyes, a smile tugging at her lips, but her face was still soft, relaxed. “Yeah, that’s right,” she murmured. “Cuddles. No distractions. Just us.”

You pretended to consider it for a second before leaning in just a little more, your lips now a breath away from her ear. “Hmm… So, you’re telling me you want me to just sit here, and you don’t want me to make sure you’re properly taken care of?”

Her eyes narrowed slightly, a playful fire lighting in her gaze. “What are you implying?” she asked, voice barely more than a whisper.

A smirk spread across your lips as you held her gaze, knowing full well where you were going with this. “Oh, I don’t know,” you began slowly, your hand now slipping just a bit lower, tracing the curve of her waist. “You’ve seen how I feed Ana. I could be your personal chef too, you know. Maybe you’d like that? I could feed you, just like I do with her. Spoon you some pasta, maybe?”

She let out a small, incredulous laugh, shaking her head at you as she tried to suppress a smile. “You’re ridiculous,” she muttered under her breath, but her eyes softened, clearly entertained by the thought.

“Oh, I could make it happen,” you said, completely unphased by her teasing. “I’d even cut your food into little pieces and feed it to you bite by bite. Keep your hands free for… cuddling,” you added with a wink, your finger tapping her chin gently.

She rolled her eyes again, but this time she wasn’t able to keep the grin from breaking through. “You’re something else, you know that?”

You grinned back, leaning in to brush your lips over hers, just a light kiss, but one that lingered for a moment longer than usual. “I’m just saying, if you want me to treat you like I treat Ana, I’m happy to spoil you, too.”

Natasha let out a long, drawn-out sigh of mock exasperation, but her arms tightened around you, pulling you closer as she rested her head against your chest. “You’re impossible,” she murmured, her voice softened by the exhaustion that had been following her all day. “But, fine. Maybe you can feed me later. For now… just stay here with me.”

You smiled, brushing your nose against her hair. “Anything you want, babe,” you said softly, letting your hands find their place on her body again, just holding her as the moment wrapped around the two of you like a blanket.

The two of you stayed nestled together, your fingers tracing slow, invisible patterns over her skin—soft lines, gentle spirals that spoke volumes more than words ever could. Each touch was an unspoken expression of care, of reassurance, as if you were reminding her that, even in the stillness, you were there. The warmth between you both created a safe little world that wrapped itself around your hearts like a blanket, and for a moment, it felt as though nothing else existed.

Natasha finished her glass of wine, placing it on the coffee table with a soft clink that broke the silence, but only slightly. She sighed softly, her head still resting against your chest, feeling the rise and fall of your breath beneath her. Her body relaxed into yours, the tension of the day dissipating slowly, but there was something new in the air now—a shift that neither of you could quite pinpoint.

You paused your gentle movements, fingers hovering above her skin for a heartbeat longer than usual. The atmosphere in the room felt thicker now, a quiet anticipation hanging between you, pulling your thoughts into focus. It was time.

“Natasha…” Your voice was soft, hesitant, and she could feel the change, the weight of it pressing against her chest.

She tilted her head just slightly, her hand curling against yours as she looked up at you, eyes warm but attentive. “What is it?” Her voice was calm, but there was a flicker of curiosity in her gaze.

You took a deep breath, the words feeling heavier than you thought they would. “I… I need to say something important. Something that will change everything for us.”

Her heartbeat shifted slightly beneath her ribs, her hand instinctively squeezing yours as she waited, her attention sharp, her usual warrior’s demeanor softened in the quiet of the moment.

“I’m scared,” you admitted, your voice low, laced with a vulnerability you rarely let show. “I’m afraid of doing this… afraid of what it might do to us.” You paused, looking down into her eyes as if searching for some sign, any sign, that she was ready for this, that she wouldn’t pull away. “I’m scared because I don’t know what I’ll do if you… if you run away. I don’t know how to handle it if you decide I’m pushing you too hard, or if I make you feel trapped in some way.”

Natasha’s brows furrowed, a small flicker of surprise crossing her face, but she said nothing, simply letting you continue.

“I never want to pressure you, Natasha. I never want you to feel like you’re being forced into something you’re not ready for. But this… what we have—it’s more than just something to me. It’s everything.” Your voice broke for a moment, that rawness creeping through, the emotion you’d tried to keep at bay spilling over in the quietest of ways. “I just… I’m afraid. I want this to be real. I want us to be real. But I need to know that we’re on the same page. I need to know that you want this, that you’re not just here because it’s easy or because I’ve been too blind to see your hesitation.”

You paused, biting your lip slightly as your hand found her cheek, cupping it gently. “Please, just… don’t walk away from me, not when I’m starting to believe this could be everything I’ve always wanted.”

She didn’t respond immediately, just watched you with those unyielding eyes, but the weight of her gaze seemed to wrap itself around your heart in a way that was both comforting and terrifying.

Then, with a deep exhale, she spoke, her voice gentle but filled with that quiet understanding. “You think I’m going to run?” she asked, her tone soft but sharp with sincerity.

You nodded slowly, unable to mask the nervousness that lingered in your chest. “I don’t know what else to think. I… I don’t know how to balance this, the fear of losing you, with the need to tell you how I feel.”

A small smile pulled at the corner of her lips, and she leaned forward just enough to press her forehead against yours, soft and slow, as if grounding you both in the moment. “You’re not going to lose me,” she said simply, her voice a steady anchor. “I’m right here, aren’t I?”

You closed your eyes, letting her words wash over you. Her hands reached up to touch your face, fingers tracing the outline of your jaw, and it was like the whole world stopped in that one soft connection.

“But I can’t promise things won’t change,” Natasha continued, her eyes locking onto yours with a quiet, honest gaze. “I can’t tell you I won’t be scared too. But I’m here. And that’s what matters.”

You swallowed, feeling the tension in your chest loosen just a little. “I just needed to hear that.”

She smiled again, a little brighter now, and pressed a soft kiss to your lips. “You have me. Just don’t worry so much. I’m not going anywhere.”

Her words were quiet, but they held an unspoken promise. And for the first time in a long while, you felt the weight of your own fears begin to lift, even if just a little

The quiet that followed was heavy, but not in a burdensome way—it was the kind of silence that wrapped around the room like velvet, soft and full of meaning. You could hear the hum of the city outside, but it felt a thousand miles away. Natasha was still curled against you, her fingers absentmindedly brushing your arm, but your thoughts were no longer calm. They were storming in the most beautiful, terrifying way.

You sat up slowly, careful not to startle her, and then stood. Natasha blinked, looking up in confusion as her body instinctively followed your movement. But then you moved—slow, intentional—and lowered yourself to one knee in front of her. Her breath caught. Her lips parted. And she froze, just like that, staring down at you as if the world had slipped off its axis.

You held the ring box in your hand, but it stayed closed for now. Your eyes didn’t leave hers.

“Natasha,” you began, your voice trembling with everything you’d been holding in for too long, “I love you.”

Her lips parted as if she wanted to speak, but the words never came. Her eyes were locked onto yours, wide, stunned, as you continued.

“I love all of you. The parts the world has seen. The ones they’ve judged. The ones they’ll never understand.” You took a breath, slow and shaking. “I love the fire in you, the way you stand unshaken when everything’s falling apart. I love the way you fight, not just in battle, but for people—for Ana, for me, for everyone who’s ever had the chance to be loved by you.”

Her chest rose slowly, her lips tightening as emotion began to blur her vision, but you weren’t done. Not yet.

“You’re brilliant. The smartest woman I’ve ever known. Strategic, sharp, deadly. You walk into a room and shift the balance of it without even trying. But when Ana cries, you drop everything, and you hold her like she’s your whole world. And she is, isn’t she?”

A tear slipped down Natasha’s cheek. She didn’t move to wipe it.

“I see the way she looks at you, Tasha. Like you hung the stars. But you know something else?” You swallowed, emotion clawing up your throat. “She looks at me that way too. Because you let me be part of her world. Because you let me in. And God, I don’t even know how to thank you for that.”

Her hand came up to her mouth now, covering her lips as the weight of your words hit her. Her shoulders trembled slightly, but she didn’t look away.

“I’ve never loved anyone the way I love you,” you whispered. “Not just because of what you do. But who you are. When you stroke Ana’s hair while she’s falling asleep. When you cry in your sleep and bury your face in my chest and let yourself be small with me. When you don’t speak, but hum those lullabies under your breath just so your brain stays quiet. I see you, Natasha. All of you. And I still fall.”

Your hands opened the ring box slowly, revealing the simple, elegant band inside. Her eyes flicked down to it—and she audibly gasped.

“I don’t want you to be just my girlfriend,” you said, your voice now thick and raw. “That word—it doesn’t come close to what you mean to me. I want you to be my fiancée. I want to skip that middle step because it feels too small for us. I want to wake up every day knowing I’m going to spend the rest of my life showing you how deeply I love you.”

The silence that followed was devastating and breathtaking all at once. Natasha’s face had completely crumbled, her lips trembling, her breath shallow, her eyes spilling quiet tears. She looked at you like you were breaking her open—in the most healing, impossible way.

You held the ring toward her with a trembling hand. “Will you marry me, Natasha Romanoff?”

She didn’t speak. She just stared at you for a long moment, then slowly brought her hand to her chest, as if trying to physically hold herself together. And then she nodded. Slowly at first. Then fiercely, with a choked laugh through her tears.

“Yes,” she whispered, the word so soft you could’ve missed it.

But you didn’t.

You rose slowly, carefully, your fingers still trembling as you slipped the ring onto her finger. She looked down at it in disbelief, her hands shaking, then reached for you with sudden urgency, her arms wrapping around your neck as she pulled you down into her, kissing you through laughter, through tears, through every wall that had ever tried to stand between you.

The kiss lingered—not rushed, not fiery, but slow and trembling, the kind that reached down into bone and stayed there. Natasha clung to you like her life depended on it, one hand buried in your hair, the other pressed against your lower back as if anchoring herself in the moment. You could feel her pulse racing beneath her skin, her breath stuttering between kisses, her body shaking not from fear, but from sheer, unfiltered emotion. It was rare to see her like this—unguarded, unraveling, but safe.

When you finally pulled back just enough to breathe, her forehead rested against yours. Her eyes fluttered shut, lashes still damp, and she gave a tiny, broken laugh that made your heart clench.

“I was not ready for that,” she whispered, voice hoarse. “You ambushed me.”

You smiled, brushing your nose against hers. “You’re a master spy, Romanoff. If I can ambush you, then I’ve earned the right to keep you.”

She let out a shaky breath, that little upward pull of her lips returning—but softer, quieter, the kind of smile she gave only when she felt completely, painfully vulnerable. “God,” she murmured, almost to herself, “I never thought someone would want this… not for a lifetime.”

“I want you,” you said, firm and low, your hand coming to rest over her heart. “Not the legend. Not the assassin. Not the perfect mom. Just you. The woman who watches documentaries about space at three in the morning. The woman who cries when she thinks no one can hear. The one who hums lullabies she doesn’t remember learning. That’s who I want to grow old with.”

Her eyes opened again, blinking through tears. “I’m so scared,” she admitted, barely above a breath. “You’re so young. You could have anyone. You could still change your mind.”

You cupped her face with both hands now, firm and warm. “I don’t want anyone else. I can’t imagine waking up next to anyone else. I choose you. Every single day. Even when you’re grumpy. Even when you push me away. Even when the world tries to pull you back into old ghosts. I will choose you.”

Her bottom lip trembled, and she closed her eyes again, the weight of your words washing over her like a wave she didn’t even try to fight. She leaned into your hands, into your love, as if some part of her still couldn’t believe it was real.

You kissed her again—soft, reverent—then guided her gently to sit with you on the couch. She nestled into your side, her legs tangled with yours, her hand clutching yours tightly as if afraid you might vanish if she let go.

“I don’t know how to be a fiancée,” she murmured, her voice quieter now, more contemplative than unsure.

“That’s okay,” you said, kissing the top of her head. “I don’t know either. We’ll figure it out. Together.”

She turned her head slightly, resting her cheek against your shoulder. “I’m going to mess up.”

“So will I.”

“You’ll get tired of me.”

“I won’t.”

She looked up at you, her expression so open it nearly broke you. “Promise?”

You kissed her gently, pressing your lips to the corner of her mouth like a vow. “I promise. Every day. Every night. Every breath. You and Ana… you’re my home, Natasha. There’s no version of my future without you in it.”

Her chest rose and fell in a deep, shaking breath, and finally… finally… she relaxed. Completely. The last pieces of armor she had left seemed to fall quietly to the floor, leaving behind only Natasha—raw, trembling, loved.

She leaned her head back against your shoulder, lifting her hand to admire the ring through glistening eyes. A soft, wistful smile tugged at her lips.

“Damn it,” she whispered. “I never thought I’d get this.”

You held her tighter. “You deserve more than this. And I’m going to spend the rest of my life proving it to you.”

Outside, the city went on—unaware, uncaring—but inside this tiny apartment, two broken souls had found each other in the rubble, and built something beautiful from it.

The silence between you stretched again, not heavy this time, but shimmering—thick with meaning, with emotion neither of you had words for yet. Natasha’s head rested on your shoulder, her hand still delicately gripping yours, her thumb tracing lazy lines over your knuckles. The ring on her finger caught the light—a soft gleam of diamond and sapphire—and her breath hitched when she looked at it again, as if it reminded her that this was real. That she hadn’t just dreamed it.

She pulled away just enough to look at you fully.

And then, with her voice trembling, she whispered, “I love you.”

You blinked, stunned for a second—not because you didn’t know, not because you hadn’t felt it in every gesture, every stolen glance, every sigh against your chest at night—but because hearing it out loud from her, this woman carved from shadow and survival, was something else entirely.

“I love you,” she said again, firmer now, like she needed you to believe it. Her eyes shimmered, green glass pooling over with tears. “Not in some fragile, half-hearted way. I love you with every part of me I never thought could still feel. With every part that forgot how to be soft.”

Your lips parted, the lump rising in your throat cutting off your breath, your thoughts, everything.

She reached for your face, her palm brushing against your cheek, her thumb catching the tear that had just started to fall. “You broke through walls I forgot I even had up,” she continued, her voice trembling. “You made me feel safe without asking me to be small. You loved Ana without asking anything in return. You let me be me—not Black Widow, not some haunted mess of a woman… just Natasha. And I never thought anyone would love her.”

Tears ran freely down your cheeks now, your vision blurring, your body shaking. She kept wiping them away with trembling fingers, but it didn’t matter—you were crying, both of you were, in this fragile, raw, unguarded moment that neither of you could’ve prepared for, but both of you desperately needed.

“I was afraid,” she admitted, her voice barely a whisper. “Terrified. That this wouldn’t last. That you’d wake up one day and realize I’m too heavy, too broken. That someone younger, softer, less… haunted would come along and you’d go.”

“I would never,” you managed to say, voice cracking.

“I know,” she whispered, leaning her forehead against yours, noses brushing. “I know. But it still scares me. Because you matter that much.”

The two of you stayed like that for a moment, breathing each other in, tears mingling quietly between kisses that weren’t about passion, but presence. Kisses that said I’m here. I’m yours. I’m not going anywhere.

You reached for the small velvet box that had been resting on the couch and opened it again, your own ring sitting there—simple, elegant, with delicate green peridots set into the band like stardust. Natasha gently took it from the box with shaking hands and slid it onto your finger, her own breath faltering as she did.

You smiled through tears, and then it was your turn. You picked up hers—the one you’d chosen so carefully—the central diamond catching the warm glow of the apartment lights, flanked by the two deep sapphires. A past. A future. And a present that gleamed like a promise.

Your fingers trembled as you slid it onto hers, and she watched every motion with eyes full of awe, reverence, disbelief.

“It’s really happening,” she murmured, as if saying it would anchor it into reality.

You looked at her through watery eyes, heart bursting at the seams. “Yeah,” you whispered. “It is.”

And then she leaned forward, slow and deliberate, and kissed you—deep and slow and forever. The world had fallen away. The only thing that existed now was the soft hush of your apartment, the glow of warm lamplight casting gentle shadows on the walls, and the steady rhythm of Natasha’s breath against your chest. Her weight on you was grounding, like gravity had chosen to settle in the shape of her body. Her legs tangled lazily with yours, her cheek resting just above your heart, and her fingers—those calloused, deadly, impossibly gentle fingers—were laced with yours.

She lifted your joined hands slowly, letting them hover just above her face as she looked at them. The rings caught the low light and shimmered, side by side, like matching vows made metal. Her eyes softened as she stared at them—your delicate band of peridots nestled in gold, and her ring, bold and graceful with its diamond and twin sapphires.

“I still can’t believe it,” she whispered, voice thick with wonder. “They look… real. Like this actually happened.”

You smiled and kissed the top of her head, your fingers squeezing hers. “It did.”

She studied your ring a moment longer, brows drawing together in curiosity. “Why peridots?” she asked, tilting her head just enough to look up at you. “I mean… it’s beautiful. But I wanna know what you were thinking.”

You hesitated, just a second, brushing your thumb across her knuckles before answering. “Because they remind me of your eyes. Not just the color… the way they glow when you’re calm. When you’re watching Ana sleep. When you’re at peace. There’s this light in you, Nat… something soft and green and alive, even after everything. I wanted it close to me.”

She went quiet, lips parting just slightly. Her eyes fluttered closed for a beat, and when they opened again they were glistening.

“And Ana’s eyes too,” you added gently, pressing a kiss to her temple. “When I see the ring, I see both of you.”

Natasha didn’t speak for a moment, and you felt her body press closer, her hand gripping yours like it hurt to let go. Her throat bobbed with emotion as she stared at your ring again. “You’re a sap,” she murmured, her voice cracking just a little.

You smiled. “Yeah. But only for you.”

She laughed softly, and then turned her gaze toward her own ring, letting her thumb trace the edge of the diamond, then the sapphires flanking it. “Okay, in mine. Why sapphires?”

You shifted just enough to look down at her, your voice quieter now. “Because sapphires are about truth. Loyalty. Protection. They’re ancient—some of the oldest stones on Earth. They’re strong. Fierce. Just like you.”

Natasha raised an eyebrow, that familiar smirk tugging at her lips. “So I’m carrying a gemstone legacy on my hand now?”

You leaned in, your nose brushing her hair as you chuckled. “Exactly.”

She looked back at the ring, still stunned, still somehow disbelieving. Then, with a crooked smile and a shake of her head, she muttered, “Why am I so sure I’m carrying a fortune on my finger?”

“Because you are,” you said without hesitation, your voice suddenly quieter, more reverent. “But not just in gems.”

Her smile faltered, lips trembling, and she buried her face against your chest again.

And in that moment—wrapped up together, rings gleaming, bodies intertwined and hearts unguarded—there was no past. No mission. No Red Room. No fear.

Eventually, the pull to move became too gentle to ignore. Not rushed, not urgent—just the quiet desire to be even closer. You both rose from the couch hand in hand, still wrapped in the softest silence, and made your way to the bedroom, the food already forgotten on the table. There were no words exchanged, no need. Just the unspoken rhythm between two hearts that had finally said what they’d been holding in for so long.

The shower was slow and warm, steam curling around your bodies like a cocoon. Fingers traced over skin not with hunger, but with reverence—soapy touches turning to quiet caresses, washing away the weight of everything that had come before. Water dripped from her hair as she leaned her forehead to yours, smiling in that quiet, content way she only ever did with you. You ran your hands down her back, held her close, and she just let herself be held.

When you emerged, you were both damp and glowing, wrapped in soft towels and softer smiles. Natasha pulled you into bed without hesitation, her arms instinctively curling around your waist, your legs tangled up beneath the sheets as if they’d always belonged that way.

She rested her head on your shoulder, one hand on your stomach, and you traced slow, loving circles on her spine. The only sound was the soft whirr of the fan above, and your breaths syncing into a shared lullaby. Her fingers found yours again under the blanket, twisting together, rings catching the moonlight that spilled faintly through the window.

There were no more confessions needed. No more questions. Just the weight of her against you, the smell of her damp hair, the solid truth of the rings on your fingers and the unspoken vow between your hearts.

And in that quiet, sacred stillness—wrapped in warmth, love, and the life you were building together—you both finally rested.

Not as a spy and her secret.

Not as a single mother and a girl who wandered in.

But as fiancées.

As home

[cece693]

MY JEALOUS GOD

pairing: loki laufeyson x gender neutral reader synopsis: You didn't anticipate falling into a relationship with Loki—who would?—yet while everybody knew he was the god of mischief, to you, he's your jealous god.

The first sign something is off is the smell of petrichor in the living-room. You’d left the windows shut, but there it is: the scent of rain on stone, the signature Loki’s magic often leaves behind when he appears or, more ominously, when he’s been brooding. You round the corner and find him lounging on your couch, boots on the cushions, one arm draped over the back like a cat who’s caught the red dot and now wonders what to do with it.

“Evening,” he purrs, voice all velvet knives. “Did you have fun at Stark’s little soirée?”

You shrug out of your jacket, the lining still warm from Stark Tower’s overheated ball-room, and drape it over the brocade armchair by the hearth. A faint metallic tang of repulsor exhaust still clings to the fabric—a souvenir of Tony’s annual “low-impact” fireworks display.

“Fun enough,” you say, massaging the crick in your neck. “Tony’s birthday parties feature far fewer homicidal drones these days—small mercies—but it would’ve been considerably more enjoyable if my favorite god hadn’t ghosted before dessert.”

Loki’s smile thins. “Your dance card appeared congested.”

The archaic phrasing is deliberate, a rapier flick from a prince raised on court formalities. You know exactly which name hides behind the euphemism: Peter Parker, cheeks redder than Stark’s armor, tugging at a too-tight bowtie while begging you for “just one dance.” When FRIDAY obligingly queued a crackling waltz from 1912, you’d accepted to save the poor kid from spontaneous combustion and to keep Natasha from collecting wagers on whether he’d faint.

“Peter’s pulse only spikes to dangerous levels when I’m near,” you remind Loki gently, toeing off your shoes. “Because he’s nineteen, Loki—”

“Twenty,” Loki interjects, tone glacial. “I checked the records.”

“—fine, twenty. He idolizes everyone with an Avengers passcode. Our waltz lasted 90 seconds and ended with him apologizing for stepping on my feet.”

“Yet long enough for you to laugh,” Loki murmurs, verdant eyes darkening. The words carry neither accusation nor injury—something colder, older, like frost creeping across glass. Outside the window lightning flickers, though the forecast promised clear skies.

You cross to him, letting your hand skim his shoulder until frost becomes warmth. “One laugh, one spin, no hearts stolen. You, darling, occupy all available real estate here.” You tap your sternum.

Loki’s lips curl in a silken crescent, but the flicker behind his lashes is anything but serene. Emerald irises catch the lamplight, bright as storm-lit seawater—an omen you’ve learned to read the way sailors read cloud fronts.

You plant your hands on your hips. “Loki,” you say, drawing out every syllable like a sharpening stone, “what did you do?”

He splays a hand across his chest in wounded theater. “Must you presume mischief every time I inhale?”

“Yes.”

A beat. His shoulders slump in an exaggerated sigh. “Fine. I may have redirected young Parker’s web-shooters.”

“Redirected how?”

“Up.”

“Loki!”

He waves a dismissive hand, as though you’ve merely noted the weather. “Midgardian gravity is pathetic. The boy dangled for what?—fifty two seconds before Rogers hauled him in. Perfectly safe.”

Your glare could etch glass. “And the glitter bomb that detonated on Clint?”

A flick of irritation crawls up Loki’s brow ridge—caught, again. You press on.

“I was having a perfectly calm chat with him about Lucky adjusting to farm life,” you remind him, tone sharpened to surgical steel. “Clint was mid-sentence—something about the dog finally not chasing tractors—when this puff of emerald smoke swallowed him whole. Next thing I know, he’s radioactive-pink from head to tactical boots.”

A half-smile curls Loki’s mouth, wicked as a fox in the henhouse. “Yes. I refined the pigment with bifrost dust—gives it that delightful day-glow sheen.”

“Which is now ground permanently into SHIELD-issue Kevlar.”

“An upgrade,” Loki counters. “Barton’s wardrobe needed flair.”

You pinch the bridge of your nose. “I leave you alone for two hours—”

“You left me alone with them.”

The soft snarl on “them” tells the truth: Loki never felt comfortable in the Avengers’ tower, tolerated largely because of you. Their wary stares scratch old wounds he pretends have healed. Tonight, seeing you laugh—actually laugh—with the people who once hunted him? Salt in the fracture.

You exhale and join him on the couch, prying his booted feet off the cushions. They thunk to the floor. “Talk.”

“Must we?” His gaze flicks to the ceiling, expression somewhere between tragic poet and sullen teenager. “You looked radiant. They ogled you like magpies. I grew irritated.”

“Jealous.”

He scoffs, but the word loosens him. “Yes. Jealous. There. I despise how it feels—like being chained again, only the shackles are inside my ribs.”

Your annoyance softens. You catch Loki’s chin, turning his face until emerald meets your gaze. “If you need reassurance, ask. Don’t rig equipment or hex people. Use your words.”

His lips quirk. “I have many words. Most of them sharp.”

“Then learn soft ones.” You brush your thumb across his lower lip. “Tell me the truth instead of setting glitter‐traps and letting innocent people hang from the ceiling.”

A silence stretches, broken only by the faint hum of Manhattan traffic. Finally, Loki exhales the breath he has been hoarding for pride.

“Very well. The truth: I watched you toss your head back laughing at Clint's joke and it felt like frostbite. I wanted that sound kept for me alone. I imagined Parker’s mask cracking under illusion spiders; I pictured Stark’s suit misfiring champagne across his face. I thought of a dozen vicious things, all because you smiled.”

You let the confession settle. His jealousy is a thunderstorm—beautiful from afar, dangerous when you’re underneath. But storms can be guided.

“You’re allowed to want,” you say slowly, “and I’m allowed friends. The line is harm, Loki. Pranks that bruise bodies or egos cross it.”

He leans in, voice low. “I will try. But understand: my nature is not serenity. It is wind and wildfire. I can shape it for you, but extinguish it? Never.”

You press a kiss to his forehead—just there, where the crown would sit if he still wore one. “I don’t want it extinguished. Just channeled.”

His shoulders relax, mischief dimming to ember. “Then give me a target suitable for such channeling.”

“I have one. The dishwasher’s broken again.” You gesture toward the kitchen. “If you must hex something, hex the water jets. Make them behave.”

It earns you a surprised laugh, warm and genuine. “Very well, my love. I will wage war upon domestic inconveniences.” Loki rises, cloak swirling into existence with theatrical flare. “But first—”

He snaps his fingers. A soft pop sounds behind you. You turn to see a potted hydrangea now placed in the middle of the coffee table. Petals the deepest green—the exact shade of his eyes. A peace offering formed from silent magic instead of spite.

“Soft words,” he murmurs, stepping close enough that his breath fans your ear. “And softer deeds.”

You twine your fingers with his. “Keep practicing, Mischief-Prince. I’m a patient teacher.”

He smirks. “And I, an attentive student—provided the lessons are interactive.” You roll your eyes but tug him toward the kitchen nonetheless. Behind you, the hydrangea’s petals shimmer, shedding a faint glitter that—mercifully—stays on the plant.

[sweetromanova]

Crisis Management: Part One🖤

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.

A/N: three parts coming your way and maybe a few extra if ever actually write something again!

Nothing says ‘serious business’ like a well-timed speech. 

Pepper Potts stood at the front of the briefing room, immaculate in a slate-gray suit that probably cost more than your car. Composed, poised, not a hair out of place for a woman, with such a difficult job and an even more difficult husband. With the slightest motion, just one perfectly manicured finger, she tapped the control panel. A hologram flickered to life, bold title blazing across the screen.

THE FUTURE OF HEROISM: STRATEGY & PUBLIC ALIGNMENT INITIATIVE.

You, meanwhile, were mentally rewriting your resume and wondering if your last boss would still be willing to lie for you.

“As SHIELD enters a reorganisation phase…” Pepper began. “It’s important we reinforce public trust. The Avengers Initiative is no longer just about defense, it’s also about presence. Visibility. Hope.”

Tony Stark coughed something that sounded suspiciously like branding.

“We want to reach people where they are.” Pepper continued, undeterred. “Schools. Fundraisers. Streaming platforms. We want to build a bridge between what they see on the battlefield and what they can believe in their everyday lives.”

Steve raised a hand. “This doesn’t involve dancing, does it?”

Silence, then a much quieter. “Not necessarily.”

He groaned. “That’s a yes.”

You tried to blend into the wall but it was too late. Her gaze already landed on you.

“This is our new Public Image Strategist. They’ll be working with each of you individually to build out personal brand campaigns, coordinate appearances, and help… shape the narrative.”

Tony gave a low whistle. Steve looked polite but wary. Clint squinted at you like you might be a new type of training dummy.

And then there was the empty chair.

Seat: Natasha Romanoff. Status: Unaccounted for.

Typical.

⋆⋆⋆⋆

The meeting ended with you holding a folder full of schedules, press requests and enough NDAs to gag a lawyer. You managed to corner Pepper near the elevator. “I don’t mean to complain, but you assigned a lot of focus on Nat-“

“Natasha.” She said, crisply. “Yes. She’s the priority. People are more interested in the woman, naturally and she has ZERO presence when it comes to fan or press events.”

“She didn’t even show up to the meeting.”

“She doesn’t need to. You’ll find her.”

You blinked. “Shouldn’t she find me?”

Pepper smiled, the kind that meant you were already ten seconds into a losing battle. “She’s not a ghost. Just... persuasive about her time.”

The elevator doors opened. “And when you do find her.” Pepper added, stepping in. “Be patient. And wear black. She hates color-coordination.”

⋆⋆⋆⋆

Three hours later, you found Natasha in the gym.

Of course you did. Where else do assassins go to ignore the living?

She was hitting the punching bag like it owed her money. No music. No distractions. Just the thwack of fists and the low hum of tension hanging in the air.

“Natasha Romanoff?” You tried, internally berating yourself over how pathetic you sounded.

No response.

You stepped closer, adjusting your clipboard like it was a bulletproof shield. “I’m-“

“I know who you are.” She didn’t look up.

That was all she said for a solid thirty seconds. Then, still without meeting your eyes, she added. “Turn around and walk out. You’ll get paid either way.”

You paused. “I don’t walk out.”

She finally looked at you. “Do you prefer to be carried?”

“I prefer to do my job.”

Her eyes were cool and calm and terrifyingly amused. “Cute.”

“No, seriously.” You frowned, trying not to backpedal. “I’ve been assigned to help you. And before you tell me you don’t need PR, I’ve read every major article about your past ten years, and frankly? You desperately need PR.”

That got a her attention. 

She stopped hitting the bag so you pressed on. “Look, I know you’re not a fan of this ‘smile for the cameras’ thing. But I’m not asking you to be someone else. I’m asking you to control the version of you the world sees. Because right now, the version they see is… scary.”

She walked past you slowly, grabbed a towel and wiped down her hands.

“You think I’m scary?” She asked, almost curious.

“I think you’ve trained people to be afraid of you. That’s different.” Now she looked at you directly. “I’m not scared of you.”

A faint smirked appeared on her face, like she found your bravery endearing, then she said. “Fine.”

“…Fine?”

“I’ll give you one week. One press appearance. One outfit, one event, one pathetic little video or whatever it is you people do.”

You opened your mouth but she held up a finger.

“But if I hate it, if I get ambushed by reporters, if someone asks me which lipstick I’m wearing while the world is still on fire, you’re done. And I mean done.”

You nodded, slowly. “Fair.”

She leaned in just slightly, the edge of a smile tugging at her lips.

“You really should’ve walked out.”

And then she left you standing in the gym with a clipboard, a heart that’s beating out of your chest and the very distinct sense that your life had just become infinitely harder.

⋆⋆⋆⋆

You met her outside the Tower’s west exit at exactly 9:00am the next morning.

She was already there, leaning casually against the railing like she hadn’t just scared a State Department liaison into early retirement the week before. Dressed in what could only be described as ‘civilian casual’ for someone with a kill count, she wore fitted black jeans, ankle boots that had clearly seen both combat and cocktail parties and a leather jacket that managed to make her look more dangerous than full tactical gear. No weapons in sight, but it was Natasha Romanoff. She was the weapon.

“I said one event.” She warned flatly, eyes glued to her phone as her thumb flicked across the screen.

“And this is the one. You replied, lifting your tablet in a vaguely defensive gesture. “Daytime talk show. Live audience, five-minute interview slot. You smile, you answer a few softballs and we pretend you didn’t threaten three journalists in the last six months.”

Her lips quirked, barely. “Only two. The third one tripped.”

You tilted your head. “And landed on your elbow?”

“Gravity’s unpredictable.” She said, with a shrug. “How’d you know about that, anyway?”

“It’s in your file.”

“I have a file?”

You chose not to answer. 

Mostly because you could already feel the weight of her gaze pressing into your back as you turned and started walking. She didn’t follow immediately. She didn’t need to. You felt her assessing you, like she was running mental simulations of how fast she could incapacitate you, how much effort it would take, whether you were worth the paperwork.

You weren’t easily shaken. You’d sat across from CEOs with billion-dollar egos and reporters with blood in their eyes. But Natasha was something else. She didn’t need attention. She didn’t need to talk big. She existed with the unnerving confidence of someone who could take apart your entire day and maybe your spine, without raising her voice.

Still, you walked ahead with purpose, reminding yourself with every step that you were in charge of this assignment. You had the schedule, the briefing notes and the earpiece with a direct line to PR. She just had the ability to kill you with a paperclip.

Balance.

⋆⋆⋆⋆

The car ride was quiet.

Not peaceful quiet, where you watch the world pass by outside the window. The kind of loaded quiet where you waited and waited and waited to see who’s going to crack first. Probably the Russian assassin. 

She sat across from you in the back of the sleek black SUV, legs crossed, gaze angled toward the window. Not watching anything in particular, just staring out like the city bored her. Like you bored her.

You risked a glance. Her profile was all clean edges and shadowed cheekbones, the kind of stillness that didn’t come naturally. It was trained, learned in silence. Perfected in sniper nests and interrogation rooms. She was beautiful, yes but in the way it was only meant to be observed from a distance.

It said ‘Look. Don’t touch.’

“So…” You said, the word awkward and brittle in the air. “Any topics you want to avoid during the interview?”

Her eyes slid to you, slow and flat. “Do I look like I do small talk?”

“You look like someone who’d rather chew glass than talk about childhood pets.”

That earned a flicker, just the slightest tilt of her head. “You think I had pets?”

You considered her. “I think you probably had to improvise. Like… a stolen lizard. Maybe some kind of Russian forest spider.

She actually laughed. Low, short, like it surprised even her. 

“Stolen lizard.” She said, repeating it like she wasn’t sure whether to be amused or vaguely insulted. “That’s new.”

“I try.”

The silence that followed wasn’t exactly friendly but it had softened around the edges. Not warm but not actively dangerous.

You marked it as progress, small but it counts. The kind you didn’t take for granted when your travel companion had a kill count higher than you could count on your fingers and a fan club in the intelligence community.

⋆⋆⋆⋆

The talk show set was chaos. Controlled chaos technically but only just. Lights blazed overhead, camera rigs swung dangerously close to expensive haircuts and nervous interns sprinted in every direction, clutching clipboards like life rafts. Someone in a headset was shouting about a broken teleprompter. Someone else was crying over coffee spilled on a celebrity dog.

Natasha surveyed it like it was a war zone.

You watched her automatically scan for exits, track movements in reflections, clock every potential threat with surgical precision. You half expected her to start marking civilians and calculating blast radius. 

Leaning slightly closer, you said quietly. “No one here’s going to attack you.”

Her eyes didn’t leave the chaos. “You think that matters?”

You blinked. “You’re not on a mission.”

She didn’t miss a beat. “I’m always on a mission.”

You exhaled slowly and adjusted the lapel of your blazer. “Alright. Well. Mission: Public Relations is go. I’ll be right off-camera if you need extraction.”

She finally looked at you. That assessing stare again. “You’re good at this.” She said.

You raised a brow. “You sound surprised.”

“I’m not.” A pause. “I just don’t think you’ve had someone like me before.”

You smiled, tight but genuine. “You mean someone who growls at assistants and refuses to wear anything not black?”

“I mean someone who doesn’t care if people like her.”

You held her gaze. “That’s fine. I don’t need you to be liked. I just need you to be understood.”

That made her pause. Her expression didn’t change much but something shifted. A faint narrowing of her eyes. She looked at you like you’d just said something dangerous or useful.

“Careful.” She murmured. “You keep talking like that, I might start believing you.”

And just like that, you were off-balance again. Because you had no idea if that was a threat, a joke or something else entirely.

⋆⋆⋆⋆

“Okay, people!” The host swept into the green room in a cloud of aftershave, hairspray and effortless charisma. “Where’s my Widow? Is she here? Am I safe? Do I need to wear kevlar?”

You turned just in time to see Natasha’s expression flatten.

“This is him.” You said under your breath, trying to sound encouraging. “Play nice. He’s basically America’s favourite golden retriever personified.”

The host beamed and extended a hand to Natasha. “You must be the famously terrifying Natasha Romanoff. Wow. You’re even more intimidating in person. This is fun already.”

She stared at his hand like it had insulted her ancestors. 

Then, very slowly, shook it.

He laughed, nervously. “God, I love that. That vibe. So intense. I mean, what an energy. I’m sweating a little. Are you sweating? It’s hot in here, right? I’m sweating.”

“No.” Natasha deadpanned.

Silence.

You coughed into your sleeve to hide a laugh.

The host pressed on, undeterred. “Okay, okay, we’re gonna have a great time. Just a short segment! Little chat, couple light questions, maybe a joke or two. Nothing deep, nothing classified. Sound good?”

Natasha tilted her head. “I don't really do jokes.”

He pointed at her like she’d just made one. “That’s so good. You’re hilarious. This is gonna kill.”

She didn’t blink.

You gave her a subtle nudge toward the stage. “Smile. Or at least don’t stab him, please.”

⋆⋆⋆⋆

The interview itself went surprisingly well.

There was only one hiccup, if you could call it that, when the host asked about international diplomacy and Natasha, deadpan as ever, replied. “I don’t believe in it. Some people just need to be punched.”

There was a half-second of stunned silence before the host threw his head back laughing. “Oh my god, same!”

The audience roared. Social media exploded in real time. Within minutes, the clip had been turned into a dozen GIFs. X was already calling it ‘iconic’, ‘big mood’ and ‘girlboss energy’.

From your place just off-camera, you watched her deliver the rest of the interview with practiced stillness, the perfect counterbalance to the host’s bouncing enthusiasm.

She was sleek, calm, perfectly collected. Every answer tight and controlled. Every joke or near-joke landing better than it had any right to. You tried not to feel the flush of something dangerously close to admiration. 

Once the cameras cute, she ignored the host’s grateful thanks and his outstretched hand. Instead she walked towards you, expression unreadable.

“Well?” She asked, almost looking for validation.

You crossed your arms. “You survived. No casualties. Minimal PR fallout. The internet is liking you. Against all odds.”

“I still might punch the host later.” She adjusted her jacket. “But for now… not terrible. Also, liking?”

“Liking. We have work to do to make it loving.” You huffed a laugh, more relieved than you’d admit. “But I’ll take ‘not terrible’ as a win.”

She gave you a sidelong glance. “Don’t let it go to your head.”

“I wouldn’t dare.”

But the moment lingered, her posture a little looser, the danger less immediate. And for the first time since this assignment started, you wondered if she was letting her guard down or if she just wanted you to think she was.

Either way, you counted it as another mark of progress.

⋆⋆⋆⋆

Back in the car, she didn’t sit across from you this time. She sat beside you.

Close enough that her shoulder nearly brushed yours every time the car turned, close enough that you were suddenly hyper aware of your own breathing.

For a while, the city passed in silence, all blurring light, traffic hum and the occasional shout from a sidewalk. She said nothing, but you could feel her thinking.

Then, without looking at you, she spoke. “You really think I can be understood?”

Her voice was low like she wasn’t sure she believed in the question, let alone the answer.

You turned toward her, a soft smile on your face. You looked at the flicker behind her eyes that told you the question mattered more than she wanted it to.

“I think you’ve spent so long surviving that you forgot what it feels like to be someone. Not just escape someone.”

You saw it her falter slightly. Not on her face, she was too good for that. But in the way her gaze didn’t shift. In the way her breathing changed, just slightly.

She didn’t respond. Just turned her head back toward the window. “That was deep.” She murmured, making you huff out a laugh.

“Maybe your intense energy is rubbing off on me.” 

“Maybe.” She smirked, letting the silence fill the car again. But this time, she was the one stealing glances, watching your hands twitch on your lap, running up and down paperwork and carving out the outline of your phone like they were itching to pick it up. You kind of were, leaving Tony Stark in charge of a ‘What I Eat In A Day’ was enough to raise your blood pressure.

⋆⋆⋆⋆

The next day was officially ‘TikTok Bootcamp’.

The Avengers barely understood what that meant but apparently it was mandatory now.

Steve was standing near the set, eyeing the assortment of ring lights, tripods, and questionable props like they might explode. ““I’m sorry, what exactly are we doing?” He asked, dead serious as Bucky moved closer to him, almost using his body as a Shield.

“TikTok.” You said, forcing a smile that might have come off as a grimace. “It’s short-form video. Builds relatability. Everyone’s doing it. You’re Avengers, not relics.”

“I’d count those two super-grandpa’s as relics.” Tony, lounging in his trademark sweatpants and scrolling on his phone, laughed. “It’s basically the new battlefield. Less bullets, more followers. And memes.”

Clint was stretching like he was about to run a marathon. “I’m gonna blow out a knee. Sam owes me twenty bucks if I get more views than him.”

Sam smirked without missing a beat. “Dude, my last dance hit 2.4 million.”

Natasha leaned against the wall, arms crossed, looking like she was mentally preparing to file a formal complaint. “I’m not doing this.” She said, flatly and with a hint of finality.

You resisted the urge to roll your eyes. “Natasha, we agreed on five public engagement hours this week. This counts.”

“Dancing is not engagement.”

“It’s literally the most viewed content format on the planet.”

She tilted her head, unimpressed. “I don’t care.”

You raised your eyebrows. “Well, I do.”

That got her attention, her eyes sparked up like she’d been offered a challenge that only she could win.

“Look.” You sighed, at the group of adults stood around you. “Here’s the deal. We’re keeping it simple. No dances with more than six moves max. I’ll show, you copy. You don’t have to smile or enjoy it. Just follow.”

She gave you a slow once-over. “Is this painful for you?

“What?”

“Giving orders and not being obeyed.”

You grit your teeth. “No, what’s painful is organising this entire thing and having you stand there like a gothic gargoyle of sabotage.”

Clint wheezed from the couch. “Did she just call Nat a gargoyle?”

Steve, bless him, tried to intervene. “Hey, maybe we can just-“

“You-” You jabbed a finger at Natasha, ignoring Steve. “-are contractually required to participate.”

“And you-” She leaned in, voice low and wickedly calm “-are way more fun to watch when you’re a little off balance.”

You froze. The smug glint in her eye told you she’d done it on purpose.

Behind you, Tony muttered. “This is what the kids call a slow burn-“

“I got one of those from a chemical in Wakanda ones. I went four days before it blistered.” Bucky nonchalantly added, pointing out a little scar on the side of his elbow as Steve comforted him with a pat on the back. You had one thought running through your head . What the hell is going on right now?

“Ok.” You breathed. “Let’s just get this over with.”

Ten minutes later, Natasha sat across from you like she was prepping for a tactical briefing, arms crossed, black hoodie pulled over a tank top, expression blank enough to scare a mirror.

“Okay.” You said, adjusting the camera. “Simple concept. I play you popular TikTok songs. You give your first reaction. Honest but light.”

She said nothing. Just stared at the tablet like it had insulted her ancestors. 

“Can you take that off?”

“My hoodie?”

“Yeah.”

Why?”

“You look less angry with your arms out.”

“You just want to see my arms.” She smirked but beying your order.

“No, I don’t but the fans will. So let’s get this done.”

You hit play on the first song ‘Good Luck Babe’.

Natasha listened with her usual poker face. Then, after a few seconds, she scoffed softly.

“Why does she keep talking about kissing men in bars all the time?” She grimaced. “Also I hate when people call each other ‘babe.’ I’m not a pig, thank you very much. This song is a waste of my time, next!”

You blinked, caught off guard by how blunt she was. “Natasha, can we maybe dial it back a bit?” 

“You wanted my honest reaction.”

“We want snarky, not savage.” You said, half-laughing.

She rolled her eyes. “Snark’s just polite savage.”

You sighed and tapped the tablet. “Okay, next we have ‘Espresso’.”

Fifteen seconds in, Natasha tilted her head. “Is this a real song or a torture device?”

You sighed. “Natasha-"

“Because I’ve interrogated people to better soundtracks. Actually, I’ve been tortured to better music.”

You paused the music. “Let’s maybe try a compliment sandwich, okay? Snark in the middle. Praise on either side.”

She blinked slowly. “That’s a real thing?”

“It’s literally in your media training.”

“I thought that was a threat.”

You pinched the bridge of your nose. “Next one.” Your manicured finger hits play on ‘Break My Soul’.

The beat dropped on a club remix that had racked up millions of views. Natasha raised an unimpressed brow. “Did the producer get electrocuted halfway through?”

You snorted, despite yourself. “Okay. That’s not a compliment but it is kind of funny.”

“I’m adapting.”

You hit pause. “Could you just… say one nice thing? Anything.”

She pretended to think. “They… finished the song.”

“Natasha. It’s literally Beyonce, if you hate on her then even I can’t save you.”

She exhaled, long-suffering. “Fine. She has a great body.”

“I- What?”

“Look at her body.” Natasha’s tone dropped to a mock-serious lecture, eyes narrowing like a professor about to school you.

“Look, she’s strong. No wasted movement, curves where they need to be.” Natasha’s voice dropped just a little, a slow smirk creeping in. “And that ass, it’s basically a weapon.”

You blinked, caught somewhere between admiration and embarrassment. “Okay, okay, I get it.” You held up your hands, cheeks heating. “Once again, let’s dial it back!”

Natasha smirked, clearly enjoying your discomfort. “Oh, I’m just getting started.”

“Next is ‘Obsessed’, it’s a song about her boyfriend’s ex.”

“Weird thing to sing about but ok.” You click play and Olivia Rodrigo comes to life, Natasha listening intently.

“Ok… the song is garbage-“

“Natasha!”

“But I’m kind of impressed. Her recon would be very good, she’d be a decent agent with some training.”

“I’m sorry, what-“

“She has good instincts.” She shrugs, repeating herself. “Next.”

“Ok last one, we have Billie Eilish.” You click play on ‘Birds of a Feather’ and watch something in her face change for the first time.

She’s quiet for a long moment, like she’s analysing the lyrics. “I like this, it reminds me of Yelena.” Her voice is barely above a whisper.

“Your sister?”

“Yeah.” She confirms. “Can we have another one?”

“Sure. You want to pick?” You hand her the phone and watch her scroll for a second before she clicks on ‘Lunch’.

It just hits the chorus when Natasha’s eyes narrowed slightly, a slow smirk spreading across her face.

“Oh.” She said, deliberately slow. “’I could eat that girl for lunch.’” 

You blinked, suddenly aware of the way she was looking at you. “As she-“

Your throat went dry. “Okay, maybe stop quoting now.” 

She raised an eyebrow. “Why? I’m really thinking about the lyrics.”

“I need to keep this PG.” You excuse, heat crept up your neck.

Natasha’s smirk deepened.  “I like this one too.”

“You’re impossible.”

⋆⋆⋆⋆

An hour later, the videos are mostly edited and the first lot have been launched into the black hole that they call the internet. The team are gathered around, scrolling through their phones and reacting to the avalanche of thirst tweets and comments.

Tony was the first to burst out laughing. “Oh man, check this out ‘I’d let Steve split me in half like a pistachio!’ That’s hilarious.”

Clint snorted. “Someone said they want to use ‘Natasha’s thighs as earmuffs’.”

“It could be arranged.” Natasha shrugs, smirking as she looks to you out of the corner of her eye.

“What is girl boss and why do I have it?” Wanda questions, clearly enjoying making new internet friends.

Sam chuckled, shaking his head. “Listen to this! ‘I don’t know who’s thirstier, the internet or Nat herself’.”

“I’m not thirsty. What-“

“It means hor-“

“Ok, that’s enough for one day.” You interrupt with anxious smile, getting up to collect your things. Natasha’s gaze sharpened slightly but she didn’t say more.

Tony swiped to another comment. “Oh, here. ’Is it just me or is the tension here chef’s kiss?’ On Nat’s video. You two are getting shipped already.”

“Shipped?”

“Where are they going?”

“Why are they kissing a chef?”

“I don’t like boats.”

You laughed at their comments, brushing it off but the colour in your cheeks showed Natasha there was something more. “Tony, what is shipped?”

“Listen guys, maybe it’s time to put the phones down, yeah?” You attempt but Tony has other ideas.

“Urban dictionary says to ship, ‘meaning that you either want them to become an item, kiss or enter into a romantic/sexual relationship or all of the above’.”

“Oh.”

“The internet loves to match-make…” You try to ease the tension as the rooms falls silent.

“Well I did call it a slow burn.”

“I still don’t understand what that is.”

“Don’t worry about it.” You half smile to Steve. “Seriously, stop with the comments. My team will be going through it, deleting hate comments so please don’t reply to any of those.”

“Who’d hate on us?” Sam scoffs, at the same time as Clint says.

“‘Sam’s the only Avenger, who needs a step stool to hang with Steve and Bucky’.” The room dissolves into light laughter and you felt a little less flustered. But you can still feel Natasha’s eyes on you, watching you cautiously from her place on the couch.

“For the third and final time, I’m leaving.” You declare. “Remember no replies to hate comments. That means you Sam-“

“They’re saying I’m 5ft 4!”

“It will be deleted when you refresh the page, my team is good.” You assure. “Get some rest guys.”

The team bid you goodnight, lowering their phones for only a second as you leave the room before bringing them back up, to doom scroll the endless reactions. Just as the elevator doors close, you hear Bucky’s confused tone.

“What’s a bussy?”

[incorrectquotesmcu]

Steve: Why is Y/N crying?

Tony: They're drunk and Nat just told them that she couldn’t be their girlfriend.

Steve: Has anyone told them that she’s their wife?

Clint: Nah, we’re having too much fun.

[yourauthorjen]

LOVE ME IN THE QUIET - joaquin torres

(requests open)

masterlist

| synopsis: | it was supposed to be forbidden, yet everytime you and joaquin passed each other in the avengers base and met eyes, it ended with the sweet taste of his lips on yours

| includes: | joaquin x reader, forbidden love, sneaking around, fluff, steamy, sam being a big old grump, angst, sexual tension + themes, 14+, use of y/n

| word count: | 2.9k

| a/n: | i truly love a good old steamy forbidden romance but this is probably gonna be the spicest thing i’ve written. i've been dying to write a domestic joaquin and i wanna know your thoughts on this.

KEEPING IT PROFESSIONAL was hard to do when doe eyed Joaquin Torres wandered into the kitchen, curls sticking up in different directions, sweatpants hanging off his hips, and a white t-shirt clinging onto his broad shoulders.

You almost choked on your Rainbow Pebbles, which had suddenly become very unappetizing compared to the mouthwatering sight of Joaquin’s biceps.

Your eyes lingered on his frame as he threw the refrigerator door open and pulled out a carton of milk, his arms flexing with each movement— which was highly unfair seeing that your hair was tossed into a messy braid and your oversized shirt swallowed half of your body.

However, Sam had made it crystal clear that your feelings towards Joaquin would be stomped on with a pile of dusty old folders sitting in his office cabinet waiting to be sorted. So, with no other choice you were left to slamming your feelings into a box, wrapping it in duct tape, and pretending that your heart didn’t skip several beats every time Joaquin so much as breathed in your direction.

You crunched on a mouthful of Rainbow Pebbles, trying to focus on literally anything else other than the hot oblivious heathen leaning against the counter nursing his cup of coffee.

Somehow, Joaquin still caught your eye mid-sip, his lips quirking into that devastatingly soft, boyish smile that had no business being aimed directly at you.

“Morning,” he said, voice low and raspy from sleep.

You blinked twice. Once to clear your head, and the other to find your voice. "Good morning."

He ruffled his messy curls with one hand, before setting his coffee cup down and lazily stretching his arms over his head, shirt riding up just enough to flash a sliver of golden skin. "You’re up early," he said, his lips twitching.

You averted your eyes, staring down at your colourful bowl of milk. "Couldn't sleep," you mumbled, absentmindedly stirring your spoon around.

"Oh."

You cleared your throat, swallowing the last dregs of cereal in your bowl before standing up and walking to the dishwasher and dumping your silverware into the sink. "I'll be in the training room," you drawled turning to face him, "And Sam shouldn't be awake until 11."

Joaquin straightened up and sauntered over to where you were standing, the air shifting with a desperate need for his lips to be against yours, and the scent of pine and spice radiating off his body.

You backed up slightly, bumping into the edge of the counter behind you, heart hammering against your ribs. He wasn’t even trying to be subtle—he never was—and that mischievous glint in his eye told you he knew exactly what he was doing.

He leaned in, one hand braced against the counter near your hip, sandwiching you in between his chest and the marble tile with that lazy, easy confidence that made your knees feel like jelly. Your chest pounded painfully as you fought the urge to reach out, to curl your fingers into the soft fabric of his t-shirt and just pull.

"Training room?" he asked his voice rough.

You nodded, lifting your chin defiantly. "Unless you want to join me?"

He trailed a hand down your arm before settling tightly on your waist, "Is that your way of asking for us to hang out?"

Your cheeks burned and you slipped away from his grasp. "Don’t flatter yourself, Torres. I'm gonna change, if you need me come to the training room to find me."

You spun on your heel and marched towards your room not daring to turn back around.

And like you had promised, you had changed into a two piece, now pacing anxiously trying to get your heart rate back to something remotely normal. You busied yourself with a punching bag, repeatedly hitting the battered bag over and over again until you gave up because a specific someone had infiltrated your concentration to the point you were punching air.

It was still early, meaning most of the team was still in bed trying to get as much rest as they could before Sam began handing out orders at the team briefing like party favours.

You were so caught up with the flood of thoughts rushing through your head you didn't even hear the door open until you saw Joaquin, hair mussed, still wearing the same loose sweatpants and tight fitting shirt in the reflection of the mirror.

You dropped your fists, chest rising and falling.

"I'm surprised you came."

Joaquin raised an eyebrow, stepping forward, meeting you halfway. "Why wouldn't I?"

You shrugged, tossing your training gloves to the ground. "One day you and I are gonna get caught and Sam's gonna send us both to the North Pole."

His lips fell into an amused smile as he snaked an arm around your waist, pulling your body flush against his.

“But it'll be worth it." he whispered, leaning in close enough that you could count the freckles on his face.

And then he kissed you.

It wasn’t careful or gentle like it usually was—it was messy and fast, all teeth and tongues and weeks of bottled-up tension spilling over. His hands tightened around your hips, and you gasped into his mouth, fingers threading into the soft curls at the nape of his neck.

You stumbled backward until your shoulders hit the padded wall, Joaquin chasing after you like he couldn’t stand even an inch of space between you.

A whimper escaped your mouth as he nipped at your bottom lip, fingers digging into his hair as he pinned you against the wall, both of you kissing each other until you were gasping for breath. Giddy and dazed, he buried his nose into the crook of your neck where he trailed sloppy kisses across you collarbone, then across your jawline, to the point the stubborn ache in your stomach intensified ten fold.

You squeezed your eyes shut as your hands trailed to the hem of his shirt, and before you knew it his lips were on yours again, your own lips parting greedily against his. Any scattered thought that had been rushing through your head before bounced right out as you felt his muscles contract under your fingertips, and as you kissed him harder you lost sense of time, place and everything except for the sweet taste of his mouth.

Though the sound of lumbering footsteps snapped you out of your drunken haze as you pulled away from Joaquin, hearing a small grumble outside the door.

“—too damn early to be— what the heck?”

Your eyes widened as you pulled away from Joaquin, face burning when you realized how far up his shirt your hands had gotten, and the intentional way you’d twisted the fabric to the point you were seconds away from yanking it off his head.

Joaquin looks as alarmed as you were before you dragged him into the washroom tucked into the corner of the training room. The two of you ducked inside, shutting the door gently behind you just as the gym door creaked open.

“I swear to god,” a voice— Sam’s voice muttered, “If Clint doesn’t start picking his shit up I’m banning him from the training room forever.”

You pressed yourself tigher against the bathroom wall, Joaquin practically on top of you, both of you holding your breath as Sam’s voice floated through.

You felt Joaquin’s chest shaking lightly against yours—he was laughing silently, the absolute menace—and you had to bite your lip to keep from making any sound.

When Sam finally gave up and left, the door slamming shut behind him, you both sagged in relief.

“Well that was a close call,” he said grinning his face just a few feet away from yours, mischief burning in his eyes.

“Too close,” you hissed back, smacking his chest lightly.

He smirked as he caught your hand in his, lacing your fingers together. “So…”

You rolled your eyes but you stood on your tiptoes pressing your lips against his. He groaned as you wrapped your arms around his, pulling tighter.

"You're gonna kill me," he murmured into your mouth as you swallowed him with kisses.

"Well don't drop dead on me Sergeant, or how am I supposed to explain it to Sam?” you said hands finding the edge of his T-shirt again.

He just made a noise, and before you could process he picked you up in one swift motion putting you onto the counter of the sink. With no place for your legs to go you wrapped them around his waist, a small groan escaping his mouth when you wound your arms around his neck pulling him closer.

Twenty minutes later, the two of you stumbled out of the training room, lips swollen and eyes heavy. You didn���t need a mirror to know you looked like an absolute mess. Which was why a you immediately made a beeline for your room, hoping to change before anyone spotted you.

Joaquin however, didn’t seem to much in a rush, instead he blew you a kiss and squeezed your hand before he walked away with ease.

You rolled your eyes at his cockiness. He was for sure gonna get the two of you caught soon.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

Cursing softly underneath your breath you dug through your closet trying to find a suitable hoodie that covered the faint pink marks blooming along your neck—souvenirs from Joaquin’s thoroughly distracting mouth.

Begrudgingly you tugged on a grey hoodie, double— then triple checking, to ensure that the fabric covered everything. And when you walked into the briefing room where Joaquin and Peter were already waiting, Joaquin smirking as he eyed you up and down.

You shot him a warning look taking a seat beside him— no games this time. You didn’t need Sam’s god forsaken rule to be brought up and taped to your forehead again. Still, it didn’t stop Joaquin from reaching out and brushing the tips of his fingers against your pinky under the table.

You stiffened, glaring at him, but he just smiled innocently, not even a little sorry.

When you turned slightly to nudge him with your elbow, Joaquin caught your hand properly, giving it a teasing squeeze. You had to bite back a giggle, yanking your hand away, but not before he traced a slow, featherlight line across your wrist with his thumb.

As the door creaked open and the other members of the team began slowly filing in, all cradling a cup of coffee in their hands, you and Joaquin both snapped into a somewhat professional manner— back straight and eyes away from each other.

When Sam passed by you couldn’t help but tense, as he paused beside the two of you eyes narrowing slightly. You forced your lips into a polite smile, trying not to fidget with your fingers as he opened his mouth.

But before he could say anything, Yelena stormed into the room, the blonde throwing the door open so hard it bounced against the wall.

“Phew,” she announced loudly, fanning herself dramatically. “Who leaked all the testosterone in here?”

You and Joaquin stiffened as every pair of eyes turned toward Yelena.

A warmth began to bloom up your neck as you tried not to look at Joaquin, panic building in your stomach as you chewed nervously on your lower lip.

Sam furrowed his brow. “What testosterone?”

Yelena looked between you and Joaquin—lingering a little too long on your flushed cheeks and Joaquin’s guilty smile—then shook her head.

“Never mind,” she said sweetly, sliding into a chair, “Sorry I’m late.”

Sam scowled before pointing to the screen behind him. “Okay then, I guess we’ll start. We’ve got a lot to cover.”

The briefing started, Sam talking through mission objectives, logistics, intel. You tried your hardest to focus, scribbling notes furiously, avoiding even looking at Joaquin.

Everything was going to be fine. You tried to assure yourself, but it wasn’t until Sam looked up from his tablet and began reading out partners for the next mission that things started to go bad.

“Alright. I’m assigning partners for the missions next week. Joaquin, you’re with Yelena. Y/N, you’re with Peter.”

Joaquin scowled, visibly dissapointed at the partnering.

“You’ve got a problem with that Torres?” Sam asked casually, though the suspicious look on his face said otherwise.

You elbowed Joaquin, as he opened his mouth. “No he doesn’t have a problem with that, right Joaquin,” you cut in loudly, sending him a dirty look.

He looked between you and then Sam and nodded meekly. “Nope, no problem with that, I can work with Yelena.”

Sam didn’t look convinced and slammed both his palms down onto the table as he looked between the two of you. “Does someone wanna tell me what the hell is going on between these two?”

You flinched slightly, the room going so silent you could hear Peter awkwardly fidgeting two seats down.

You opened your mouth to say something— anything— but the words caught in your throat. Your head went blank and the air in your lungs seemed to have rushed out of the room as you sunk into your seat.

Joaquin shifted nervously beside you, his knee bumping yours.

And that tiny movement— the little nervous tic was all it took.

From the other side of the room, Yelena huffed loudly and muttered under her breath,“Please, it’s obvious. They’re sleeping together.”

You choked on your own spit eyes wide as saucers, as Joaquin visibly flinched beside you.

You were gonna kill Yelena.

Sam on the other hand, his face went utterly, frighteningly blank.

“Excuse me?” Sam said slowly, voice low and dangerous, like a storm about to hit.

Yelena shrugged unapologetically. “What? I’m just saying what we’re all thinking. Please, look at them. He’s basically vibrating out of his seat.”

Scott coughed to hide a laugh. Peter turned bright red. Clint and Kate didn’t even bother hiding his huge, shit-eating grin.

Sam turned back to you and Joaquin, crossing his arms, tapping his foot.

“Well?” he demanded.

Joaquin swallowed hard, and before you could stop him, blurted, “We’re… together.”

You groaned, dropping your forehead onto the table with a loud thunk.

Sam pinched the bridge of his nose like he was physically in pain. “I knew it. I knew you two were sneaking around like a couple of damn teenagers! I just didn’t have enough fucking evidence AND I haven’t had maintenance fix the cameras yet.”

“We’re not teenagers,” you mumbled into the table, mortified beyond belief.

Sam slammed a hand down again. “OUT! Everybody OUT except Dumb and Dumber over here!”

They didn’t need telling twice, because as soon as the words left Sam’s mouth, chairs scraped back, papers flew everywhere, and the entire team bolted out the door.

Once it was just the three of you, Sam rounded on you and Joaquin, his face red and his veins bulging. “I specifically said none of this,” he thundered. “I made one rule and now what? You’re sneaking around making googly eyes and banging each other in the training room?”

You opened your mouth, but all that came out was a strangled sound.

Sam turned even redder as he reeled on you, “So you have been fucking in the training room! It was the two of you this morning!”

“It’s not— it’s not affecting the team,” you sputtered, “We’re being professional about it. It’s not my fault that I was a horny virgin locked in a H.Y.D.R.A base for half my life.”

“We’re being careful,” Joaquin said rubbing the back of his neck.

Sam threw his hands in the air. “Oh yeah? Real careful,” he snapped, gesturing wildly. “She’s sitting there wearing a freaking hoodie in July trying to hide a whole damn crime scene!”

You sank lower in your seat, mortified.

“It’s not a crime scene,” you muttered weakly.

Sam pointed at you pacing back and fourth. “You! Stop enabling him!” He then pointed at Joaquin. “You! Keep it in your pants!”

Just as you were about to protest the door to the briefing room crashed open, and the rest of the team spilled in. Yelena, Kate, Scott, Peter, and Clint, all piled on top of each other in a heap, having clearly been eavesdropping.

Peter groaned from the bottom of the pile. “Ow—Scott, your elbow—”

Clint shoved Kate off him. “I told you this was a bad idea!”

Scott grinned up at Sam sheepishly. “We were just… uh… making sure no one needed backup.”

Sam looked like he was about to have an aneurysm.

“You’re ALL on trash duty,” he barked, jabbing a finger toward the door. “I don’t care if you’re Avengers, I don’t care if you’ve saved the world—this is janitorial punishment now! You’re cleaning every quinjet, every training room, every bathroom, until further notice.”

The collective groan from the heap of eavesdroppers was almost enough to make you feel bad. Almost.

Sam spun back to you and Joaquin. “And if see you two as much as kissing, I will send each of you to a different continent. So keep it together.”

Sam let out the longest, most exhausted sigh of his life and stomped out of the room, muttering something about retirement and running a circus instead of a team of Avengers.

You groaned as the door swung shut and Clint and Kate both burst into loud cackles as Peter patted you on the shoulder.

You collapsed next to Joaquin burying your face into his chest as he let out a relieved sigh. “If I were you,” Scott said sympathetically, “I would’ve had Ant-Thony eat me.”

“Gee. thanks Scott,” you grumbled, “That really makes me feel a lot better.”

You then turned to look at Joaquin. “I told you we’d get caught and yet you’re still sitting here looking optimistic as fuck.”

Joaquin shrugged, giving you that same devastatingly crooked grin that got you into this mess in the first place. “Well maybe ‘cause it was always worth it.”

[luvlyycy]

calmly thinking abt clint eating pussy. 🙇🏽‍♀️

he's sloppy. and loud.

his hands are pushing your thighs open as he places kisses on your swollen clit. tongue dipping into your hole to lick up your juices before spelling his name across your bud.

he has his eyes stuck on you, dark and you can't tell but he's smiling. he moves one hand from your thigh to push two fingers past the restraints of your tight cunt. curling them upwards right into that particular spot— you moan out his name, eyes rolling into the back of your skull as your hands hook into his long hair.

he laughs into your pussy, face drenched— "ya like that, baby?" and you feverishly nod. you pull at his hair to rub your cunt over his face, fat pussy lips rubbing against his cheeks and your clit being bumped against his nose.

he lets his body be your pleasure device, eyes rolling into the back of his head as he does so. hump, hump, squelch, squelch.

"mmnn.. i'm g'nna cum.. clint..— " he simply hums, using his two fingers to fuck in and out of you at a rapid pace— good hands and all that . . .

your legs shake around his head, long strands of blonde hair tickling your inner thighs as you lock them around his head. he lets you ride it out, feeling the soft trickle of squirt running down from your clit and onto his open mouth— he almost cums right then and there.

he's winning the pussy eating contest !

link for all ur troubles ! 🙇🏽‍♀️🙇🏽‍♀️

[urdreamydoodles]

MARVEL COMICS CHARACTERS x FEM!READER

Marvel Comics Characters Realizing They Are Jealous

Characters: Peter Parker, Tony Stark, Steve Rogers, Thor, Loki, Clint Barton, Natasha Romanoff, Bucky Barnes, Matthew Murdock, Frank Castle, Marc Spector, Johnny Storm, Reed Richards, Felicia Hardy, Stephen Strange, Namor, Johnny Blaze, Eddie Brock / Venom, T'Challa & Elektra Natchios

Peter Parker aka. Spider-Man

- Peter Parker has always told himself he’s not the jealous type. He knows better. He’s seen what obsession does to a person, how it corrodes and twists and turns something good into something dark. He swore he’d never be that guy, the one who grips too tight, who loses sight of what matters. And yet, as he watches some stranger lean in close, flashing a smile that’s just a little too confident, he feels it coil inside him—hot, sharp, unexpected.

- His fingers twitch, and he clenches his fists like he’s bracing for a fight, even though there’s no real battle here. Just words, just glances, just you laughing at something someone else said. And Peter—who has fought gods and monsters, who has lost more than he ever thought he could survive—finds himself standing frozen, drowning in something far more terrifying than any villain.

- He tries to be rational. Tries to remind himself that you’re not his, that he has no right to this feeling clawing at his ribs. But then your head tilts, your lips part in that familiar, effortless smile, and it hits him like a fist to the gut: he wants to be the reason you smile like that. He wants to be the only one.

- The moment passes, the stranger moves on, and Peter still can’t breathe right. He should let it go, should shake it off, but when you turn to him, bright-eyed and oblivious to the war raging in his chest, all he can do is force a grin and hope you don’t notice the way his voice strains when he speaks.

- Later, alone in his room, he presses his forehead against his hand and exhales shakily. He’s in trouble. So much trouble. Because Peter Parker? He’s never been good at letting things go. And now, he doesn’t think he can let you go, either.

Tony Stark aka. Iron Man

- Tony Stark doesn’t get jealous. That’s what he tells himself, anyway. He’s been around the block too many times, seen too many people come and go, to let something as petty as jealousy get under his skin. He’s Tony Stark. He’s seen it all. So when he spots some smooth-talking nobody leaning into your space, flashing that kind of grin he perfected years ago, he should laugh it off. Should.

- But he doesn’t. Instead, there’s a flicker of something sharp and ugly curling in his chest, something possessive and unfamiliar. It’s ridiculous, really. He could have anyone, could fill a room with people hanging onto his every word, but none of them matter. Not the way you do.

- He swirls the whiskey in his glass, eyes narrowing as he watches the way you tilt your head, the way your lips quirk in amusement. It’s harmless, he tells himself. You’re just being polite. But his jaw tightens all the same, and suddenly, the ice in his drink isn’t the only thing cold in the room.

- He doesn’t make a scene. No, Tony Stark never needs to. Instead, he waits until you’re alone, leans in with a smirk that’s just a little too sharp, and says, “Didn’t know you had a thing for guys who wear cheap cologne.” You roll your eyes, laughing, but there’s something in his voice that makes you pause. Something raw beneath the bravado.

- Later, when you’re gone, Tony leans back against his chair, rubbing a hand down his face. Damn it. He wasn’t supposed to feel this way. But now that he does, now that he’s seen what it would be like to lose your attention, he knows one thing for certain—he’s not going to let that happen again.

Steve Rogers aka. Captain America

- Steve Rogers likes to believe he’s patient. He’s fought wars, survived decades of loss, and carried burdens most men would crumble under. He’s not impulsive. Not reckless. He’s better than that. Or at least, he thought he was—until now.

- The sight of someone else standing too close to you, their voice too low, their gaze lingering just a second too long—it sparks something in him, something old and primal and dangerous. His fingers tighten around the coffee cup in his hands, his jaw locking as he forces himself to breathe.

- He knows he has no claim on you. No right to this feeling twisting inside him. But that doesn’t stop the way his chest tightens, the way his pulse kicks up in something too close to fight-or-flight. He’s fought wars, but this? This is different. This is personal.

- He doesn’t interrupt, doesn’t stake a claim—Steve isn’t the kind of man to do that. But when you finally turn away from the conversation, when your eyes meet his across the room, there’s something there—something in the way he looks at you, steady and unyielding, that makes your breath catch.

- And maybe, just maybe, you see it too. The truth of it. The confession that lingers in the space between you, unsaid but undeniable. Steve Rogers is a patient man. But even he has his limits. And when it comes to you? He won’t let someone else take what should have been his.

Thor Odinson aka. God of Thunder

- Thor Odinson does not know jealousy the way mortals do. He does not simmer in silence, does not let resentment fester like a slow-growing storm. No, when Thor feels, he feels. And right now, he feels the weight of something heavy, something possessive, something undeniable.

- He watches as another person captures your attention, as their voice fills the air where his should be. And though he does not doubt your loyalty, though he knows the strength of his own heart, something inside him rumbles. A warning. A storm brewing on the horizon.

- He does not shrink. He does not sulk. Instead, he acts. With slow, deliberate steps, he crosses the room, placing himself at your side with the ease of a warrior reclaiming his place on the battlefield. “Ah, my friend,” he says, voice rich with warmth, though his grip on his hammer is just a fraction too tight. “Are you enjoying my beloved’s company?”

- The title slips from his lips before he can stop it. Beloved. It is instinct, raw and unfiltered, and when you glance at him in surprise, he meets your gaze without hesitation. There is no retreat, no denial—only the thunderous certainty of a god who knows what is his.

- And in that moment, as realization dawns in your eyes, Thor Odinson understands—there is no turning back from this. And by the gods, he does not want to.

Loki Laufeyson aka. God of Mischief

- Loki is not a fool. He sees things others miss, reads between the lines of every conversation, every fleeting glance. He is a god of mischief, a master of deception. And yet, for all his cunning, he did not see this coming.

- He did not expect to feel the sharp sting of jealousy as someone else’s words make you smile. He did not expect the coil of irritation tightening in his chest as he watches you lean in, drawn into a conversation that is not with him. And above all, he did not expect the slow, creeping realization that follows: he cares.

- The thought unsettles him. Love, affection—these things are not meant for him. He has been cast aside too many times, burned by his own foolishness, by the cruelty of fate. And yet… here you are, undoing him with nothing but a laugh that isn’t even meant for him.

- He does not confront it, not directly. Instead, he sidles up beside you, his presence a whisper of silk and shadows, his voice a low murmur in your ear. “Surely, you do not find them that charming?” The words are laced with amusement, but his fingers twitch at his sides.

- And when you turn to him, curiosity flickering in your gaze, he holds it—holds you—longer than he should. He will not admit it. Not yet. But the seed has been planted, and gods help him, he does not know if he has the strength to pull it free.

Clint Barton aka. Hawkeye

- Clint Barton isn’t the type to take himself too seriously. Life’s too short, and his luck’s too bad for that. He rolls with the punches, cracks a joke when things get tough, keeps it light—because that’s what keeps him sane. But watching someone else flirt with you? Yeah, that’s not funny.

- He tells himself he doesn’t care. You’re not his, you don’t owe him anything, and really, it’s probably his own damn fault for never making a move. But still, there’s this tightness in his chest, a slow-burning irritation curling in his stomach, and suddenly, he’s gripping his drink a little too hard.

- He could walk away. Should walk away. But instead, he lingers at the edge of the room, watching, waiting, fingers tapping against his thigh like he’s counting down the seconds before he does something stupid. And when you laugh at something that guy says? Yeah, that’s when he snaps.

- He doesn’t make a scene. No, Clint Barton is too smooth for that. Instead, he saunters over, slides an arm around your shoulders like it’s the most natural thing in the world, and grins at the guy like he’s already won. “Hey, sweetheart. Who’s your friend?” His voice is light, teasing, but there’s a sharp edge beneath it. A warning.

- And when you glance up at him, confused but not pulling away, Clint feels something settle inside him. Something warm, something right. Maybe he’s been an idiot. Maybe he’s been avoiding this for too long. But he knows one thing for damn sure—he’s not letting anyone else steal what should’ve been his all along.

Natasha Romanoff aka. Black Widow

- Natasha Romanoff is a master of control. Of reading a room, of keeping her emotions locked behind an unshakable mask. But this? This is unexpected. This burn in her chest, this sharp, cutting edge of irritation curling along her spine as she watches someone else pull you into a conversation that should be hers.

- She doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t let a single crack show. But her eyes follow every movement, her fingers tapping an idle rhythm against her thigh, the only outward sign of the storm brewing beneath the surface. It’s ridiculous, really. You’re not hers. You’re free to do whatever you want. And yet…

- Yet, when you tilt your head, smiling at something they say, something inside her snaps. It’s subtle, barely there, but she moves—slipping through the crowd with effortless grace, coming to stand beside you, close enough that her presence demands attention.

- “Interesting conversation?” she asks, voice smooth as silk, but there’s something dangerous in the way she tilts her head, in the slight smirk playing at her lips. The person flirting with you hesitates, suddenly unsure, suddenly feeling like prey in the presence of a predator. And Natasha? She enjoys it.

- Later, when you’re alone, she leans in, voice softer now, more real. “You should be more careful,” she murmurs, fingers brushing yours. “Some people don’t deserve your attention.” And though she doesn’t say it outright, you hear the truth behind the words. She wants you for herself. And Natasha Romanoff always gets what she wants.

Bucky Barnes aka. The Winter Soldier

- Bucky Barnes has been through hell. He’s lost more than most, suffered in ways he doesn’t talk about, and rebuilt himself from the ground up. He knows better than to let himself get attached. But when he sees someone else standing too close to you, when he watches them steal your attention, something inside him goes cold.

- It’s not anger. Not exactly. It’s something deeper, heavier, a pressure in his chest that won’t ease no matter how hard he tries to ignore it. He doesn’t like this—this feeling of being on the outside, of watching you smile at someone who isn’t him.

- He clenches his jaw, looks away, tries to focus on something else. But then, as if the universe is testing him, he hears it—your laugh. Soft, genuine, warm. And it wrecks him. Because that laugh? It’s his favorite sound. And he doesn’t want anyone else to have it.

- He doesn’t move right away. He’s still figuring this out, still sorting through the mess of emotions he doesn’t know what to do with. But when you finally turn to him, eyes bright and unknowing, he meets your gaze and holds it. And for the first time, maybe ever, he lets the truth slip through.

- “Didn’t think I was the jealous type,” he admits, voice rough, words meant just for you. And when your lips part, surprised, he only smirks, shaking his head. “Guess I was wrong.”

Matthew Murdock aka. Daredevil

- Matt Murdock is a patient man. He has to be. He’s spent his entire life walking the razor’s edge between control and chaos, between justice and vengeance. But this? This is different. This isn’t a courtroom battle or a rooftop fight—this is you, smiling at someone else, and it is unraveling him in ways he doesn’t expect.

- He can hear everything—the steady heartbeat of the person flirting with you, the subtle shift in your tone, the way your breath catches just slightly before you laugh. It’s innocent. Harmless. And yet, his grip on his cane tightens, his jaw locks, and he hates the way his pulse betrays him.

- He’s never been good at sharing. It’s not in his nature, not when it comes to things that matter. And you? You matter. More than he’s willing to admit. More than he should ever let himself believe.

- He doesn’t interrupt. Doesn’t step in. But when the conversation ends, when you finally come back to him, he tilts his head and murmurs, “They seemed… interesting.” There’s a sharp edge to his voice, something unreadable behind his glasses. And when you chuckle, brushing it off, he exhales slowly, forcing himself to let it go.

- But later, when it’s just the two of you, his fingers linger when they touch yours. His voice is softer, quieter when he says, “Just—don’t let someone else take what they don’t deserve, okay?” And though he doesn’t say it outright, you understand what he means. He wants to be the only one.

Frank Castle aka. The Punisher

- Frank Castle doesn’t get jealous. At least, that’s what he tells himself. Jealousy is for men who have something to lose, for men who still believe in the kind of love that doesn’t end in blood. And Frank? He doesn’t have that luxury.

- But then he sees you—sees them, standing too close, talking too smooth, and something inside him goes black. His blood turns to fire, his muscles coil tight, and suddenly, he has to remind himself not to break something.

- He watches. Silent. Dangerous. The kind of quiet that makes lesser men nervous, that turns a warm room cold. And when your laughter rings out, light and unknowing, Frank swears he feels something crack inside him.

- He doesn’t make a move. Doesn’t say a word. But when the conversation ends, when you finally turn and meet his eyes, there’s something dark and unreadable waiting there. Something that should scare you. But it doesn’t.

- Later, in the dead of night, he exhales smoke into the silence and mutters, “Should’ve killed ‘em.” And maybe he’s joking. Maybe he’s not. But either way, Frank Castle knows one thing for sure—he’s never letting anyone else think they have a chance with you. Not while he’s still breathing.

Marc Spector aka. Moon Knight

- Marc Spector has always been a man of war. His heart is battle-worn, his soul stitched together by vengeance and duty. Love? Love is dangerous. Love makes you weak. But when he sees someone else’s hand resting just a little too long on your arm, when he watches their eyes linger on you the way only he should be allowed to—Marc feels something snap.

- It’s not a rational thing. No, it’s visceral, instinctual, an old wound torn open and bleeding jealousy into his ribs. His fingers twitch, his vision narrows, and for a brief, fleeting second, the weight of Khonshu’s will presses against his skull. Hurt them. Make them regret it.

- But then, you laugh—soft, unknowing, untouched by the storm raging inside him. And that’s what stops him. That’s what saves him. Because you don’t need his darkness. You deserve something gentler than him.

- So he stays where he is, jaw tight, fists clenched, shadows curling around his thoughts like whispers in the night. He doesn’t interfere. Not yet. But when you finally turn to him, oblivious to the war he’s fighting inside, his voice is low, rough, edged with something he doesn’t dare name.

- “Let’s go.” It’s not a request. And when you blink up at him, confused but willing, Marc exhales. You’ll never know just how close he came to losing himself for you.

Johnny Storm aka. Human Torch

- Johnny Storm doesn’t do jealousy. Or at least, that’s what he tells himself. He’s too cool for that, too charming, too damn good-looking to ever feel threatened. But the second he sees someone else trying to steal your attention, the easy confidence he’s built around himself starts to flicker.

- He keeps it casual at first—leans against the bar, crosses his arms, smirks like he’s just so amused by whatever’s happening. But beneath that cocky grin, his fingers tighten against the glass in his hand, and the tips of his ears burn hot.

- He tries to laugh it off. Makes a joke at your expense, something playful, something light. But when you don’t immediately turn back to him, when you keep talking to them, the flames inside him rise, licking at the edges of his restraint.

- “Okay, that’s cute,” he finally mutters, before striding over and slinging an arm around your shoulders with deliberate ease. His smile is bright, a little too sharp, as he looks the other person up and down. “You make friends fast, huh?”

- He plays it off well. Too well. But later, when you’re alone, he mutters, almost to himself, “Y’know, if I didn’t know any better, I’d think you were trying to kill me.” And when you laugh, shaking your head, he exhales. Yeah, he’s in trouble. Big trouble.

Reed Richards aka. Mister Fantastic

- Reed Richards has spent his life solving impossible equations, unraveling the mysteries of the universe, conquering the unknown with nothing but his mind. But this? This is a problem he doesn’t know how to fix.

- He sees you—sees them—standing too close, exchanging words he can’t quite hear over the noise of the room. Logic tells him he has no reason to react. You are not a variable in an equation he controls. And yet, the sharp sting of possessiveness coils in his chest, irrational and unrelenting.

- He tells himself to let it go. There is no scientific basis for jealousy. It is an emotional impulse, a flaw in human reasoning. And yet, his fingers tighten around the pen in his hand, his mind fracturing into a thousand calculations, each one ending in the same conclusion:

- He does not want to lose you.

- Later, when he finally speaks, it’s careful, measured, spoken in that calm, analytical tone that betrays nothing. “You seemed… engaged in that conversation.” It’s not an accusation, not quite, but when you tilt your head at him, curious, he wonders if maybe, just maybe, he’s already lost the upper hand.

Felicia Hardy aka. Black Cat

- Felicia Hardy doesn’t do jealousy. She’s far too confident, far too aware of her own power, to feel threatened by someone else’s presence in your orbit. And yet, when she sees them flirting with you—sees their hand brushing your arm, sees your lips curve at whatever they said—she feels something sharp and territorial curl inside her.

- She doesn’t react immediately. No, Felicia Hardy is far too strategic for that. Instead, she watches, waits, lets them think they have a chance. And then, just when they start to relax, she makes her move.

- “Mind if I cut in?” Her voice is silk, smooth and effortless, her fingers trailing along your arm as she steps between you and the intruder. She doesn’t even have to look at them to know they’ve already lost.

- She leans in, lips brushing the shell of your ear, her voice dropping to something only you can hear. “Careful, kitten. You don’t want to get tangled up with the wrong person.” And when you shiver—when you look at her the way she wants you to—she knows she’s won.

- Later, as you walk together, she smirks, tossing her hair over her shoulder. “You should be more careful who you flirt with.” And when you laugh, shaking your head, she only grins wider. You were always going to be hers.

Stephen Strange aka. Doctor Strange

- Stephen Strange has never been the kind of man to fear losing something. He has conquered the impossible, rewritten fate, bent the very fabric of reality to his will. And yet, when he sees you with them—sees you laugh, sees you lean in—he feels something disturbingly close to fear.

- He tells himself it’s illogical. That he has no claim to you, that what you do is none of his concern. But the words taste hollow in his mouth, and the air around him hums with restrained magic, with emotions he refuses to name.

- He doesn’t intervene—not at first. No, Stephen Strange is not a man of petty impulses. But when the conversation lingers too long, when he sees them touch your arm, he exhales sharply and moves.

- “I wasn’t aware we were entertaining guests.” His voice is even, his expression unreadable, but there is something unmistakably sharp in his gaze as he steps beside you. The other person stiffens. Good.

- Later, when you question him about it, he only lifts a brow. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” But the way his fingers graze your wrist, the way his magic lingers against your skin? It tells a different story. One he isn’t ready to say aloud. Not yet.

Namor aka. The Sub-Mariner

- Namor is a king. A warrior. A god among men. He has no reason to feel jealousy, no reason to regard anyone as his competition. And yet, when he sees another lingering too close, their gaze trailing over you with something unearned, his blood boils.

- He watches, expression composed but dangerous, as they speak to you, as they dare to bask in your presence. Do they think they are worthy? Do they believe, for even a moment, that they can take what Namor has already claimed in his heart?

- He does not interrupt—not immediately. No, Namor is patient, calculating. He waits for the perfect moment, stepping forward with regal, effortless confidence, his presence alone enough to command attention. His fingers brush your arm, a deliberate, possessive motion. “My dear, surely you do not waste your time with this one?”

- His voice is smooth, edged with something sharp. The poor fool who thought they had a chance swallows hard, sensing the shift in the air. Namor does not need to fight for you. He simply reclaims what is his.

- Later, when you tease him about it, his only response is a slow, knowing smirk. “You belong at my side, and my side alone.” And when you see the certainty in his gaze, you realize—he’s not asking. He’s declaring.

Johnny Blaze aka. Ghost Rider

- Johnny Blaze has never been a man of peace. His soul is battle-worn, haunted by fire and vengeance. But nothing—nothing—burns quite like the sight of someone else trying to steal your attention.

- His jaw tightens, his grip on the edge of the bar going white-knuckled as he watches. He tells himself to let it go. He’s not the type to get jealous, right? But the Rider in his chest—the monster wrapped in fire and bone—growls in warning.

- He doesn’t make a scene. He doesn’t say a word. Instead, he moves, slow and deliberate, stepping into the conversation like he was always meant to be there. His presence alone is enough to shift the atmosphere—dangerous, electric.

- He doesn’t glare, doesn’t threaten, but when his dark, firelit gaze locks onto the poor bastard who thought they had a chance, the message is clear. Back off. Now. And they do. Because everyone does, eventually.

- Later, when you ask if he was jealous, he scoffs, looking away. “Jealous? Nah. Just didn’t like their face.” But the way his hand lingers on your hip, the way his body hums with unspoken possession? Yeah, he’s a terrible liar.

Eddie Brock & Venom aka. Venom

- Eddie Brock knows jealousy. It’s been his constant companion—festering, clawing at his insides long before the symbiote ever took root in his veins. But this—seeing you smile at someone else, seeing their eyes linger on you—it’s a different kind of ache.

- “We do not like this.” The voice slithers through his mind, low and possessive, the symbiote pressing against his ribs like it wants out. Eddie grits his teeth, his fingers flexing as he tries to shove down the urge to tear something apart.

- He tells himself it’s fine. You’re not his. Not really. But when that idiot reaches out—when their hand dares to brush against you—Venom surges forward before he can stop it. A dark, twisted growl bubbles from his throat, something inhuman.

- The poor bastard nearly jumps out of their skin. “What the hell was that?” they mutter, backing away as a shadow flickers over Eddie’s eyes. And when you glance at him, brow furrowed, he exhales sharply, rolling his shoulders. “Dunno. Must be the wind.”

- Later, when Venom whispers, “We should eat them,” Eddie just mutters, “No, we shouldn’t.” But as you walk beside him, unaware of the war raging inside him, he wonders—what would it take for you to see that you’re already his?

T’Challa aka. Black Panther

- T’Challa is not a man ruled by petty emotions. He has been raised in the art of restraint, taught that a king must always remain in control. But when he sees another vying for your attention, when he watches their hand hover too close—his restraint is tested.

- He does not react immediately. No, he simply observes, his expression unreadable, his mind already three steps ahead. There is no need for outbursts, no need for crude displays of possession. T’Challa wins wars with patience and precision.

- And so, when the moment is right, he moves—effortless, calculated, undeniable. His voice is smooth as he steps into your space, his hand settling gently at the small of your back. “Forgive my interruption,” he says, gaze flickering to the would-be suitor, voice full of quiet authority. “But I believe I was promised this dance.”

- The other person falters, unsure, outmatched in a game they did not even realize they were playing. T’Challa does not need to fight for you. He simply reminds the world who he is.

- Later, when you tease him about it, his lips curve into something soft, something secret. “You are… precious to me.” And though he does not say more, the look in his eyes is enough. You are not just a passing fancy. You are a queen, and he will not let anyone take you from him.

Elektra Natchios aka. Elektra

- Elektra is not jealous. Jealousy is for the weak, for the foolish, for those who lack the confidence to take what they want. But when she sees them—sees you—laughing at something someone else said, her knives feel heavier at her hips.

- She does not make a scene. No, Elektra is far too skilled in the art of subtlety for that. Instead, she watches, waiting for the perfect moment to strike. Not with violence—not yet.

- When she finally moves, it’s with all the grace of a predator circling its prey. She doesn’t touch you, not immediately, but she steps into your space like she belongs there. And when she finally speaks, it’s a soft, amused purr—“Surely you don’t find them interesting?”

- Her hand traces your wrist, feather-light, but the weight of it is undeniable. She doesn’t even look at the other person. They don’t matter. They never did.

- Later, when you tell her she was jealous, she only smiles, slow and dangerous. “Jealous? No. But if they touch you again, I’ll consider sharpening my blades.” And something about the way she says it makes you wonder—was she joking?

[earlgreylatte]

𝙋𝙧𝙚𝙩𝙚𝙣𝙙 𝙄’𝙢 𝙖 𝙍𝙖𝙣𝙙𝙤𝙢 𝙂𝙞𝙧𝙡!

You decide to mess with your boyfriend.

Ends up in a firm but gentle wrestling match with you as he prevents your arms from making contact with him, insisting, or even borderline pleading with you to stay away and that he’s very loyal to his girlfriend.

Barry Allen, Dick Grayson, John Stewart, Kyle Rayner, Ted Kord, Peter Parker, Kurt Wagner

Screams a surprisingly high pitched ‘No!’, wrapping his arms around himself, as he begs you to leave him be and claims his girlfriend will kill you. You slowly back off.

Johnny Storm, Booster Gold, Wade Wilson, Roy Harper,

Air jail. Whether by trapping you in a construct or holding you up by the armpits before you can embrace him, you are not coming down until you call off the prank.

Hal Jordan (Smug bastard #1, sympathizes with how attractive he is and how hard that must be for you), John Stewart, Guy Gardner (Smug bastard #2), Jason Todd, Jean Paul Valley

A steely glare and cold ‘No.’ has you freezing in your tracks before he quickly removes himself from the room. Quickly re-enters to make sure your feelings aren’t hurt. Watching you laugh at the situation has him shooting you a dry, but fond stare.

Bruce Wayne, John Stewart, Scott Summers, Matt Murdock, Bucky Barnes

Before he can even act, his best friend intercepts you, pushing you away with a judgemental glare while calling you a ‘homewrecker’.

Peter Parker (Johnny immediately recognizes the trend, but would act this way if a random girl actually tried this because no one messes with Spidey’s happiness), Ted Kord (Booster shuffles Ted away, arm wrapped around his waist, which throws you two into a game of keep away), Matt Murdock (Foggy’s mock disappointment almost makes you feel real remorse), Wally West (Dick’s condescending smile and malicious eyes hurt…)

Catholic scolding, tells you adultery is a sin, you end up leaving the prank feeling enlightened somehow.

Kurt Wagner (yes, father…), Matt Murdock (an actual homewrecker), Jean Paul Valley

Puts you in a sleeper hold and you end up waking a minute later, face against the floor. Bro might have utilized actual military training to remain loyal.

John Stewart, Scott Summers (Xaiver’s training might be insane??), Clint Barton, Bucky Barnes

Uses his powers to move out of the way, causing you to crash into the nearest object. Apologetically brings you ice.

Barry Allen, Wally West, Kurt Wagner

Doesn’t comprehend what you shouted, too focused on catching you and cradling you in his arms, after his brain catches up with him, he lets out an alarmed shout and pushes you away.

Kyle Rayner, Jason Todd, Jean Paul Valley, Johnny Storm, Peter Parker, Kurt Wagner

Decides to mess with you and plays along, shooting you a flirtatious smile. Ten minutes later, he ends up on his knees trying to get on your good side again.

Hal Jordan, Matt Murdock, Clint Barton

Actually backflips you (onto a soft rug or couch).

Dick Grayson, Jason Todd, Roy Harper

Straight up pulls out his guns and warns you to stay in your lane. Hopefully the safety is on…

Wade Wilson (“Sorry, sister, but I’m taken!”)

The amount of tiktoks I had to watch for this…but it’s a very cute trend!

For Ted and Peter, pretend to be Booster/Johnny…

Masterlist

[ginnsbaker]

All Of Your Pieces (21 - The Autumn Singes)

Chapter Summary: It was very childlike—how she went about her day doing the most innocent things. And yet—

You couldn’t stop thinking about how she felt pressed against you. How soft her lips were when you kissed them. How wet she’d been that night, soaked from the rain and from wanting you. Since moving to Scotland, neither of you had brought it up—not once. And every time you thought about circling back to that moment, you realized you still couldn’t find the right time. Sometimes the memory of it felt like a distant dream, and you were left questioning whether it really happened or not.

Pairing: Wanda Maximoff x Female Reader Chapter word count: 5.1k+ | Chapter Tags: First time, fluff, smut

A/N: Things finally align for Wanda and Y/N. More importantly, smut is back. But it's so tender and loving and sappy so be warned! // More author's notes here.

Series Masterlist | Main Masterlist

The first thing you did when you and Wanda arrived in Scotland was clean up the small, nondescript apartment Natasha had directed you to. It smelled of dust and damp wood, and the wallpaper peeled at the corners, stained with colors you’d rather not think too hard about. But underneath it all, the bones were solid. Sturdy. It was something to build on.

Most of all, it was yours now. 

Yours and Wanda’s.

As you scrubbed the counters and unpacked the meager belongings you brought with you, you told her the truth. Natasha had helped you acquire a new identity, complete with forged documents, a thin but convincing backstory, and a job that surprisingly appealed to you. You couldn’t help but smile when you told Wanda it was the job of your dreams—and how it was also a chance to start fresh, doing something that mattered to you. And, because Natasha never did things halfway, she’d also arranged for a second job offer. One you’d held out to Wanda, despite knowing she probably wouldn’t take it.

She didn’t. Wanda had looked at you, her lips quirking in that soft, amused way she had when she wanted to be polite. “I’ll figure it out on my own,” she said, leaning against the counter, watching you work. She’d always had this way of saying no without making it feel like rejection, like her refusal wasn’t about you at all.

You glanced at her, pausing to wipe your hands on a towel. “Are you sure? I mean, it’s not glamorous, but it’s something.”

She smiled faintly. “I’ve been careful with my money. And besides,” she added, her voice breezy but not dismissive, “I’ve survived worse.”

Wanda was careful with her money, you learned quickly. Frugal, almost to a fault. Where you had your savings tied up in an account you couldn’t even access without some bureaucratic headache, Wanda had cash. Actual, physical cash—small bills tucked into an envelope she kept in a knapsack. You’d teased her about it once, back when things between you were still easy and new. She’d shrugged and said, “Pietro and I didn’t keep bank accounts back then. Force of habit, I guess.”

There had been instances when you’ve been short on money, and well, you always found some bills tucked in your socks every now and then.

—

Your first day as a security officer at the library began with a shirt that sat stiff on your shoulders and a badge so heavy it tugged awkwardly at the fabric where it was pinned. The library itself was grand but weathered—arched windows, polished wooden counters, and a faint smell of old paper and mildew that you’ve always found comforting. 

You spent the morning being introduced to everyone: the head librarian, a stern but kind woman named Marion; two younger assistants, Callum and Fiona, who proudly professed their caffeine addictions and carried them around like marks of pride; and a janitor named Angus.

It surprised you how easily they folded you into their world. Callum and Fiona took you out for lunch that day, leading you to the Subway shop down the street. You almost said no and thought of some excuse about needing to check the perimeter, but something about the way she said, “Come on, it’s tradition,” made you cave. You sat awkwardly at the corner of their little table, your new uniform chafing against your skin, wondering if they could smell the fraud on you. But they didn’t. They talked about books, weekend plans, and the eccentric patrons who frequented the library. 

It was bittersweet—the way they welcomed you without hesitation, without suspicion. They didn’t know who you really were. They had no idea you’d saved the world more times than you could count on both hands—or that you’d taken lives in the process. They didn’t know your face was plastered across Interpol’s most-wanted list, with a bounty large enough to make anyone who recognized you instantly rich. 

You reminded yourself of that constantly. This wasn’t permanent. You weren’t supposed to get attached. But somehow, lunch became routine. Three of you, sometimes four, depending on who could slip away from their duties.

It was a fragile little slice of normal, and you couldn’t help but hold onto it, even if you knew it wasn’t yours to keep.

—

Wanda, on the other hand, moved at her own pace. 

She wasn’t working—not officially—and at first, it bothered you. Not because you thought she should be working, but because you weren’t sure if she was acquainting herself with a new town and a new identity just fine.

To you, it looked like she was doing nothing. But that wasn’t fair judgement. Wanda filled her days in her own subdued way. 

You’d asked her once, while she stirred something on the stove, what she did all day. She’d shrugged without looking at you. “I walk. I try new cafés. I watch people.”

“Watch people?” you asked, curious.

“People tell stories without saying anything. You just have to pay attention.”

Sometimes she went to museums, or sat in parks with a sketchbook you didn’t know she had until one day it was casually left open on the coffee table—a half-finished drawing of a tree, delicate lines forming branches that reached out like arms.

And then there was the TV. Wanda didn’t watch mindlessly; she absorbed. Old sitcoms, cooking shows, documentaries about things you knew she already understood. You’d catch her staring at the screen sometimes, eyes glassy, like she was somewhere else entirely.

Back at the compound, she rarely had time for movie marathons. You figured it was partly because Vision probably discouraged it, and partly because the constant training and meetings left everyone too exhausted by day’s end.

It was very childlike—how she went about her day doing the most innocent things.

And yet—

You couldn’t stop thinking about how she felt pressed against you. How soft her lips were when you kissed them. How wet she’d been that night, soaked from the rain and from wanting you. Since moving to Scotland, neither of you had brought it up—not once. And every time you thought about circling back to that moment, you realized you still couldn’t find the right time. 

Sometimes the memory of it felt like a distant dream, and you were left questioning whether it really happened or not.

—

You got your first pay today—a thin envelope instead of a digital deposit—and it brought this unexpected rush of pride. It wasn’t even a tenth of what you used to rake in from Stark Industries, but somehow it felt more gratifying. 

On your way home from work, you made a quick stop at a takeout place. You’d been craving greasy noodles and sticky-sweet dumplings all day, thinking about sharing them with Wanda. But you wanted something more to celebrate with, and you took your time wandering around town for a clue. 

It wasn’t until you were riding the subway, head leaning against the cold metal pole, your first paycheck stuffed—and a little forgotten—in your pocket, that you started to feel… stupid. You’d been walking around for over an hour, takeout cooling in your hands, looking for something to celebrate this milestone and coming up empty. 

You were close to giving up when you heard it.

Music.

At the far end of the car, three musicians had set up—an older man with a violin, a woman with a cello balanced delicately between her knees, and a teenager, maybe seventeen, strumming a guitar with steady hands. They weren’t playing anything you recognized, but it was something slow and aching, and it made you close your eyes as you let yourself sink into it.

That’s when the image of Wanda’s hands hovering over strings, her brow furrowed in concentration, the soft tilt of her head when she found the sound she was looking for, came to you. You’d never told her how much you liked hearing her play back at the compound.

By the time the subway screeched into your stop, the idea was fully formed. You hopped off the train, take-out bag swinging at your side, and made a beeline for the nearest pawn shop you could find.

—

Wanda opened the door before you even had a chance to fish out your keys, her face breaking into a smile so wide it almost made you worry.

“You’re home!” she exclaimed, breathless and a little flushed. She wore an oversized dress shirt that skimmed just above her knees—normally paired with sweatpants, but tonight her creamy legs were bare for you to admire. 

You swallowed dryly and instinctively hid the gift you’d bought for her behind your back. You hadn’t expected her to greet you like this—she was usually curled up on the couch with her feet tucked beneath her, engrossed in Modern Family, her latest obsession from last week.

She bounced on her toes, practically glowing. “I have news,” she said, fingers tugging at the hem of her shirt. There was a glimmer in her eyes—like she’d been holding onto this all day, just waiting for you to walk through the door.

You nudged the door shut behind you. “What is it?”

She bit her bottom lip, trying to hold back a smile but failing adorably. “I found something I want to do. Well… it’s not exactly a job—more like volunteer work.” Her voice wavered between pride and nerves. “At a foster home. I checked it out this morning. I start next week.”

A grin broke across your face before you could stop it. “Wanda, that’s amazing!”

Without even thinking, you wrapped your arms around her and pulled her in. It happened so fast that you weren’t sure she’d welcome the sudden embrace, but her arms came around you just as tightly. You felt her breathe you in, and a small shiver ran through you. For a while you both just stood there, holding each other with your eyes closed.

That’s when you remembered the present you left outside. Carefully, you pulled away, an excited grin lighting up your face. “Oh! I almost forgot,” you said, moving back to the hallway to retrieve your gift. 

Wanda blinked, confused—until her gaze landed on the guitar case. Her eyes widened. “Wait—what…”

You popped the latches and opened the case with a flourish, revealing a glossy, warm-toned acoustic guitar. “Ta-da!”

She lifted a hand to her mouth. “Wha��Y-You didn’t have to—this must’ve cost a fortune!”

You shrugged, grinning. “I absolutely had to,” you said, throwing her a playful wink. “First paycheck.”

Wanda looked from you to the guitar, her eyes glassy with emotion. “You’re too much,” she whispered, fingers brushing the strings. “This is... perfect. Thank you.”

You lifted the guitar from its case and handed it toward her. “Come on, let’s see how you look with it.”

She laughed as you guided her to the couch, placing the guitar strap over her shoulder. It didn’t matter if she knew only two chords or none at all—she'd learn them again, now that she had the means to do so.

“I still can’t believe this,” she murmured, settling her fingers on the fretboard and plucking at the strings.

“You’re going to do great with this,” you said, settling beside her. “And you’re going to be amazing at the foster home. Those kids are going to love hearing you play.”

Wanda laughed. “I’m not so sure about that.”

“Play something for me?” you asked, leaning forward with your elbows on your knees.

She glanced over at you, head tilted, a soft smile on her lips. “You sure you don’t mind if I play my favorite?”

You shook your head, eager. “Not at all. I’d love to hear it.”

She seemed thoughtful for a moment, then began to play a melody that made your breath catch. It only took a few seconds for you to recognize it—the Sokovian lullaby she used to sing late in the night when she thought everyone else had gone to sleep. You’d heard her hum it to herself every once in a while, sometimes so quietly you weren’t sure she even realized she was doing it. 

The melody she was making was so beautiful, but when her voice joined the guitar, you were enchanted for good. 

We’ve been waiting for you

'tie mi t͡ʃaˈjaɫəm

Now you are here

ˈʃiɪdeŋ ˈti e ˈʃte

More perfect than I imagined

ˈdrage wo t͡sto ˈmisliɫəm

Our house is now a home (our house is now a nest)

ˈdom naʃ ˈʃiɪdeŋ ˈgnieʒdo

No matter where you go

bez veˈdeɪ̆ doˈkude ˈjit͡ʃiʃ

Sunlight shines on you

ˈʃiʒa ˈsunt͡so nad tiˈe

When she dragged out the final note to its ending, you clapped, a broad grin spreading across your face, and Wanda’s cheeks reddened.

This girl really was amazing—in every sense.

“It’s not much,” she whispered bashfully. 

You swallowed the rush of reverence rising in your chest. “It’s everything,” you murmured, voice thick. “I think it might be my favorite now, too.”

Your applause faded as you noticed the way Wanda was staring at you—intently, unblinking, her green eyes darkening with an intent that made your pulse thump against your rib cage. You opened your mouth, the start of a question on your lips—“Wanda, what’s—”

Before you could finish, she carefully set the guitar on the floor beside her, and then—

And then she launched herself at you.

You barely had time to react as she straddled your hips, her legs on either side of your hips, pressing you back into the cushions. The momentum of her body made your head spin, and any question you had died on your lips as her mouth crashed onto yours.

She kissed you like she couldn’t get close enough, like she was starved for contact. You tried to match her pace, but it was near impossible—her urgency was overwhelming. Your hands found her waist, gripping the soft fabric of her shirt as you let yourself get lost in the taste and feel of her.

A small sound escaped you when her fingers went to the buttons of your uniform, fumbling but dead-set on getting them undone. One by one, she tugged them loose until your shirt hung open, exposing the rise and fall of your chest beneath a black bra.

You caught on quickly, your hands dropping to your belt, fingers trembling slightly as the task suddenly felt far more complicated than it should have. Any focus you had shattered when her mouth found your neck, her teeth sinking into your skin before her tongue followed, soothing the sting.

“Wanda—”

She pulled back just enough to yank her own shirt over her head, and your breath caught in your throat—she wasn’t wearing a bra. The sight of her bare skin sent heat flooding through your veins, and then, in a heartbeat, she was leaning in again, her mouth finding yours with that same consuming hunger.

You broke away from her lips just long enough to tilt your head down, pressing hot, open-mouthed kisses across her chest. A soft groan slipped from Wanda’s lips, and you felt her tug insistently at the ponytail keeping your hair tied back. The band snapped under her fingers—or maybe under a subtle flick of her power—and suddenly your hair was free. She ran her nails over your scalp, scratching gently as you placed a wet kiss over the swell of her breast.

“God, you have no idea how many times I’ve thought about this,” you breathed, trailing your lips up to the sensitive peak of her nipple. You dragged your tongue across it, earning a sharp gasp from her. “You’re so beautiful,” you murmured, voice thick with want.

She let out a breathy laugh, her hands tightening in your hair as you drew a hard nipple into your mouth, sucking softly. The taste and feel of her made your head spin, and you lost yourself in the sensation for a moment, swirling your tongue around the bud. 

“Oh God…” she moaned helplessly. “You too, you’re so…”

Wanda’s sentence ended in a needy whine. You switched to her other breast, giving it the same slow, deliberate attention, sucking softly as you let your palm caress the one you’d just left. Wanda’s lips parted on another helpless sound, and you couldn’t help but smile around the warm skin in your mouth.

Her impatience soon got the better of her. “Off,” she demanded, pushing at the waistband of your pants. “These… off.”

“Yes, ma’am,” you breathed, trying to move your hands to the fly of your trousers. But before you could start, you felt a shimmer of Wanda’s power surge around you. With her magic, she unclasped your belt and pushed your pants down your thighs in one swift motion.

A surprised laugh caught in your throat. “Show-off,” you smirked, but there was no mistaking how grateful you were for her ability to make things happen quickly. You wriggled your hips, kicking your pants off the rest of the way. Wanda’s eyes never left you, dark and hungry as she watched every awkward shuffle, every moment of clothing leaving your body.

Wanda’s hands slid up your shoulders and found the clasp of your bra, fingers fumbling only for a second before snapping it free. She tossed the garment somewhere behind you, too impatient to care where it landed. A fresh rush of heat bloomed on her cheeks as she let her gaze linger on your bare chest, and she reached out to touch you almost reverently.

“Are you okay?” you asked softly, noticing the awe in her eyes and the hesitant way her hands cupped you.

She swallowed, nodding once. “I—I’ve never actually been with a woman before…”

You smiled at her and guided her palms against your breasts, covering her hands with your own so she could feel how you liked to be touched. Your breaths grew shallow and ragged when Wanda’s warm fingers brushed over your taut nipples. She caught her bottom lip between her teeth, watching your reactions as she tried different pressures and strokes.

“You’re making me feel good,” you managed to whisper between soft gasps. “So fucking good.”

Wanda’s cheeks burned deeper at the praise, but she didn’t look away. Emboldened, she kneaded your flesh in slow circles, and each pass of her palm sent a fresh wave of wetness between your legs. 

Your own impatience stirred, drawing you to the junction of her thighs. You pushed her panties to the side, and your fingertips traced her slick heat. A low groan escaped you at how soaked she was—she practically pulsed under your touch, swollen and undeniably turned on. The fabric of her panties was ruined, dampness seeping through in the most delicious way.

And then you remembered her confession from weeks ago—she’d never truly come. The thought sent your heart racing, but you fought the urge to ask more questions this time. You didn’t want to make this a test or some sort of milestone. This moment was for her, on her terms, however it played out.

“Let me take care of you, okay?” you murmured, brushing a thumb gently along her jaw.

She gave a shaky nod, her eyes fluttering shut. You gently took Wanda’s hands off your body, shifting your grip to guide her onto the couch. She followed your cue, sitting down with a slight tremor in her legs, her breath already coming in short, uneven bursts. Her cheeks were flushed, and she kept her knees pressed together, almost like she was trying to make herself smaller under your gaze.

You took a deep breath as you slipped off the couch and knelt on the floor between her legs—only you were still high enough that you were at her eye level, able to see the nervous excitement crossing her face. She swallowed hard, then let out a shaky exhale, unclasping her hands where they’d been gripping each other in her lap.

“Hey,” you said softly, sliding your palms along the outsides of her thighs. “Is this okay?”

“I…” Her voice wavered, and she forced herself to meet your eyes. “I trust you,” she finished softly.

Those three words meant everything to you—maybe even more than the other three words Wanda hadn’t said back. Words you weren’t expecting her to say, not anytime soon, maybe not ever. You loved her, and whether or not she loved you in return didn’t change that. Loving her felt like a privilege, something rare and fleeting, and it was enough. More than enough.

Wanda nodded, swallowing hard, then loosened her legs so you could settle closer. With careful hands, you reached for her hips, hooking your thumbs under the waistband of her damp panties. You felt her muscles tense, then slowly relax as she lifted her hips just enough to help you. Bit by bit, you slid her underwear down, revealing soft, warm skin beneath. The garment peeled away, clinging for a second where it was soaked, before slipping past her knees and down to her ankles.

“It’s alright if you want to stop, or slow down,” you reminded her, giving her thigh a gentle squeeze, your nails pressing in just a little more than necessary.

“I don’t want to stop,” she whispered.

That was all you needed. Leaning in, you placed a soft kiss on her mons pubis, feeling her shiver at the contact. You moved slowly, pressing a trail of gentle kisses lower, letting her adjust to each new inch of intimacy. Wanda exhaled a trembling sigh, her hands bunching up the couch cushion on either side as she braced herself.

You kissed every inch of skin in your path, taking your time with her body as you made your way closer to her center. Wanda’s breathing grew more erratic, her thighs trembling under your touch. When you reached her most intimate place, you couldn’t help but pause, taking her in.

Just above her clit, a neat patch of hair framed her perfectly, her clit already engorged and peeking shyly out from beneath its hood. You couldn’t help but smile—she was so beautiful, so vulnerable, letting you see her this way. You brushed your nose lightly across her vulva, pressing a soft kiss nearby as her breath caught. “So stunning…” you murmured against her skin. 

Below a whisper, you added a single word—“Mine”. It was possessive, a fleeting slip of thought that you couldn’t hold back, even if you never intended for her to hear it. Wanda seemed completely unaware, lost in the slow rise and fall of her own breathing. She parted her legs a bit more, silent permission for you to continue.

Gently, you began to massage the area around her pussy, your fingers moving in slow, soothing circles to help relax her muscles while simultaneously teasing her. 

When she opened her mouth to ask, voice trembling with anxious need, “What’s taking you so long?” you finally dived in and gave her a tentative lick, starting from her entrance and dragging your tongue slowly up to her clit.

Wanda’s whole body jolted, and she let out a sharp, unrestrained curse. “Fuck!”

You repeated the motion, slower this time, savoring her shudder and gasp. Her hands gripped the cushions as your tongue explored her—deep, then up to her clit.

Her thighs twitched against your shoulders, your name falling from her lips in a broken moan. Encouraged, you let your tongue move lazily, caressing her in slow, deliberate strokes. It wasn’t long before Wanda began to move on her own, hips rolling, pressing herself against your mouth—chasing every bit of pleasure, fucking herself onto your tongue.

You pressed a hand against her lower belly to keep her grounded, your fingers splaying across her skin as you worked her with your mouth. Each time your tongue dipped into her entrance, you felt her pulse around you, her arousal so obvious in the way she grew wetter with every movement.

“Y/N—Y/N….” She kept calling your name in broken syllables.

Soon enough, Wanda's movements grew more desperate. Her hands, which had been clutching the cushions for support, moved to your head. Fingers threaded through your hair, tangling and pulling gently at first, then with increasing firmness. It was clear she was finding her rhythm, her own way of expressing what felt good, what she needed more of.

You didn’t resist. Instead, you surrendered to her, letting her guide you. Wanda’s hips rolled with purpose now, pressing herself against your mouth. The pressure of her hand on your head left you still, no longer moving on your own. Her clit throbbed against your tongue, and you adjusted subtly, letting the flat of your tongue glide over her sensitive bundle of nerves each time her hips surged forward. 

“Y/N…” she gasped, her voice heavy with need. “Don’t stop. Please—don’t stop.”

You couldn’t have stopped even if you wanted to. You dug your hands into her hips, holding her steady as she fucked your face with abandon, her moans turning into cries that bordered on incoherent.

Wanda’s movements became more erratic, driven by a strange, swelling pressure that coiled in her lower belly. You sensed her confusion when she stiffened, her hips momentarily faltering.

“I—” she managed, voice shaky, “something’s—”

Wanda looked almost scared, and you’ve rarely seen her afraid. 

“What’s wrong?” you murmured against her,  worried you’ve done something she didn’t like. You kept the stimulation on her clit, massaging it in rough circles with your fingers.

She shook her head, her brows knitting together. “It’s tight,” she admitted. “In my stomach. It feels like… like it’s going to—

You could tell she was right at the edge of truly losing control, so you decided to help tip her over. You replaced your fingers with your mouth once more, sucking softly on her sensitive bud, and then, with careful intent, you eased a finger into her soaked entrance—just one at first, letting her body adjust. 

“You’re close,” you said, before blowing over her clit in relief and excitement that she’s about to come—and you’re the first to get her there. “Just let it happen.”

“I don’t know…” she whispered, biting her lip, her hands hovering restlessly near her stomach as if she could stop it from happening.

“You’re safe,” you promised in between licks while curling your finger inside of her. “I’ve got you, okay? Let it happen. I’ll be right here.”

“Y/N,” she whimpered, her voice high-pitched and shaky. “I—I think I’m…”

“You are,” you affirmed gently. “You’re about to come, baby, come for me.”

Her hips jerked spasmodically, and you could feel her clench around your finger. With a few more deliberate strokes, focusing on the rhythm that had her moaning loudest, you felt her body suddenly tighten in a drawn-out moment of suspense.

And then, with a long, keening wail, Wanda finally let go. 

She sobbed your name as her orgasm overtook her, her body tensing and releasing in time with the rippling pleasure. It was raw, overwhelming, and utterly beautiful, and you couldn’t look away as she experienced it for the first time.

The fervor in her eyes melted into awe and disbelief, as if she were unsure she’d actually reached the peak she’d been chasing. She let out a disbelieving laugh, tears gathering at the corners of her eyes. “Oh god… I can’t believe I…”

You gently took your finger out, continuing to stroke her softly with your tongue as you helped her ride out the tail end of her orgasm, her body shuddering with each aftershock. But as the last wave of pleasure rolled through her, Wanda whimpered and tried to push your head away, squirming under your mouth. You relented, pressing one last kiss against her inner thigh before sliding up onto the couch.

A grin tugged at your lips as you climbed over her, feeling more than a little proud of yourself. She was still catching her breath, her flushed skin tempting you again. You placed a hand at her waist and urged her to lie back fully on the cushions, legs tangling together until you were hovering above her.

Leaning closer, your face inches from hers, you smirked. “So… was that to your satisfaction, Maximoff?” 

Wanda’s cheeks turned impossibly red, her lips parting in shock before she let out a breathless laugh. She reached up, her fingers grazing your cheek before resting on the back of your neck, pulling you down until your foreheads touched.

“You’re very good,” she whispered softly.

An amused laugh escaped you. “Comes with experience,” you teased, wiggling your eyebrows dramatically—though not without a certain smugness.

Instantly, you noticed how Wanda’s face changed. A shadow of something like annoyance passed over her features, and for a brief moment, her eye twitched in an unmistakable display of jealousy. It was almost too cute that it had you bursting into a breathy laugh, earning a small frown from her.

“Oh, don’t laugh,” she huffed, swatting at your shoulder. “You say that like you’ve… you know, done this with a bunch of people.”

You snorted. “A bunch? Hardly.” You hesitated, brushing a loose strand of hair from her face. “Besides… I’m out of practice. I haven’t been with anyone since I met you.”

“Really?” she murmured, eyes searching yours for the truth.

“Really,” you said, your tone serious—though you couldn’t help but feel a little embarrassed. Because honestly, the moment Wanda entered your life, no one else even registered. Down bad didn’t begin to cover it.

Wanda shifted slightly beneath you, her knee coming into contact accidentally with your soaked underwear. That’s when she realized that the past several minutes had been all about her, and a flush crept up her neck.

“You haven’t…” she began.

You noticed the faint droop of her eyelids, the way her head tilted slightly forward, almost resting against your shoulder. “Wanda,” you said, caressing her cheek in a way that coaxed her further into her exhaustion. “You’re tired.”

She blinked, like she was trying to push through it. “No, I—”

“You should get some rest.”

“Are you sure?” she asked, fingertips resting just below your ear. “You could’ve—” Her cheeks pinked. “I mean, I’m not the only one who should feel good tonight.”

“Hey,” you cooed, “it’s alright. There will be another time… right?” The last word lifted slightly—turning it into a question. You didn’t want to assume anything. For all you knew, this could’ve been a one-time thing. The last thing you wanted was to trap her in expectation.

She gave a heavy-lidded smile and nodded. “I was looking forward to it,” she murmured, then, a beat later, she looked into your eyes with a quiet determination as she added, “I love you, Y/N…”

The world stopped for a second, the moment stretching into something infinite. Then you pressed your lips together, exhaling slowly. “You love me,” you said at last—not a question, but a statement. 

A certainty.

“And you love me too?”

It was almost ridiculous that she had to ask—but you’re more than happy to give the answer. “I do.”

[k4marina]

i’m feeling nostalgic, so who wants a classic “tony stark’s kid” with clint in the vents, movie nights with nat, and thor and his pop-tarts?

edit: it’s in the works 😼